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butterflies-dragons · 4 years ago

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DUNK SNOW

Ser Duncan The Tall and Jon Snow are more similar than we thought...

A Knight of The Seven Kingdoms is a book full of Dunk and Jon parallels and hints of Jon Snow’s true parentage. Here is what I found in my last re-reading.

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is a collection containing the first three Dunk and Egg novellas by George R. R. Martin:

The Hedge Knight

The Sworn Sword

The Mystery Knight

It was indirectly confirmed that Brienne of Tarth is a descendant of Ser Duncan The Tall, and they share a lot of parallels. Some readers have also speculated that Ser Duncan The Tall is an ancestor of certain pair of tall brothers, and have also drawn parallels between those characters.

But while I was writing another meta, I was amazed by all the similarities between Ser Duncan The Tall and Jon Snow, and I wondered, why there was not metas about it?

Also, while reading the tales, you can find that Dunk and Egg, at some point, sound very much like all the Stark kids, even Rickon. Dunk and Egg can be romantics like Sansa, but they would also call “stupid” certain “feminine” or “romantic” things like Arya does, but at the same time they both dream of being knights of the Kingsguard like Bran, and always try to be fair and honorable like Jon Snow.

But, in this post I’m going to explore the parallels between Ser Duncan The Tall and Jon Snow.

DUNK AND JON

Thinking fast, we can say that,

Dunk and Jon are both orphans and presumed bastards.

Dunk defending Tanselle resemblances Jon defending Samwell.

Despite not being “proper knights” both are knights that remember their vows.

Their sexual awakening was with a red haired woman.

Both met Maester Aemon.

Despite the prejudice against their low status, both became Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard and Night’s Watch, respectively.

Both have connections with the North, Dunk visited Winterfell and scorted Maester Aemon to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, etc.

But there is much more.

THE HEDGE KNIGHT

This tale is full of Dragonflies and Dragons imagery. GRRM is telling us about dragons that don’t look like dragons, about Targaryens that don’t look like Targaryens, about princes in disguise and secret identities.

Dunk and Jon share the wish to prove the world they are worthy

Yet however fine their pavilions were to look upon, he knew there was no place there for him. A threadbare wool cloak would be all the shelter he had tonight. While the lords and great knights dined on capons and suckling pigs, Dunk's supper would be a hard, stringy piece of salt beef. He knew full well that if he made his camp upon that gaudy field, he would need to suffer both silent scorn and open mockery. A few perhaps would treat him kindly, yet in a way that was almost worse.

A hedge knight must hold tight to his pride. Without it, he was no more than a sellsword. I must earn my place in that company. If I fight well, some lord may take me into his household. I will ride in noble company then, and eat fresh meat every night in a castle hail, and raise my own pavilion at tourneys. But first I must do well. Reluctantly, he turned his back on the tourney grounds and led his horses into the trees.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

"I forget nothing," Jon boasted. The wine was making him bold. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. "I want to serve in the Night's Watch, Uncle."

He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night while his brothers slept around him. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb's bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?

"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

There are a lot of hints of Jon’s true parentage in this tale, not only Egg being a Targaryen prince in disguise, but also a dragon that doesn’t look like a dragon

He sat naked under the elm while he dried, enjoying the warmth of the spring air on his skin as he watched a dragonfly move lazily among the reeds. Why would they name it a dragonfly? he wondered. It looks nothing like a dragon. Not that Dunk had ever seen a dragon.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son.

—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II

She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

“Who’s this one now?“ Craster said before Jon could go. “He has the look of a Stark.”

“My steward and squire, Jon Snow.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Don’t call me “My Lord”

Egg smiled.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ser," Dunk corrected. "I am only a hedge knight."

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

“That is a longsword, not an old man’s cane,” Ser Alliser said sharply. “Are your legs hurting, Lord Snow?

"Jon hated that name, a mockery that Ser Alliser had hung on him the first day he came to practice. The boys had picked it up, and now he heard it everywhere. He slid the longsword back into its scabbard. "No,” he replied.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

“So how do you like the taste of your victories now, Lord Snow?”

“Don’t call me that!” Jon said sharply, but the force had gone out of his anger. Suddenly he felt ashamed and guilty. “I never … I didn’t think …”

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

“And the grumkins and the snarks,” Tyrion said. “Let us not forget them, Lord Snow, or else what’s that big thing for?”

“Don’t call me Lord Snow.”

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

She wiped her hands on her skirt. “M'lord—”

“I’m no lord.”

But others had come crowding round, drawn by the woman’s scream and the crash of the rabbit hutch. “Don’t you believe him, girl,” called out Lark the Sisterman, a ranger mean as a cur. “That’s Lord Snow himself.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

“Rise. I have heard much and more of you, Lord Snow.”

“I am no lord, sire.” Jon rose. “I know what you have heard. That I am a turncloak, and craven. That I slew my brother Qhorin Halfhand so the wildlings would spare my life. That I rode with Mance Rayder, and took a wildling wife.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

“Words. Words are wind. Why do you think I abandoned Dragonstone and sailed to the Wall, Lord Snow?”

“I am no lord, sire. You came because we sent for you, I hope. Though I could not say why you took so long about it.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

Dunk thinks that Tanselle is prettier than the blonde Lady Ashford. Jon doesn’t compared the blonde Princess Myrcella with anyone, but there is an interesting contrast between calling Princess Myrcella “stupid” & “insipid” and then calling his half sister Sansa “radiant”

The banner-bearer was a tall knight in white scale armor chased with gold, a pure white cloak streaming from his shoulders. Two of the other riders were armored in white from head to heel as well. Kingsguard knights with the royal banner. Small wonder Lord Ashford and his sons came hurrying out the doors of the keep, and the fair maid too, a short girl with yellow hair and a round pink face. She does not seem so fair to me, Dunk thought. The puppet girl was prettier.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to visit. Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn't even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.

His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon's vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister's hair and his mother's deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Talking about Tanselle and Lady Ashford, both girls share parallels with Sansa Stark:

Sansa Stark and Lady Ashford

Sansa and Lady Ashford are noble ladies.

Sansa and Lady Ashford are of the same age.

Sansa and Lady Ashford are associated with tourneys.

Lady Ashford was the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty during the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, while Sansa was unofficially crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty during the Hand’s Tourney.

Lady Ashford’s original champions were Androw Ashford, Robert Ashford, Lord Leo Tyrell, Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Prince Valarr Targaryen.

Ser Tybolt Lannister defeated Ser Androw Ashford, Ser Lyonel Baratheon defeated Ser Robert Ashford. A Lannister and a Baratheon defeating Lady Ashford’s older brothers remind us of Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon conspiring to kill Sansa Stark’s father (Ned) and brother (Robb).

The last five champions after the first day of jousting during the Tourney at Ashford Meadow were Ser Tybolt Lannister, Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Lord Leo Tyrell, Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Prince Valarr Targaryen.

Sansa’s suitors surnames match the surnames of the last five champions after the first day of jousting during the Tourney at Ashford Meadow.

Sansa Stark and Tanselle Too-Tall

Sansa and Tanselle are tall girls.

Sansa and Tanselle are familiar with the tales of Florian and Jonquil.

Tanselle plays Jonquil in the puppets play, while a fat woman plays Florian.

Sansa saves Dontos Hollard’s life. Dontos was an old, fat, drunk knight turned fool.

Dontos calls Sansa Jonquil and plays to be Sansa’s Florian, Sansa also called Dontos her Florian, but she would prefer him to be younger, like the real Florian.

Dunk defended Tanselle from Prince Aerion Targaryen, a character with some similarities with Joffrey Baratheon.

Dontos, as a fool, try to distract Joffrey and defend Sansa while she was being beaten and later helped her to scape King’s Landing.

Dunk and Jon know how to treat a girl

(This could be nothing but I know a character that is called “good girl” and “sweet lady” a lot)

Also take note that by selling Sweetfoot, Dunk got his own armor.

It was cool and dim in the stables. An unruly grey stallion snapped at him as he passed, but Sweetfoot only whickered softly and nuzzled his hand when he raised it to her nose. "You're a good girl, aren't you?" he murmured. The old man always said that a knight should never love a horse, since more than a few were like to die under him, but he never heeded his own counsel either. Dunk had often seen him spend his last copper on an apple for old Chestnut or some oats for Sweetfoot and Thunder. The palfrey had been Ser Arlan's riding horse, and she had borne him tirelessly over thousands of miles, all up and down the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk felt as though he were betraying an old friend, but what choice did he have? Chestnut was too old to be worth much of anything, and Thunder must carry him in the lists.

(...)

Dunk stroked Sweetfoot’s mane and told her to be brave. “If I win, I’ll come back and buy you again, I promise.”

(...)

Dunk handed a few of the coppers right back, and nodded at Sweetfoot. “That’s for her,” he said. “See that she has some oats tonight. Aye, and an apple too.”

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

The mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. “Easy, sweet lady,” he said in a soft voice, quieting her with a touch. Wind whispered through the stable, a cold dead breath on his face, but Jon paid it no mind. He strapped his roll to the saddle, his scarred fingers stiff and clumsy.

“Ghost,” he called softly, “to me.” And the wolf was there, eyes like embers.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Dreams of a highborn lady

While Dunk wishes to have sex with a highborn lady instead of paying a whore for sex, Jon wishes his mother were a highborn lady and not a whore

Dunk stopped to watch the wooden dragon slain. When the puppet knight cut its head off and the red sawdust spilled out onto the grass, he laughed aloud and threw the girl two coppers. "One for last night," he called. She caught the coins in the air and threw him back a smile as sweet as any he had ever seen.

Is it me she smiles at, or the coins? Dunk had never been with a girl, and they made him nervous. Once, three years past, when the old man's purse was full after half a year in the service of blind Lord Florent, he'd told Dunk the time had come to take him to a brothel and make him a man. He'd been drunk, though, and when he was sober he did not remember. Dunk had been too embarrassed to remind him.

He was not certain he wanted a whore anyway. If he could not have a highborn maiden like a proper knight, he wanted one who at least liked him more than his silver.

(...)

Wet to the knee, he trudged past the empty lists. Most of the pavilions were dark, their owners long asleep, but here and there a few candles still burned. Dunk heard soft moans and cries of pleasure coming from within one tent. It made him wonder whether he would die without ever having known a maid.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

"Words won't make your mother a whore. She was what she was, and nothing Toad says can change that. You know, we have men on the Wall whose mothers were whores."

Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

A red-haired whore

The same way Dunk almost lost his virginity with a whore, the Jon Snow from the Show almost lost his virginity with a red-haired whore named Ros ¿Maybe the Show took inspiration for that scene from this passage to create Ros?

The winesellers and sausage makers were doing a brisk trade, and whores walked brazenly among the stalls and pavilions. Some were pretty enough, one red-haired girl in particular. He could not help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under her loose shift as she sauntered past. He thought of the silver in his pouch. I could have her, if I liked. She'd like the clink of my coin well enough, I could take her back to my camp and have her, all night if I wanted. He had never lain with a woman, and for all he knew he might die in his first tilt. Tourneys could be dangerous . . . but whores could be dangerous too, the old man had warned him of that. She might rob me while I slept, and what would I do then? When the red-haired girl glanced back over her shoulder at him, Dunk shook his head and walked away.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

Sam: I’ve never… been with one. You’ve probably had hundreds. Jon: No. As a matter of fact, I’m the same as you. Sam: Yeah. Yeah, I… I find that hard to believe. Jon: I came very close once. I was alone in a room with a naked girl, but… Sam: Didn’t know where to put it? Jon: I know where to put it. Sam: Was she… old and ugly? Jon: Young and gorgeous. A whore named Ros. Sam: What colour hair? Jon: Red. Sam: Oh, I like red hair. And her, um… Her… (boobs) Jon: You don’t want to know. Sam: What, that good? Jon: Better. Sam: Oh, no. So why exactly did you not make love to Ros with the perfect? Jon: What’s my name? Sam: Jon Snow. Jon: And why is my surname Snow? Sam: Because… you’re a bastard from the North. Jon: I never met my mother. My father wouldn’t even tell me her name. I don’t know if she’s living or dead. I don’t know if she’s a noblewoman or a fisherman’s wife… or a whore. So I sat there in the brothel as Ros took off her clothes. But I couldn’t do it. Because all I could think was what if I got her pregnant and she had a child, another bastard named Snow? It’s not a good life for a child.

—GOT S01E04 – Cripples Bastards and Broken Things

Complaining about getting bad seats

On the eastern verge of the meadow, a quintain had been set up and a dozen knights were tilting at it, sending the pole arm spinning every time they struck the splintered shield suspended from one end. Dunk watched the Brute of Bracken take his turn, and then Lord Caron of the Marches. I do not have as good a seat as any of them, he thought uneasily.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.

He settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires and drank. The sweet, fruity taste of summerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king. Jon's brothers and sisters had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. In honor of the occasion, his lord father would doubtless permit each child a glass of wine, but no more than that. Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop Jon drinking as much as he had a thirst for. —A Game of Thrones - Jon I

"Then you saw us all. Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, my brothers Robb and Bran and Rickon, my sisters Arya and Sansa. You saw them walk the center aisle with every eye upon them and take their seats at the table just below the dais where the king and queen were seated."

"I remember."

"And did you see where I was seated, Mance?" He leaned forward. "Did you see where they put the bastard?"

Mance Rayder looked at Jon's face for a long moment. "I think we had best find you a new cloak," the king said, holding out his hand.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon I

Dunk and Jon admire the same heroes

Dunk stared at the grassy lists and the empty chairs on the viewing stand and pondered his chances. One victory was all he needed; then he could name himself one of the champions of Ashford Meadow, if only for an hour. The old man had lived nigh on sixty years and had never been a champion. It is not too much to hope for, if the gods are good. He thought back on all the songs he had heard, songs of blind Symeon Star-Eyes and noble Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redywne, and Florian the Fool. They had all won victories against foes far more terrible than any he would face. But they were great heroes, brave men of noble birth, except for Florian. And what am I?

Dunk of Flea Bottom? Or Ser Duncan the Tall?

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

“Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Yet he saw the castle clear in his mind's eye, as if he had left it only yesterday; the towering granite walls, the Great Hall with its smells of smoke and dog and roasting meat, his father's solar, the turret room where he had slept. Part of him wanted nothing so much as to hear Bran laugh again, to sup on one of Gage's beef-and-bacon pies, to listen to Old Nan tell her tales of the children of the forest and Florian the Fool.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; Snow and Stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of Winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see. They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or Robb would say, "I'm the Young Dragon," and Jon would reply, "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

A dragon that doesn’t look like a dragon

The meadow was a churning mass of people, all trying to elbow their way closer for a better view. Dunk was as good an elbower as any, and bigger than most. He squirmed forward to a rise six yards from the fence. When Egg complained that all he could see were arses, Dunk sat the boy on his shoulders. Across the field, the viewing stand was filling up with highborn lords and ladies, a few rich townfolk, and a score of knights who had decided not to compete today. Of Prince Maekar he saw no sign, but he recognized Prince Baelor at Lord Ashford's side. Sunlight flashed golden off the shoulder clasp that held his cloak and the slim coronet about his temples, but otherwise he dressed far more simply than most of the other lords. He does not look a Targaryen in truth, with that dark hair. Dunk said as much to Egg.

"It's said he favors his mother," the boy reminded him. "She was a Dornish princess."

(...)

A few feet away, the Young Prince [Valarr Targaryen] sat at his ease in a raised camp chair before his great black tent. His helm was off. He had dark hair like his father, but a bright streak ran through it. A servingman brought him a silver goblet and he took a sip. Water, if he is wise, Dunk thought, wine if not. He found himself wondering if Valarr had indeed inherited a measure of his father's prowess, or whether it had only been that he had drawn the weakest opponent.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

“Who’s this one now?“ Craster said before Jon could go. “He has the look of a Stark.”

“My steward and squire, Jon Snow.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Fascinated by a Knight

Dunk was fascinated by a brown haired Targaryen Prince (Like Jon Snow) while Jon was fascinated by a Kingsguard that later became Lord Commander (Like Dunk)

The three challengers took their places as the three champions mounted up. Men were making wagers all around them and calling out encouragement to their choices, but Dunk had eyes only for the prince [Valarr Targaryen].

(...)

Farther away, Ser Joseth Mallister was being carried off the field unconscious, while the harp lord and the rose lord were going at each other lustily with blunted longaxes, to the delight of the roaring crowd. Dunk was so intent on Valarr Targaryen that he scarcely saw them.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back.

Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Not allowed

A hedge knight cannot challenge a prince. Valarr is second in line to the Iron Throne. He is Baelor Breakspear's son, and his blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and the Young Dragon and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and I am some boy the old man found behind a pot shop in Flea Bottom.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

"Why aren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords."

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

A Death with Honor

He wondered if they expected him to saddle a horse and flee. He could, if he wished. That would be the end of his knighthood, to be sure; he would be no more than an outlaw henceforth, until the day some lord took him and struck off his head. Better to die a knight than live like that, he told himself stubbornly.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

It did not bear thinking about. Pain throbbed, deep in his fingers, as he clutched the reins. Jon put his heels into his horse and broke into a gallop, racing down the kingsroad, as if to outrun his doubts. Jon was not afraid of death, but he did not want to die like that, trussed and bound and beheaded like a common brigand. If he must perish, let it be with a sword in his hand, fighting his father's killers. He was no true Stark, had never been one … but he could die like one. Let them say that Eddard Stark had fathered four sons, not three.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Warg imagery

I am Thunder and Thunder is me, we are one beast, we are joined, we are one.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

When he finally put the quill down, the room was dim and chilly, and he could feel its walls closing in. Perched above the window, the Old Bear's raven peered down at him with shrewd black eyes. My last friend, Jon thought ruefully. And I had best outlive you, or you'll eat my face as well. Ghost did not count. Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

Ser Alliser Thorne shattered the silence. “The turncloak graces us with his presence at last.”

Lord Janos was red-faced and quivering. “The beast,” he gasped. “Look! The beast that tore the life from Halfhand. A warg walks among us, brothers. A WARG! This … this creature is not fit to lead us! This beastling is not fit to live!”

Ghost bared his teeth, but Jon put a hand on his head. “My lord,” he said, “will you tell me what’s happened here?”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

“Then you had best be on your way, boy.” Slynt laughed, dribbling porridge down his chest. “Greyguard’s a good place for the likes of you, I’m thinking. Well away from decent godly folk. The mark of the beast is on you, bastard.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

Dolorous Edd took hold of Slynt by one arm, Iron Emmett by the other. Together they hauled him from the bench. “No,” Lord Janos protested, flecks of porridge spraying from his lips. “No, unhand me. He’s just a boy, a bastard. His father was a traitor. The mark of the beast is on him, that wolf of his … Let go of me! You will rue the day you laid hands on Janos Slynt. I have friends in King’s Landing. I warn you—” He was still protesting as they half-marched, half-dragged him up the steps.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

Self doubt

When his eyes opened he was on the ground again, sprawled on his back. The mud had all been knocked from his helm, but now one eye was closed by blood. Above was nothing but dark grey sky.

His face throbbed, and he could feel cold wet metal pressing in against cheek and temple. He broke my head, and I'm dying. What was worse was the others who would die with him, Raymun and Prince Baelor and the rest. I've failed them. I am no champion. I'm not even a hedge knight. I am nothing. He remembered Prince Daeron boasting that no one could lie insensible in the mud as well as he did. He never saw Dunk the lunk, though, did he? The shame was worse than the pain.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

A grim day. Jon Snow wrapped gloved hands around the bars and held tight as the wind hammered at the cage once more. When he looked straight down past his feet, the ground was lost in shadow, as if he were being lowered into some bottomless pit. Well, death is a bottomless pit of sorts, he reflected, and when this day's work is done my name will be shadowed forever.

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

It should have been you

Valarr, the Young Prince, stood vigil at the foot of the bier while his father lay in state. He was a shorter, slimmer, handsomer version of his sire, without the twice-broken nose that had made Baelor seem more human than royal. Valarr's hair was brown, but a bright streak of silver-gold ran through it. The sight of it reminded Dunk of Aerion, but he knew that was not fair. Egg's hair was growing back as bright as his brother's, and Egg was a decent enough lad, for a prince.

When he stopped to offer awkward sympathies, well larded with thanks, Prince Valarr blinked cool blue eyes at him and said, "My father was only nine-and-thirty. He had it in him to be a great king, the greatest since Aegon the Dragon. Why would the gods take him, and leave you?" He shook his head. "Begone with you, Ser Duncan. Begone."

* * *

"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."

Jon lowered his eyes. She was cradling one of Bran's hands. He took the other, squeezed it. Fingers like the bones of birds. "Good-bye," he said.

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.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

Old Gods

Sometimes I sit under that tree there and look at my feet and ask if I couldn’t have spared one. How could my foot be worth a prince’s life? And the other two as well, the Humfreys, they were good men too.” Ser Humfrey Hardyng had succumbed to his wounds only last night.

“And what answer does your tree give you?”

“None that I can hear.”

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

Even now, he did not know if he was doing the honorable thing. The southron had it easier. They had their septons to talk to, someone to tell them the gods' will and help sort out right from wrong. But the Starks worshiped the old gods, the nameless gods, and if the heart trees heard, they did not speak.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

A Tree on a Shield

Dunk’s sigil was an elm tree with a shooting star above, while the Mystery Knight called The Knight of the Laughing Tree [Jon’s mother Lyanna Stark] was a weirwood tree with a laughing red face

“What color paint do you have?” he asked, hoping that might give him an idea.

“I can mix paints to make any color you want.”

The old man’s brown had always seemed drab to Dunk. “The field should be the color of sunset,” he said suddenly. “The old man liked sunsets. And the device…”

“An elm tree,” said Egg. “A big elm tree, like the one by the pool, with a brown trunk and green branches.”

“Yes,” Dunk said. “That would serve. An elm tree…but with a shooting star above. Could you do that?”

The girl nodded. “Give me the shield. I’ll paint it this very night and have it back to you on the morrow.”

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

But late on the afternoon of that second day, as the shadows grew long, a mystery knight appeared in the lists.

Bran nodded sagely. [...] “It was the little crannogman, I bet.”

“No one knew,” said Meera, “but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face.”

[...]

“Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. The porcupine knight fell first, then the pitchfork knight, and lastly the knight of the two towers. None were well loved, so the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called.”

—A Storm of Swords - Bran II

Dragonflies or Dragons

“That can be changed,” said Maekar. “Aegon is to return to my castle at Summerhall. There is a place there for you, if you wish. A knight of my household. You’ll swear your sword to me, and Aegon can squire for you. While you train him, my master-at-arms will finish your own training.” The prince gave him a shrewd look. “Your Ser Arlan did all he could for you, I have no doubt, but you still have much to learn.”

“I know, m'lord.” Dunk looked about him. At the green grass and the reeds, the tall elm, the ripples dancing across the surface of the sunlit pool. Another dragonfly was moving across the water, or perhaps it was the same one. What shall it be, Dunk? he asked himself. Dragonflies or dragons? A few days ago he would have answered at once. It was all he had ever dreamed, but now that the prospect was at hand it frightened him. “ Just before Prince Baelor died, I swore to be his man.”

"Presumptuous of you," said Maekar. "What did he say?"

"That the realm needed good men."

"That's true enough. What of it?"

"I will take your son as squire, Your Grace, but not at Summerhall. Not for a year or two. He's seen sufficient of castles, I would judge. I'll have him only if I can take him on the road with me." He pointed to old Chestnut. "He'll ride my steed, wear my old cloak, and he'll keep my sword sharp and my mail scoured. We'll sleep in inns and stables, and now and again in the halls of some landed knight or lesser lordling, and maybe under trees when we must."

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

“I have heard all I need to hear of Lady Lannister and her claim." The king set the cup aside. "You could bring the north to me. Your father's bannermen would rally to the son of Eddard Stark. Even Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse. White Harbor would give me a ready source of supply and a secure base to which I could retreat at need. It is not too late to amend your folly, Snow. Take a knee and swear that bastard sword to me, and rise as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

How many times will he make me say it? "My sword is sworn to the Night's Watch.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

The Prince of Dragonflies

As you can see, The Hedge Knight is a tale full of Dragonflies and Dragons imagery around Ser Duncan the Tall. And this dichotomy repeated with Prince Duncan the Small.

Years later of his adventures as the Squire of Ser Duncan the Tall, Egg became Aegon V Targaryen, and named his first born Duncan Targaryen, probably in honor of Ser Duncan the Tall.

Prince Duncan Targaryen was the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone, also known as Prince Duncan the Small. But since he gave up the throne for love in order to marry Jenny of Oldstones, he began to be known as the Prince of Dragonflies.

Prince Duncan Targaryen favored her mother’s Betha Blackwood features and had dark hair, like Jon Snow.

The Black Prince and the White Guardian

In my unfinished meta about the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, I argue that the two facets of Jon Snow: bastard and hidden prince, are represented in this tale by Dunk and Valarr.

This is one of my favorite findings since I started writing ASOIAF metas. I shared this one with some of you, the seven gods know this unfinished work has more than 3 years in the making... So here you go.

Valarr is called The Black Prince and the White Guardian:

Ser Joseth thumped on Ser Humfrey Hardyng's diamonds. And the black-and-white knight, Lord Gawen Swann, challenged the black prince with the white guardian.

—The Hedge Knight

And this is a clear reference to Jon Snow, the black prince, and Ghost, his white guardian:

Robb looked relieved. "Good." He smiled. "The next time I see you, you'll be all in black."

Jon forced himself to smile back. "It was always my color. How long do you think it will be?"

—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

He was clad in black from head to heel; high leather riding boots, roughspun breeches and tunic, sleeveless leather jerkin, and heavy wool cloak. His longsword and dagger were sheathed in black moleskin, and the hauberk and coif in his saddlebag were black ringmail.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XII

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.

"Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

I have more reasons to believe that GRRM wrote Valarr as a representation of Jon Snow. George purposely created Valarr with certain features to make us think about Jon Snow. These reasons find solid ground in a particular work of literature that George has declared it served him as inspiration to write ASOIAF. Maybe One day I will finish this meta and I will show you all.

For now, lets go to the second tale...

* * *

THE SWORN SWORD

This tale is full of love, romance and marriage imagery, doomed romances, forbidden romances, unrequited loves, lost loves, platonic loves, sexual loves, marriages alliances, loveless marriages, unfruitful marriages and lovers farewells.

A Mysterious Red Lady

Rohanne Webber, Lady of Codlmoat, also known as the Red Widow, is a character that reminds us several women that crossed paths with Jon Snow

Dunk wanted no trouble with the Lady of the Coldmoat. At Standfast you heard ill things of her. The Red Widow, she was called, for the husbands she had put into the ground. Old Sam Stoops said she was a witch, a poisoner, and worse.

Two years ago she had sent her knights across the stream to seize an Osgrey man for stealing sheep. “When m’lord rode to Coldmoat to demand him back, he was told to look for him at the bottom of the moat,” Sam had said. “She’d sewn poor Dake in a bag o’ rocks and sunk him. ’Twas after that Ser Eustace took Ser Bennis into service, to keep them spiders off his lands.”

(...)

Egg drew water to fill it for the third time, then clambered back onto the well. "You'd best not take any food or drink at Coldmoat, ser. The Red Widow poisoned all her husbands."

(...)

“Whenever she gives birth, a demon comes by night to carry off the issue. Sam Stoops’s wife says she sold her babes unborn to the Lord of the Seven Hells, so he’d teach her his black arts.”

“Highborn ladies don’t meddle with the black arts. They dance and sing and do embroidery.”

“Maybe she dances with demons and embroiders evil spells,” Egg said with relish. “And how would you know what highborn ladies do, ser? Lady Vaith is the only one you ever knew.”

(...)

“You’ve known queens and princesses. Did they dance with demons and practice the black arts?”

“Lady Shiera does. Lord Bloodraven’s paramour. She bathes in blood to keep her beauty. And once my sister Rhae put a love potion in my drink, so I’d marry her instead of my sister Daella.”

—The Sworn Sword

The wicked reputation of the Red Widow, makes me think about another red haired woman with a wicked reputation, Danelle Lothston, Lady of Harrenhal, also known as Mad Danelle.

And talking about Harrenhal, Mad Danelle is probably an ancestor of Lady Minisa Whent, that later became Lady Minsa Tully, the mother of Lady Catelyn Tully, that later became Lady Catelyn Stark, the mother of Lady Sansa Stark, Jon Snow’s radiant and red haired half sister, another redhead with certain reputation:

He smiled at her. “Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand’s daughter.”

—AGOT - Sansa I

“I forgot, you’ve been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head.”

—ASOS - Arya XIII

“May the Father judge him justly,” murmured a septon.

“The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.”

—ASOS - Jaime VII

“Your Grace has forgotten the Lady Sansa,” said Pycelle.

The queen bristled. “I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf.” She refused to say the girl’s name. “I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son.

—AFFC - Cersei IV

A man’s pride

“Common boys fight with wooden swords too, only theirs are sticks and broken branches. Egg, these men may seem fools to you. They won’t know the proper names for bits of armor, or the arms of the great houses, or which king it was who abolished the lord’s right to the first night…but treat them with respect all the same. You are a squire born of noble blood, but you are still a boy. Most of them will be men grown. A man has his pride, no matter how lowborn he may be. You would seem just as lost and stupid in their villages. And if you doubt that, go hoe a row and shear a sheep, and tell me the names of all the weeds and wildflowers in Wat’s Wood.”

The boy considered for a moment. “I could teach them the arms of the great houses, and how Queen Alysanne convinced King Jaehaerys to abolish the first night. And they could teach me which weeds are best for making poisons, and whether those green berries are safe to eat.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

It is too cold for this mummer's show, thought Jon. “The free folk despise kneelers,” he had warned Stannis. "Let them keep their pride, and they will love you better." His Grace would not listen. He said, "It is swords I need from them, not kisses."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

Dunk has dreams with dead Targaryen Princes while Jon has dreams with dead Stark Kings

You are dead, Dunk wanted to scream, you are all three dead, why won’t you leave me be? Ser Arlan had died of a chill, Prince Baelor of the blow his brother dealt him during Dunk’s trial of seven, his son Valarr during the Great Spring Sickness. I am not to blame for that. We were in Dorne, we never even knew.

(...)

“Begone with you, Ser Duncan,” Valarr said. “Begone.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

Egg taught Dunk how to talk to a lady the same way Sansa taught Jon how to talk to a lady

“I don’t know how to talk with highborn ladies,” he confessed as they were pouring. “We both might have been killed in Dorne, on account of what I said to Lady Vaith.”

“Lady Vaith was mad,” Egg reminded him, “but you could have been more gallant. Ladies like it when you’re gallant. If you were to rescue the Red Widow the way you rescued that puppet girl from Aerion…”

“Aerion’s in Lys, and the widow’s not in want of rescuing.” He did not want to talk of Tanselle. Tanselle Too-Tall was her name, but she was not too tall for me.

“Well,” the boy said, “some knights sing gallant songs to their ladies, or play them tunes upon a lute.”

“I have no lute.” Dunk looked morose. “And that night I drank too much in the Planky Town, you told me I sang like an ox in a mud wallow.”

“I had forgotten, ser.”

“How could you forget?”

“You told me to forget, ser,” said Egg, all innocence. “You told me I’d get a clout in the ear the next time I mentioned it.”

“There will be no singing.” Even if he had the voice for it, the only song Dunk knew all the way through was “The Bear, the Bear, and the Maiden Fair.” He doubted that would do much to win over Lady Webber.

(...)

“I thought how you should speak to Lady Webber, ser. You should win her to your side with gallant compliments.” The boy looked as cool and crisp in his chequy tunic as Ser Eustace had in his cloak.

Am I the only one who sweats? “Gallant compliments,” Dunk echoed. “What sort of gallant compliments?”

“You know, ser. Tell her how fair and beautiful she is.”

Dunk had doubts. “She’s outlived four husbands, she must be as old as Lady Vaith. If I say she’s fair and beautiful when she’s old and warty, she will take me for a liar.”

“You just need to find something true to say about her. That’s what my brother Daeron does. Even ugly old whores can have nice hair or well-shaped ears, he says.”

“Well-shaped ears?” Dunk’s doubts were growing.

“Or pretty eyes. Tell her that her gown brings out the color of her eyes.” The lad reflected for a moment. “Unless she only has the one eye, like Lord Bloodraven.”

“My lady, that gown brings out the color of your eye. Dunk had heard knights and lordlings mouth such gallantries at other ladies. They never put it quite so baldly, though. Good lady, that gown is beautiful. It brings out the color of both your lovely eyes. Some of the ladies had been old and scrawny, or fat and florid, or pox-scarred and homely, but all wore gowns and had two eyes, and as Dunk recalled, they’d been well pleased by the flowery words. What a lovely gown, my lady. It brings out the lovely beauty of your beautiful-colored eyes. “A hedge knight’s life is simpler,” Dunk said glumly. “If I say the wrong thing, she’s like to sew me in a sack of rocks and throw me in her moat.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

"Black brothers are sworn never to take wives, don't you know that? And we're guests in your father's hall besides."

"Not you," she said. "I watched. You never ate at his board, nor slept by his fire. He never gave you guest-right, so you're not bound to him. It's for the baby I have to go."

"I don't even know your name."

"Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower."

"That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. "Is it Craster who frightens you, Gilly?"

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Marrying a Lady

In another world, Dunk could get married with a lady, like Alysanne Osgrey or Rohanne Webber

“You are a good man, Ser Duncan. A brave knight, and true.” Ser Eustace gave Dunk’s arm a squeeze. “Would that the gods had spared my Alysanne. You are the sort of man I had always hoped that she might marry. A true knight, Ser Duncan. A true knight.”

(...)

“Ser Eustace said I was the sort of man he’d hoped to have his daughter wed. Her name was Alysanne.”

“She’s dead, ser.”

“I know she’s dead,” said Dunk, annoyed. “If she was alive, he said. If she was, he’d like her to marry me. Or someone like me. I never had a lord offer me his daughter before.”

“His dead daughter. And the Osgreys might have been lords in the old days, but Ser Eustace is only a landed knight.”

“I know what he is. Do you want a clout in the ear?”

“Well,” said Egg, “I’d sooner have a clout than a wife. Especially a dead wife, ser. The kettle’s steaming.”

(...)

Egg drew water to fill it for the third time, then clambered back onto the well. "You'd best not take any food or drink at Coldmoat, ser. The Red Widow poisoned all her husbands."

"I'm not like to marry her. She's a highborn lady, and I'm Dunk of Flea Bottom, remember?" He frowned. "Just how many husbands has she had, do you know?"

“Four,” said Egg, “but no children.

(...)

“You wanted blood for blood.” He laid the dagger against his cheek. “They told you wrong. It wasn’t Bennis cut that digger, it was me.” He pressed the edge of the steel into his face, slashed downward. When he shook the blood off the blade some spattered on her face. More freckles, he thought. “There, the Red Widow has her due. A cheek for a cheek.”

“You are quite mad.” The smoke had filled her eyes with tears. “If you were better born, I’d marry you.”

“Aye, m’lady. And if pigs had wings and scales and breathed flame, they’d be as good as dragons.”

—The Sworn Sword

Maybe I’m seeing too much here, but the reference to Alysanne Osgrey [Os-Grey] makes me think of Sansa Stark, because:

Sansa shared a lot of parallels with Good Queen Alysanne.

The surname Osgrey has the word grey in it.

Alysanne Osgrey became a Silent Sister.

Silent Sisters wear always grey.

Silent Sisters are known as the Stranger's wives.

According to Melissandre, the Grey Girl of her visions is Jon Snow’s Sister.

The Grey Girl will probably be Sansa Stark.

Grey is also the color of House Stark, so Sansa is, in a way, a Grey Girl.

Jon is a man that will defeat death and come back to life, like the Stranger that walks between the two worlds.

The Stranger’s face is half animal, like Jon who is a warg, half man and half beast.

In another world, Jon also could get married Ygritte, without the cultural and social barriers that separate them.

A Lady Mother

In another world, Rohanne could be... Dunk’s mother?

“If his daughter wasn’t dead, he’d want me to marry her. Then you could be my lady mother. I never had a mother, much less a lady mother.”

—The Sworn Sword

The parallel with Jon wishing his mother were a highborn lady is plain, but it’s funny how Dunk was resented with Rohanne for marrying Ser Eustace Osgrey, which reminds me of Jon being resented with “his father’s redhead wife”, Catelyn Stark.

Marrying a Sister / Bedding a Sister

“You’ve known queens and princesses. Did they dance with demons and practice the black arts?”

“Lady Shiera does. Lord Bloodraven’s paramour. She bathes in blood to keep her beauty. And once my sister Rhae put a love potion in my drink, so I’d marry her instead of my sister Daella.”

Egg spoke as if such incest was the most natural thing in the world. For him it is. The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister for hundreds of years, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. Though the last actual dragon had died before Dunk was born, the dragonkings went on. Maybe the gods don’t mind them marrying their sisters. “Did the potion work?” Dunk asked.

“It would have,” said Egg, “but I spit it out.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Ygritte pushed herself onto an elbow. “I am nineteen, and a spearwife, and kissed by fire. How could I be maiden?”

“Who was he?”

“A boy at a feast, five years past. He’d come trading with his brothers, and he had hair like mine, kissed by fire, so I thought he would be lucky. But he was weak. When he came back t’ try and steal me, Longspear broke his arm and ran him off, and he never tried again, not once.”

“It wasn’t Longspear, then?” Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways.

She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?”

“Longspear’s not your brother.”

“He’s of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow. A true man steals a woman from afar, t’ strengthen the clan. Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

Joining a celibate brotherhood

This conversation between Dunk and Egg resemblances a conversation between Benjen and Jon

I don’t want a wife, I want to be a knight of the Kingsguard and live only to serve and defend the king. The Kingsguard are sworn not to wed.”

“That’s a noble thing, but when you’re older you may find you’d sooner have a girl than a white cloak.” Dunk was thinking of Tanselle Too-Tall, and the way she’d smiled at him at Ashford.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

"I want to serve in the Night's Watch, Uncle."

"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

"You are a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."

"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

You’re not going...

Another conversation between Dunk and Egg that resemblances a conversation between Benjen and Jon

You will stay and help Bennis with the smallfolk, he told Egg. And don’t give me that sullen look. He kicked his breeches off and climbed into the tub of steaming water. Go on and get to sleep now, and let me have my bath. You’re not going, and that’s the end of it

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Three days after their arrival, Jon had heard that Benjen Stark was to lead a half-dozen men on a ranging into the haunted forest. That night he sought out his uncle in the great timbered common hall and pleaded to go with him. Benjen refused him curtly. "This is not Winterfell," he told him as he cut his meat with fork and dagger. "On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns. You're no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

Warg imagery again...

This old master of yours, the knight of Pennytree…did he fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion? He did, m’lord. Before he took me on. Dunk had been no more than 3 or 4 at the time, running half-naked through the alleys of Flea Bottom, more animal than boy.

—The Sworn Sword

Dunk’s age and the line “more animal than a boy” reminds me of Rickon Stark, but it’s also another warg reference. And after coming back to life, Jon Snow will probably be more animal than man.

Usurping another’s place

Roger of Pennytree is to Dunk, what Robb is to Jon

“Ser Arlan never liked to speak about the battle. His squire died there too. Roger of Pennytree was his name, Ser Arlan’s sister’s son.” Even saying the name made Dunk feel vaguely guilty. I stole his place. Only princes and great lords had the means to keep two squires. If Aegon the Unworthy had given his sword to his heir Daeron instead of his bastard Daemon, there might never have been a Blackfyre Rebellion, and Roger of Pennytree might be alive today. He would be a knight someplace, a truer knight than me. I would have ended on the gallows, or been sent off to the Night’s Watch to walk the Wall until I died.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

When Jon had been very young, too young to understand what it meant to be a bastard, he used to dream that one day Winterfell might be his. Later, when he was older, he had been ashamed of those dreams. Winterfell would go to Robb and then his sons, or to Bran or Rickon should Robb die childless. And after them came Sansa and Arya. Even to dream otherwise seemed disloyal, as if he were betraying them in his heart, wishing for their deaths. I never wanted this, he thought as he stood before the blue-eyed king and the red woman. I loved Robb, loved all of them . . . I never wanted any harm to come to any of them, but it did. And now there's only me. All he had to do was say the word, and he would be Jon Stark, and nevermore a Snow. All he had to do was pledge this king his fealty, and Winterfell was his. All he had to do . . .

. . . was forswear his vows again.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

Dunk met Rohanne Webber the same way Jon met Ygritte, they confused them with another person. And Lucas Inchfield is the Orell of this tale

Nearby a squire was loosing shafts at the archery butts, while a freckled girl with a long braid matched him shot for shot.

(...)

…and one soft, fleshy lady of high birth, garbed in a gown of dark blue damask trimmed with Myrish lace, so long its hems were trailing in the dirt. Dunk judged her to be forty. Beneath a spun-silver net her auburn hair was piled high, but the reddest thing about her was her face.

“My lady,” Ser Lucas said, when they stood before her and her septas, “this hedge knight claims to bring a message from Ser Eustace Osgrey. Will you hear it?”

“If you wish it, Ser Lucas.” She peered at Dunk so hard that he could not help but recall Egg’s talk of sorcery. I don’t think this one bathes in blood to keep her beauty. The widow was stout and square, with an oddly pointed head that her hair could not quite conceal. Her nose was too big, and her mouth too small. She did have two eyes, he was relieved to see, but all thought of gallantry had abandoned Dunk by then. “Ser Eustace bid me talk with you concerning the recent trouble at your dam.”

(...)

“M’lady, could we continue our discussion in some…more private place?”

“A silver says the great oaf means to bed her!” someone japed, and a roar of laughter went up all around him. The lady cringed away, half in terror, and raised both hands to shield her face. One of the septas moved quickly to her side and put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“And what is all this merriment?” The voice cut through the laughter, cool and firm. “Will no one share the jape? Ser knight, why are you troubling my good-sister?”

“It was the girl he had seen earlier at the archery butts. She had a quiver of arrows on one hip and held a longbow that was just as tall as she was, which wasn’t very tall. If Dunk was shy an inch of seven feet, the archer was shy an inch of five. He could have spanned her waist with his two hands. Her red hair was bound up in a braid so long it brushed past her thighs, and she had a dimpled chin, a snub nose, and a light spray of freckles across her cheeks.

“Forgive us, Lady Rohanne.” The speaker was a pretty young lord with the Caswell centaur embroidered on his doublet. “This great oaf took the Lady Helicent for you.”

Dunk looked from one lady to the other. “You are the Red Widow?” he heard himself blurt out. “But you’re too—”

“Young?” The girl tossed her longbow to the lanky lad he’d seen her shooting with. “I am five-and-twenty, as it happens. Or was it small you meant to say?”

“—pretty. It was pretty.” Dunk did not know where that came from, but he was glad it came. He liked her nose, and the strawberry-blond color of her hair, and the small but well-shaped breasts beneath her leather jerkin. “I thought that you’d be…I mean…they said you were four times a widow, so…”

(...)

“I…I am sorry for all your losses, m’lady.” A gallantry, you lunk, give her a gallantry. “I want to say…your gown…”

“Gown?” She glanced down at her boots and breeches, loose linen tunic and leather jerkin. “I wear no gown.”

“Your hair, I meant…it’s soft and…”

“And how would you know that, ser? If you had ever touched my hair, I should think that I might remember.”

“Not soft,” Dunk said miserably. “Red, I meant to say. Your hair is very red.”

“Very red, ser? Oh, not as red as your face, I hope.” She laughed, and the onlookers laughed with her.

All but Ser Lucas Longinch. “My lady,” he broke in, “this man is one of Standfast’s sellswords. He was with Bennis of the Brown Shield when he attacked your diggers at the dam and carved up Wolmer’s face. Old Osgrey sent him to treat with you.”

“He did, m’lady. I am called Ser Duncan the Tall.”

(...)

“Ser Duncan, I should not have teased you in the yard, when you were trying so hard to be gracious. It was only that you blushed so red…was there no girl to tease you, in the village where you grew so tall?”

—The Sworn Sword

As you can see, Rohanne and Ygritte share a lot of similarities:

Rohanne was red haired, like Ygritte. Dunk and Jon liked their red hair.

Rohanne was small, like Ygritte.

Dunk confused Rohanne with her auburn haired good sister lady Helicent Uffering, like Jon confused Ygritte with a man. Point aside, Lady Helicent having auburn hair and wearing a silver hairnet makes me think of Sansa Stark. Also I have to laugh at the comment about Dunk wanting to bed Lady Helicent... This is too much George.

It seems that Rohanne was good with bow and arrow, like Ygritte.

Rohanne wasn’t wearing a gown but breeches, like Ygritte.

Rohanne was older, bolder and teased Dunk a lot, like Ygritte was to Jon.

Rohanne openly flirted with Dunk, like Ygritte did with Jon.

Dunk was sexually attracted to Rohanne, the same way Jon was sexually attracted to Ygritte.

Rohanne and Ygritte weren’t maids, while Dunk and Jon were virgins when they met both women.

Later Dunk will have sex dreams with Rohanne, like Jon’s dreams with Ygritte.

In his dreams, Rohanne shoots arrows at Dunk, like Ygritte did to Jon.

Lucas Inchfield, almost as tall as Dunk, was jealous of him regarding Rohanne’s attentions. The same way, Orell, a warg like Jon, was jealous of him because he fancied Ygritte.

Later, a mentor figure will suggest Dunk to kill Rohanne, in a similar way that Qhorin Halfhand suggested Jon to kill Ygritte. Dunk and Jon have the same doubts about killing a woman.

Rohanne share some of the violence impulses and inclinations that Ygritte had. These details also links Rohanne with another women in Jon’s arc like Val, and eventually Daenerys. More about this later.

Dunk killed Lucas Inchfield, the same way Jon killed Orell.

The sexual tension between Dunk and Rohanne was instantly, both find each other attractive; in contrast, Jon finds Ygritte unattractive, but only at first...

The Red Widow looked Dunk over from his heels up to his head though her gaze lingered longest on his chest. “A tree and shooting star. I have never seen those arms before.” She touched his tunic, tracing a limb of his elm tree with two fingers. “And painted, not sewn. The Dornish paint their silks, I’ve heard, but you look too big to be a Dornishman.”

“Not all Dornishmen are small, m’lady.” Dunk could feel her fingers through the silk. Her hand was freckled too. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over. His mouth was oddly dry. “I spent a year in Dorne.”

“Do all the oaks grow so tall there?” she said, as her fingers traced a tree limb round his heart.

“It’s meant to be an elm, m’lady.”

“I shall remember.” She drew her hand back, solemn. “The ward is too hot and dusty for a conversation. Septon, show Ser Duncan to my audience chamber.”

“It would be my great pleasure, good-sister.”

“Our guest will have a thirst. You may send for a flagon of wine as well.”

(...)

“M’lady,” Dunk called after her. “My squire was made to wait by the gates. Might he join us as well?”

“Your squire?” When she smiled, she looked a girl of five-and-ten, not a woman five-and-twenty. A pretty girl full of mischief and laughter. “If it please you, certainly.”

(...)

She smiled a smile that made him wish that she was plainer.

(...)

She was distracting him, with her snub nose and her freckles.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he'd thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI

The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte's hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.

At a lord's court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he'd seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn't seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

A Suitor / A Husband

Despite Dunk being no Lord, there is a lot of talking about him being a suitor of Lady Rohanne. The same way the freefolk just assumed that Jon stole [married] Ygritte

Dunk snorted. “She has no need to poison me,” he whispered back. “She thinks I’m some great lout with pease porridge between his ears.”

“As it happens, my good-sister likes pease porridge,” said Septon Sefton, as he reappeared with a flagon of wine, a flagon of water, and three cups. “Yes, yes, I heard. I’m fat, not deaf.”

(...)

“She does like pease porridge,” the septon said, “and you as well, ser. I know my own good-sister. When I first saw you in the yard, I half hoped you were some suitor, come from King’s Landing to seek my lady’s hand.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

And when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, that was a propitious time for a man to steal a woman, Ygritte insisted. "Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night."

"I never meant to steal you," he said. "I never knew you were a girl until my knife was at your throat."

"If you kill a man, and never mean t', he's just as dead," Ygritte said stubbornly.

(...)

"Craster's more your kind than ours. His father was a crow who stole a woman out of Whitetree village, but after he had her he flew back t' his Wall. She went t' Castle Black once t' show the crow his son, but the brothers blew their horns and run her off. Craster's blood is black, and he bears a heavy curse." She ran her fingers lightly across his stomach. "I feared you'd do the same once. Fly back to the Wall. You never knew what t' do after you stole me."

Jon sat up. "Ygritte, I never stole you."

"Aye, you did. You jumped down the mountain and killed Orell, and afore I could get my axe you had a knife at my throat. I thought you'd have me then, or kill me, or maybe both, but you never did. And when I told you the tale o' Bael the Bard and how he plucked the rose o' Winterfell, I thought you'd know to pluck me then for certain, but you didn't. You know nothing, Jon Snow." She gave him a shy smile. "You might be learning some, though."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

A Lady’s claim

Rohanne’s claim is coveted by many suitors

“And yet she must wed again, and soon.”

“Must?” said Dunk.

“Her lord father’s will demands it. Lord Wyman wanted grandsons to carry on his line. When he sickened he tried to wed her to the Longinch, so he might die knowing that she had a strong man to protect her, but Rohanne refused to have him. His lordship took his vengeance in his will. If she remains unwed on the second anniversary of her father’s passing, Coldmoat and its lands pass to his cousin Wendell.

(...)

Lord Rowan has upheld the will, so her ladyship has only till the next new moon.”

“Why has she waited so long?” Dunk wondered aloud.

The septon shrugged. “If truth be told, there has been a dearth of suitors. My good-sister is not hard to look upon, you will have noticed, and a stout castle and broad lands add to her charms. You would think that younger sons and landless knights would swarm about her ladyship like flies. You would be wrong. The four dead husbands make them wary, and there are those who will say that she is barren too… though never in her hearing unless they yearn to see the inside of a crow cage. She has carried two children to term, a boy and a girl, but neither lived to see a name day. Those few who are not put off by talk of poisonings and sorcery want no part of the Longinch. Lord Wyman charged him on his deathbed to protect his daughter from unworthy suitors, which he has taken to mean all suitors. Any man who means to have her hand would need to face his sword first.” He finished his wine and set the cup aside. “That is not to say there has been no one. Cleyton Caswell and Simon Leygood have been the most persistent, though they seem more interested in her lands than in her person. Were I given to wagering, I should place my gold on Gerold Lannister. He has yet to put in an appearance, but they say he is golden-haired and quick of wit, and more than six feet tall…”

“…and Lady Webber is much taken with his letters.”

(...)

“My first husband perished on the Redgrass Field. My father found me others, but the Stranger took them too. I no longer trust in men, no matter how ample they may seem. I trust in stone and steel and water. I trust in moats, ser, and mine will not go dry.”

(...)

She gave him back the ring. “I cannot return to Coldmoat empty-handed. They will say the Red Widow has lost her bite, that she was too weak to do justice, that she could not protect her smallfolk. You do not understand, ser.”

“I might.” Better than you know. “I remember once some little lord in the stormlands took Ser Arlan into service, to help him fight some other little lord. When I asked the old man what they were fighting over, he said, ‘Nothing, lad. It’s just some pissing contest.’ ”

Lady Rohanne gave him a shocked look but could sustain it no more than half a heartbeat before it turned into a grin. “I have heard a thousand empty courtesies in my time, but you are the first knight who ever said pissing in my presence.” Her freckled face went somber. “Those pissing contests are how lords judge one another’s strength, and woe to any man who shows his weakness. A woman must needs piss twice as hard, if she hopes to rule. And if that woman should happen to be small… Lord Stackhouse covets my Horseshoe Hills, Ser Clifford Conklyn has an old claim to Leafy Lake, those dismal Durwells live by stealing cattle… and beneath mine own roof I have the Longinch. Every day I wake wondering if this might be the day he marries me by force.” Her hand curled tight around her braid, as hard as if it were a rope, and she was dangling over a precipice. “He wants to, I know. He holds back for fear of my wroth, just as Conklyn and Stackhouse and the Durwells tread carefully where the Red Widow is concerned. If any of them thought for a moment that I had turned weak and soft…”

(...)

Ser Lucas Inchfield looked at Lady Rohanne, his face dark with fury. “You will marry me when this mummer’s farce is done. As your lord father wished.”

“My lord father never knew you as I do,” she gave back.”

—The Sworn Sword

And as you can see, Rohanne Webber and Sansa Stark also share a lot of similarities:

Rohanne and Sansa are red haired.

Rohanne and Sansa have a “wicked” reputation.

Rohanne and Sansa are ladies with a claim to their paternal lands and rights.

Rohanne’s and Sansa’s succession rights has been put in a difficult position in their father’s and older brother’s will, respectively.

Rohanne and Sansa have a long list of suitors that covet their claims.

Rohanne and Sansa have suffered forced marriages.

Rohanne and Sansa have become disillusioned with men.

Rohanne asked Dunk to swear his sword to her, but he rejected the offer. Brienne, Dunk’s descendant, has already sworn her sword (made of Ice) to Sansa Stark.

Jaime Lannister, Rohanne’s descendant has also sworn a vow for Sansa Stark: “Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor.” [A Storm of Swords - Jaime IX]

Later, Rohanne married Gerold Lannister and became Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock, she was the mother of Tytos Lannister and grandmother of Tywin Lannister. Sansa was betrothed with Tywin Lannister’s grandson Joffrey, and later married Tywin Lannister’s son, Tyrion Lannister. Point aside, Stannis Baratheon tried to convince Jon to accept his Winterfell offer, calling Sansa, Lady Lannister.

Rohanne physically hurt Dunk / Ygritte physically hurt Jon

Lady Rohanne’s face was stone. “Come closer.”

He did not know what else to do, but to obey. The dais added a good foot to her height, yet even so Dunk towered over her. “Kneel,” she said. He did.

The slap she gave him had all her strength behind it, and she was stronger than she looked. His cheek burned, and he could taste blood in his mouth from a broken lip, but she hadn’t truly hurt him. For a moment all Dunk could think of was grabbing her by that long red braid and pulling her across his lap to slap her arse, as you would a spoiled child. If I do, she’ll scream, though, and twenty knights will come bursting in to kill me.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

He lay on the ground afterward, clutching his prize and bleeding quietly, too weak to move. After a while, he realized that if he did not make himself move he was like to bleed to death. Jon crawled to the shallow stream where the mare was drinking, washed his thigh in the cold water, and bound it tight with a strip of cloth torn from his cloak. He washed the arrow too, turning it in his hands. Was the fletching grey, or white? Ygritte fletched her arrows with pale grey goose feathers. Did she loose a shaft at me as I fled? Jon could not blame her for that. He wondered if she'd been aiming for him or the horse. If the mare had gone down, he would have been doomed. "A lucky thing my leg got in the way," he muttered.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Bastards

"The old High Septon told my father that king's laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another," the boy said stubbornly. "Trueborn children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but bastards are born of lust and weakness, he said. King Aegon decreed that his bastards were not bastards, but he could not change their nature. The High Septon said all bastards are born to betrayal . . . Daemon Blackfyre, Bittersteel, even Bloodraven. Lord Rivers was more cunning than the other two, he said, but in the end he would prove himself a traitor, too. The High Septon counseled my father never to put any trust in him, nor in any other bastards, great or small."

Born to betrayal, Dunk thought. Born of lust and weakness. Never to be trusted, great or small. "Egg," he said, "didn't you ever think that I might be a bastard?"

"You, ser?" That took the boy aback. "You are not."

"I might be. I never knew my mother, or what became of her. Maybe I was born too big and killed her. Most like she was some whore or tavern girl. You don't find highborn ladies down in Flea Bottom. And if she ever wed my father . . . well, what became of him, then?" Dunk did not like to be reminded of his life before Ser Arlan found him. "There was a pot shop in King's Landing where I used to sell them rats and cats and pigeons for the brown. The cook always claimed my father was some thief or cutpurse. 'Most like I saw him hanged,' he used to tell me, 'but maybe they just sent him to the Wall.' When I was squiring for Ser Arlan, I would ask him if we couldn't go up that way someday, to take service at Winterfell or some other northern castle. I had this notion that if I could only reach the Wall, might be I'd come on some old man, a real tall man who looked like me. We never went, though. Ser Arlan said there were no hedges in the north, and all the woods were full of wolves." He shook his head. "The long and short of it is, most like you're squiring for a bastard."

For once Egg had nothing to say.

—The Sworn Sword

I’ve never knew my mother?

Maybe I killed my mother at birth?

After reading this passage it’s impossible not to think about Jon Snow. The parallels here don’t need major explanation...

The Ice Dragon

There were stars in the sky as well, more stars than any man could ever hope to count, even if he lived to be as old as King Jaehaerys. Dunk need only lift his eyes to find familiar friends: the Stallion and the Sow, the King’s Crown and the Crone’s Lantern, the Galley, Ghost, and Moonmaid. But there were clouds to the north, and the blue eye of the Ice Dragon was lost to him, the blue eye that pointed north.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

So many stars, he thought as he trudged up the slope through pines and firs and ash. Maester Luwin had taught him his stars as a boy in Winterfell; he had learned the names of the twelve houses of heaven and the rulers of each; he could find the seven wanderers sacred to the Faith; he was old friends with the Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat, the Moonmaid, and the Sword of the Morning. All those he shared with Ygritte, but not some of the others. We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear her tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Thief.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, but above him the clouds were breaking up. Jon searched the sky until he found the Ice Dragon, then turned the mare north for the Wall and Castle Black.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Rohanne was called a whore / Ygritte was called a whore

Osgrey’s eyes grew narrow. “Did that woman offer to take you into service? Are you leaving me for that whore’s bed?”

“I don’t know that she is a whore,” Dunk said, “or a witch or a poisoner or none of that. But whatever she may be makes no matter. We’re leaving for the hedges, not for Coldmoat.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

"I suppose it was also the Halfhand who commanded you to fuck this unwashed whore?" Ser Alliser asked with a smirk.

"Ser. She was no whore, ser. The Halfhand told me not to balk, whatever the wildlings asked of me, but . . . I will not deny that I went beyond what I had to do, that I . . . cared for her."

"You admit to being an oathbreaker, then," said Janos Slynt.

Half the men at Castle Black visited Mole's Town from time to time to dig for buried treasures in the brothel, Jon knew, but he would not dishonor Ygritte by equating her with the Mole's Town whores. "I broke my vows with a woman. I admit that. Yes."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon IX

Rohanne Vs Tanselle

Dunk has an internal debate between his platonic and romantic feelings for Tanselle and his sexual desires for Rohanne

And she was there as well, the Red Widow, Rohanne of the Coldmoat. He could see her freckled face, her slender arms, her long red braid. It made him feel guilty. I should be dreaming of Tanselle. Tanselle Too-Tall, they called her, but she was not too tall for me. She had painted arms upon his shield and he had saved her from the Bright Prince, but she vanished even before the trial of seven. She could not bear to see me die, Dunk often told himself, but what did he know? He was as thick as a castle wall. Just thinking of the Red Widow was proof enough of that. Tanselle smiled at me, but we never held each other, never kissed, not even lips to cheek. Rohanne at least had touched him; he had the swollen lip to prove it. Don’t be daft. She’s not for the likes of you. She is too small, too clever, and much too dangerous.”

—The Sworn Sword

This internal debate is somehow similar to Jon Snow, due his bastard status, repressing his deep and true wishes to love and be loved by a highborn lady, and settle himself with his own notion of a warrior woman, or to be more precisely, a woman from a warrior culture, or simply, not a lady.

Sex Dreams

Drowsing at long last, Dunk dreamed. He was running through a glade in the heart of Wat’s Wood, running toward Rohanne, and she was shooting arrows at him. Each shaft she loosed flew true, and pierced him through the chest, yet the pain was strangely sweet. He should have turned and fled, but he ran toward her instead, running slowly as you always did in dreams, as if the very air had turned to honey. Another arrow came, and yet another. Her quiver seemed to have no end of shafts. Her eyes were grey and green and full of mischief. Your gown brings out the color of your eyes, he meant to say to her, but she was not wearing any gown, or any clothes at all. Across her small breasts was a faint spray of freckles, and her nipples were red and hard as little berries. The arrows made him look like some great porcupine as he went stumbling to her feet, but somehow he still found the strength to grab her braid. With one hard yank he pulled her down on top of him and kissed her.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us.

The dream was sweet . . . but Winterfell would never be his to show. It belonged to his brother, the King in the North. He was a Snow, not a Stark. Bastard, oathbreaker, and turncloak . . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face. Ygritte was with him, laughing at him, shedding her skins till she was naked as her name day, trying to kiss him, but he couldn't, not with his father watching.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Killing a woman

Dunk faced the possibility to kill Rohanne / Jon faced the possibility to kill Ygritte

“Ser Duncan, do you remember the story that I told you?”

“I might, ser,” said Dunk. “Which one?”

“The Little Lion.

“I remember. He was the youngest of five sons.”

“Good.” He coughed again. “When he slew Lancel Lannister, the westermen turned back. Without the king there was no war. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Aye,” Dunk said reluctantly. Could I kill a woman? For once Dunk wished he were as thick as that castle wall. It must not come to that. I must not let it come to that.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sleeper stirring, and knew he must finish his man quick. When the brand swung again, he bulled into it, swinging the bastard sword with both hands. The Valyrian steel sheared through leather, fur, wool, and flesh, but when the wildling fell he twisted, ripping the sword from Jon's grasp. On the ground the sleeper sat up beneath his furs. Jon slid his dirk free, grabbing the man by the hair and jamming the point of the knife up under his chin as he reached for his—no, her—

His hand froze. "A girl."

"A watcher," said Stonesnake. "A wildling. Finish her."

Jon could see fear and fire in her eyes. Blood ran down her white throat from where the point of his dirk had pricked her. One thrust and it's done, he told himself. He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. "Will you yield?" he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn't?

"I yield." Her words steamed in the cold air.

"You're our captive, then." He pulled the dirk away from the soft skin of her throat.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI

Killing a Royal Child

Rohanne told Dunk about the possibility to kill Egg, despite knowing he was a Targaryen Prince / Val told Jon about the possibility of killing Princess Shireen

“Lady Rohanne’s fingers closed around it. She glanced at Egg and old Ser Eustace. “You took a great risk in showing me this ring, ser. But how does it avail us? If I should command my men to cross…” “Well,” said Dunk, “that would mean I’d have to fight.” “And die.” “Most like,” he said, “and Egg would go back where he comes from, and tell what happened here.” “Not if he died as well.” “I don’t think you’d kill a boy of ten,” he said, hoping he was right. “Not this boy of ten, you wouldn’t.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Once outside and well away from the queen’s men, Val gave vent to her wroth. “You lied about her beard. That one has more hair on her chin than I have between my legs. And the daughter … her face …”

“Greyscale.”

“The grey death is what we call it.”

“It is not always mortal in children.”

“North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago.”

This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. “Princess Shireen is the queen’s only child.”

“I pity both of them. The child is not clean.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

Another similarity between Rohanne and Val is their braided hair. Like Rohanne, Val sometimes is described to have “reddish” hair and she also wears it in a long braid.

The Wall

“Where will you go?” The septon was panting heavily. Even with Dunk on a crutch, he was too fat to match his pace.

“Fair Isle. Harrenhal. The Trident. There are hedges everywhere.” He shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to see the Wall.”

(...)

“Which way is south?” he asked Egg. It was hard to know, when the world was all rain and mud and the sky was grey as a granite wall.

“That’s south, ser.” Egg pointed. “That’s north.”

“Summerhall is south. Your father.”

“The Wall is north.”

Dunk looked at him. “That’s a long way to ride.”

“I have a new horse, ser.”

“So you do.” Dunk had to smile. “And why would you want to see the Wall?”

“Well,” said Egg, “I hear it’s tall.”

—The Sworn Sword

Once again the Wall is mentioned as a place Dunk always wanted to see. Maybe in hope to find his long lost unknown very tall father there, or maybe because he wants his adventure to never ends...

Fire and Blood

Curiously enough, we can find similarities between Rohanne and certain mother of dragons...

“Osgrey can keep his silver. Only blood can pay for blood.”

(...)

“It is Bennis I want, and Bennis I shall have.”

(...)

“...and she breeds the finest horses in the Reach. We have a dozen mares about to foal.”

(...)

Go, or I will find a sack large enough for you if I have to sew one up myself. Tell Ser Eustace to bring me Bennis of the Brown Shield by the morrow, else I will come for him myself with fire and sword. Do you understand me? Fire and sword!

(...)

She was a blood bay with a bright eye and a long, fiery mane. Lady Rohanne took a carrot from her sleeve and stroked her head as she took it. “The carrot, not the fingers,” she told the horse, before she turned again to Dunk. “I call her Flame, but you may name her as you please. Call her Amends, if you like.”

For a moment he was speechless. He leaned on the crutch and looked at the blood bay with new eyes. She was magnificent. A better mount than any the old man had ever owned. You had only to look at those long, clean limbs to see how swift she’d be.

“I bred her for beauty and for speed.”

—The Sworn Sword

As you can see we can find Targaryen and Dothraki references in Rohanne Webber. Who woulda thought?

Like a certain Mother of Dragons, Rohanne is determined to get what she wants, even if it has to be under threat of “Fire and Sword”.

Like a certain Khaleesi with a horse called “Silver” for the resemblance of her own hair, Rohanne had a horse called “Flame” for the resemblance of her own fiery hair. There is also the issue with Rohanne’s long braid, like the Khal’s braids that remain untouched until they are defeated.

Dunk cut Rohanne’s long braid with his dagger tho...

Something To Remember Me By

Rohanne presented Dunk a fine horse as a farewell gift, but Dunk rejected the horse and TOOK something else that wasn’t offered...

He did not see her till the day they took their leave.

(...)

“She was waiting for him inside the stables, standing by the yellow bales of hay in a gown as green as summer. “Ser Duncan,” she said when he came pushing through the door. Her red braid hung down in front, the end of it brushing against her thighs. “It is good to see you on your feet.”

You never saw me on my back, he thought. “M’lady. What brings you to the stables? It’s a wet day for a ride.”

“I might say the same to you.”

“Egg told you?” I owe him another clout in the ear.

“Be glad he did, or I would have sent men after you to drag you back. It was cruel of you to try to steal away without so much as a farewell.”

She had never come to see him while he was in Maester Cerrick’s care, not once. “That green becomes you well, m’lady,” he said. “It brings out the color of your eyes.” He shifted his weight awkwardly on the crutch. “I’m here for my horse.”

“You do not need to go. There is a place for you here, when you’re recovered. Captain of my guards. And Egg can join “my other squires. No one need ever know who he is.”

“Thank you, m’lady, but no.” Thunder was in a stall a dozen places down. Dunk hobbled toward him.

“Please reconsider, ser. These are perilous times, even for dragons and their friends. Stay until you’ve healed.” She walked along beside him. “It would please Lord Eustace too. He is very fond of you.”

“Very fond,” Dunk agreed. “If his daughter wasn’t dead, he’d want me to marry her. Then you could be my lady mother. I never had a mother, much less a lady mother.”

For half a heartbeat Lady Rohanne looked as though she was going to slap him again. Maybe she’ll just kick my crutch away.

“You are angry with me, ser,” she said instead. “You must let me make amends.”

“Well,” he said, “you could help me saddle Thunder.”

“I had something else in mind.” She reached out her hand for his, a freckled hand, her fingers strong and slender. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over. “How well do you know horses?”

“I ride one.”

“An old destrier bred for battle, slow-footed and ill-tempered. Not a horse to ride from place to place.”

“If I need to get from place to place, it’s him or these.” Dunk pointed at his feet.

“You have large feet,” she observed. “Large hands as well. I think you must be large all over. Too large for most palfreys. They’d look like ponies with you perched upon their backs. Still, a swifter mount would serve you well. A big courser, with some Dornish sand steed for endurance.” She pointed to the stall across from Thunder’s. “A horse like her.”

“I bred her for beauty and for speed.”

He turned back to Thunder. “I cannot take her.”

“Why not?”

“She is too good a horse for me. Just look at her.”

A flush crept up Rohanne’s face. She clutched her braid, twisting it between her fingers. “I had to marry, you know that. My father’s will…oh, don’t be such a fool.”

“What else should I be? I’m thick as a castle wall and bastard-born as well.”

“Take the horse. I refuse to let you go without something to remember me by.”

“I will remember you, m’lady. Have no fear of that.”

“Take her!”

Dunk grabbed her braid and pulled her face to his. It was awkward with the crutch and the difference in their heights. He almost fell before he got his lips on hers. He kissed her hard. One of her hands went round his neck, and one around his chest. He learned more about kissing in a moment than he had ever known from watching. But when they finally broke apart, he drew his dagger. “I know what I want to remember you by, m’lady.”

Egg was waiting for him at the gatehouse, mounted on a handsome new sorrel palfrey and holding Maester’s lead. When Dunk trotted up to them on Thunder, the boy looked surprised. “She said she wanted to give you a new horse, ser.”

“Even highborn ladies don’t get all they want,” Dunk said, as they rode out across the drawbridge. “It wasn’t a horse I wanted.” The moat was so high it was threatening to overflow its banks. “I took something else to remember her by instead. A lock of that red hair.” He reached under his cloak, brought out the braid, and smiled.

—The Sworn Sword

OMG I have so many things to say about Dunk and Rohanne Farewell... I will make a summary, if not, this would be too long, and this post is already too long...

This passage is full of innuendos:

She reached out her hand for his, a freckled hand, her fingers strong and slender. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over.

“You have large feet,” she observed. “Large hands as well. I think you must be large all over.

¡¡¡SEVEN GODS!!!

Dunk resented Rohanne for marrying Ser Eustace Osgrey, despite knowing she did it to keep her claim. Despite knowing a marriage between them was impossible.

Dunk called himself a bastard and a fool. Florian the Fool you say?

Rohanne offered Dunk a Dornish sand steed, telling him it would be a better mount for him. Tanselle was also Dornish. But Dunk rejected the horse anyway.

Dunk kissing Rohanne and then cutting her long braid with his dagger is giving me a lot of Jon killing his aunt vibes...

But the fact that Dunk rejected Rohanne’s original gift and took what he wanted instead, also gives me heavy non con vibes and I hate it, I really hate it. Cutting a woman’s hair without her consent, is not romantic, less if said braid was something Rohanne was clearly proud of and was always touching it as a way of reassurance. I really don’t get George’s morbid fascination with non con undertones all over his ASOIAF works...

* * *

THE MYSTERY KNIGHT

This tale is full of dragons, red dragons, black dragons, albino dragons, disguised dragons, hidden dragons, dragon eggs and hatching dragons.

A New Tree on a Shield

I think this little detail foreshadows Jon’s death...

Dunk had beggar’s blood himself…or so they used to tell him back in Flea Bottom, when they weren’t telling him that he was sure to hang.

(...)

Dunk unslung his shield and slipped it onto his arm. It was an old thing, tall and heavy, kite-shaped, made of pine and rimmed with iron.

He had bought it in Stoney Sept to replace the one the Longinch had hacked to splinters when they fought. Dunk had not had time to have it painted with his elm and shooting star, so it still bore the arms of its last owner: a hanged man swinging grim and grey beneath a gallows tree. It was not a sigil that he would have chosen for himself, but the shield had come cheap.

(...)

“I am a hedge knight, seeking service.”

“Every robber knight I’ve ever hanged has said the same. Your device may be prophetic, ser…if ser you are. A gallows and a hanged man. These are your arms?”

“No, m’lord. I need to have the shield repainted.”

“Why? Did you rob it off a corpse?”

“I bought it, for good coin.” Three castles, black on orange…where have I seen those before? “I am no robber.”

(...)

“Enter me as the Gallows Knight.” The smallfolk loved it when a mystery knight appeared at a tourney.

Egg fingered his fat lip. “The Gallows Knight, ser?”

“For the shield.”

“Yes, but…

“Go do as I said. You have read enough for one night.” Dunk pinched the candle out between his thumb and forefinger.”

(...)

“My shield,” Dunk said to Egg. The boy handed it up. He slipped his left arm through the strap and closed his hand around the grip. The weight of the kite shield was reassuring though its length made it awkward to handle, and seeing the hanged man once again gave him an uneasy feeling. Those are ill-omened arms. He resolved to get the shield repainted as soon as he could. May the Warrior grant me a smooth course and a quick victory, he prayed, as Butterwell’s herald was clambering up the steps once more. “Ser Uthor Underleaf,” his voice rang out. “The Gallows Knight. Come forth and prove your valor.”

(...)

“Would you rather die with honor intact or live with it besmirched? No, spare me, I know what you will say. Take your boy and flee, gallows knight. Before your arms become your destiny.”

—The Mystery Knight

Dunk’s Elm and Shooting Stark Shield was destroyed so he buys a new one with a hanged man swinging grim and grey beneath a gallows tree.

Hanging is the stablished punishment in the Night’s Watch, that’s why in the first draft of Jon’s Chapter in ADWD, GRRM wrote Jon commanding his men to hang Janos Slynt as punishment for disobedience.

And in certain way, Dunk will be dead in this tale, but just for a little while. In fact, Dunk is about to die three times during this tale.

Jon’s death by the hidden daggers is also foreshadowed in the books by Melisandre’s visions and one of Littlefinger’s lessons to Sansa. But there are also prophecies about him coming back to life, and in this tale a dragon’s birth is prophesied.

Egg revealing his Targaryen identity could also foreshadows Jon knowing the truth about his origins and Targaryen lineage after coming back to life.

A Bastard Prince in Disguise

Dunk and Egg meet Daemon II Blackfyre in disguise as Ser John the Fiddler

...a young man lean and lithe, with a comely clean-shaven face and fine features. Black hair fell shining to his collar. His doublet was made of dark blue silk edged in gold satin. Across his chest an engrailed cross had been embroidered in gold thread, with a golden fiddle in the first and third quarters, a golden sword in the second and the fourth. His eyes caught the deep blue of his doublet and sparkled with amusement.

(...)

“I am a vagabond hedge knight like yourself. Ser John the Fiddler, I am called.”

That was the sort of name a hedge knight might choose, but Dunk had never seen any hedge knight garbed or armed or mounted in such splendor. The knight of the golden hedge, he thought. “You know my name. My squire is called Egg.”

—The Mystery Knight

Wait!

A bastard dragon in disguise?

With dark hair?

Called John?

Also the Fiddler?

Fiddles and Swords as his sigil?

Like a musician and a warrior? Somet like Florian the Fool? Someone like Rhaegar?

Ser John the Fiddler could also work as foreshadowing for Young Griff, the alleged Aegon VI Targaryen, Jon’s half-brother.

Like Young Griff dying his silver/golden hair blue, Daemon Blackfyre has silver/golden hair dyed black.

Like Young Griff having Jon Connington, a man in love with Rhaeger, by his side, Daemon Blackfyre has Alyn Cockshaw, a man in love with him, by his side.

Gormon Pyke

Dunk meets the man that killed Roger of Pennytree

Three castles, black on orange. “I remember now. Ser Arlan never liked to talk about the Redgrass Field, but once in his cups he told me how his sister’s son had died.” He could almost hear the old man’s voice again, smell the wine upon his breath. “Roger of Pennytree, that was his name. His head was smashed in by a mace wielded by a lord with three castles on his shield.” Lord Gormon Peake. The old man never knew his name. Or never wanted to.

—The Mystery Knight

Roger of Pennytree was Ser Arlan’s squire, he died at the Redgrass Field, that’s why Ser Arlan needed a new squire and took Dunk under his tutelage.

This encounter somehow reminds me of Jon meeting Donald Noye, the man that forged Robert Baratheon’s warhammer, the weapon that killed Rhaegar, Jon’s biological father.

Dunk and Egg meet three very interesting hedge knights... in a weirwood grove

Before long the trees opened up, and they found themselves in what must once have been a weirwood grove. Only a ring of white stumps and a tangle of bone-pale roots remained to show where the trees had stood, when the children of the forest ruled in Westeros.

(...)

“I am Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor. Under yonder chestnut sits Ser Glendon, ah, Ball. And here you have the good Ser Maynard Plumm.”

Egg’s ears pricked up at that name. “Plumm…are you kin to Lord Viserys Plumm, ser?”

“Distantly,” confessed Ser Maynard, a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man with long, straight, flaxen hair, “though I doubt that his lordship would admit to it. One might say that he is of the sweet Plumms, whilst I am of the sour.” Plumm’s cloak was as purple as his name, though frayed about the edges and badly dyed. A moonstone brooch big as a hen’s egg fastened it at the shoulder. Elsewise he wore dun-colored roughspun and stained brown leather.

—The Mystery Knight

So many things to say about these three hedge knights.

First, Egg mentioned Lord Viserys Plumm because he was a Targaryen, son of Princess Elaena Targaryen.

Second, these three knights reminds me a lot of another trio of interesting hedge knights that we met in one of Alayne Stone’s chapters in AFFC:

Alayne laughed. "Are you louts?" she said, teasing. "Why, I took the three of you for gallant knights."

"Knights they are," said Petyr. "Their gallantry has yet to be demonstrated, but we may hope. Allow me to present Ser Byron, Ser Morgarth, and Ser Shadrich. Sers, the Lady Alayne, my natural and very clever daughter . . . with whom I must needs confer, if you will be so good as to excuse us."

The three knights bowed and withdrew, though the tall one with the blond hair kissed her hand before taking his leave.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

So we have these hedge knights in Dunk and Egg tales:

Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor, ginger whiskers.

Ser Glendon Ball (Glendon Flowers/the Knight of the Pussywillows), dark brown hair, bulbous nose.

Ser Maynard Plumm, flaxen hair.

And we have these hedge knights in ASOIAF:

Ser Byron the Beautiful, blonde hair.

Ser Morgarth the Merry, salt-and-pepper beard, a red, bulbous nose.

Shadrich of the Shady Glen also known as the Mad Mouse, orange hair.

Then we can associate them this way:

Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor / Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse of Shady Glen, both with similar names and red hair.

Ser Glendon Ball / Ser Morgarth the Merry, both with bulbous noses.

Ser Maynard Plumm / Ser Byron the Beautiful, both blondes and... under disguise?

Third, and this is a widely known theory, I’m convinced that Ser Maynard Plumm is Brynden Rivers aka Bloodraven in disguise, thanks to a glamor with the moonstone brooch big as a hen’s egg. That moonstone is working like Melissadre’s ruby at the wrist of Mance Ryder disguised as Rattleshirt (*).

(*) Here I have to mention the existence of two theories about Ser Byron the Beautiful. The first one says that Ser Byron the Beautiful is the Hound in disguise under glamor thanks to Rhaegar rubies. Yes this is an actual theory. The second theory is an addition to the first one, it says that Ser Byron the Beautiful is the Hound in disguise, using the face of Tyrek Lannister, under glamor thanks to Rhaegar rubies. Yes this is an actual theory as well.

Is Ser Byron someone else in disguise? I have no idea if the parallels will be 100% accurate and we will only know when the Winds of Winter come.

Dragon Eggs

The protagonists of this tale are eggs, a dragon egg and a dragon called Egg

“The dragon’s egg? Is that the champion’s prize? Truly?” The last dragon had perished half a century ago. Ser Arlan had once seen a clutch of her eggs, though. They were hard as stone, but beautiful to look upon, the old man had told Dunk. “How could Lord Butterwell come by a dragon’s egg?”

“King Aegon presented the egg to his father’s father after guesting for a night at his old castle,” said Ser Maynard Plumm.

“Was it a reward for some act of valor?” asked Dunk.

Ser Kyle chuckled. “Some might call it that. Supposedly old Lord Butterwell had three young maiden daughters when His Grace came calling. By morning, all three had royal bastards in their little bellies. A hot night’s work, that was.”

(...)

“Lord Butterwell will have the egg well guarded, I’m sure.” Dunk scratched the midge bites on his neck. “Do you think he might display it at the feast? I’d like to get a look at one.”

“I’d show you mine, ser, but it’s at Summerhall.”

“Yours? Your dragon’s egg?” Dunk frowned down at the boy, wondering if this was some jape. “Where did it come from?”

“From a dragon, ser. They put it in my cradle.”

“Do you want a clout in the ear? There are no dragons.”

“No, but there are eggs. The last dragon left a clutch of five, and they have more on Dragonstone, old ones from before the Dance. My brothers all have them too. Aerion’s looks as though it’s made of gold and silver, with veins of fire running through it. Mine is white and green, all swirly.”

“Your dragon’s egg.” They put it in his cradle. Dunk was so used to Egg that sometimes he forgot Aegon was a prince. Of course they’d put a dragon egg inside his cradle. “Well, see that you don’t go mentioning this egg where anyone is like to hear.”

“I’m not stupid, ser.” Egg lowered his voice. “Someday the dragons will return. My brother Daeron’s dreamed of it, and King Aerys read it in a prophecy. Maybe it will be my egg that hatches. That would be splendid.”

“Would it?” Dunk had his doubts.”

Not Egg. “Aemon and I used to pretend that our eggs would be the ones to hatch. If they did, we could fly through the sky on dragonback, like the first Aegon and his sisters.”

“Aye, and if all the other knights in the realm should die, I’d be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. If these eggs are so bloody precious, why is Lord Butterwell giving his away?”

(...)

“Are we going to go to Whitewalls, ser?”

“Why not? I want to see this dragon’s egg.” Dunk smiled. “If I win the tourney, we’d both have dragon’s eggs.”

Egg gave him a doubtful look.

“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”

“I could tell you, ser,” the boy said solemnly, “but I need to learn to hold my tongue.”

—The Mystery Knight

If Dunk and Valarr represented Jon in the first tale, in this one, Jon is represented by Dunk and Glendon as bastards, Daemon as bastard/prince in disguise and our little Egg as a dragon coming to life / revealing his Targaryen identity.

Indeed, Egg will be the dragon egg that hatches in this tale, and later he will be King and Dunk will be his Kingsguard’s Lord Commander one day.

And the sad note is that both, Dunk and Egg, will died years later while trying to hatch dragon eggs. Be careful what you wish for...

Winterfell

Dunk frowned. “Egg and I have a long journey before us. We’re headed north to Winterfell. Lord Beron Stark is gathering swords to drive the krakens from his shores for good.”

—The Mystery Knight

Dun and Egg will be at Winterfell during the fourth tale, The She-Wolves of Winterfell, a tale that is supposed to explore House Stark Succession issues...

At some point, Dunk asked Ser Glendon Ball, another bastard, that joined them in their journey to Winterfell, an offer to start a new life in a land when they will be judge by their own worth and not by their social status and low origins.

Florian the Fool imagery

“The wine had colored Ser Glendon’s cheeks and inflamed his pimples. “Who are you, to make such boasts?”

“They call me John the Fiddler.”

“Are you a musician or a warrior?”

“I can make sweet song with either lance or resined bow, as it happens. Every wedding needs a singer, and every tourney needs a mystery knight.”

—The Mystery Knight

As I mentioned before, John the Fiddler sounds like some version of Florian the Fool, a musician and a knight/warrior. Ser Glendon Ball pointed out this detail.

Jon is surrounded by Florian the Fool imagery. From “You know nothing, Jon Snow” to all the singers linked with him like his biological father Rhaegar Targaryen, Mance Ryder and Bael the Bard.

Having a Thirst during a Feast

Both Dunk and Jon get hammered and think about girls...

Dunk remembers Tanselle and Rohanne and Jon thinks about insipid and stupid and blonde Princess Myrcella and his radiant half-sister Sansa...

Dunk had not intended to drink so much, with the jousting on the morrow, but the cups were filled anew after every toast, and he found he had a thirst. “Never refuse a cup of wine or a horn of ale,” Ser Arlan had once told him, “it may be a year before you see another.” It would have been discourteous not to toast the bride and groom, he told himself, and dangerous not to drink to the king and his Hand, with strangers all about.

(...)

The other hedge knights, fine fellows all, had begun to talk of women they had known. Dunk found himself wondering where Tanselle was tonight. He knew where Lady Rohanne was—abed at Coldmoat Castle, with old Ser Eustace beside her, snoring through his mustache—so he tried not to think of her. Do they ever think of me? he wondered.

(...)

He had another cup of hippocras, since the first had tasted good. Then he lay his head down atop his folded arms and closed his eyes just for a moment, to rest them from the smoke.When he opened them again, half the wedding guests were on their feet and shouting, “Bed them! Bed them!” They were making such an uproar that they woke Dunk from a pleasant dream involving Tanselle Too-Tall and the Red Widow. “Bed them! Bed them!” the calls rang out. Dunk sat up and rubbed his eyes.

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

And he was finding that he had a man's thirst, to the raucous delight of the youths around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jon relished the stories they were telling, tales of battle and bedding and the hunt. He was certain that his companions were more entertaining than the king’s offspring.

(...)

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

A Bedding

Before Dunk quite realized what was happening, John the Fiddler had dragged him to his feet. “Here!” he cried out. “Let the giant carry her!”

The next thing he knew he was climbing a tower stair with the bride squirming in his arms.

(...)

Dunk had no notion where Lord Butterwell’s bedchamber was to be found, but the other men pushed and prodded him until he got there, by which time the bride was red-faced, giggling, and nearly naked, save for the stocking on her left leg, which had somehow survived the climb. Dunk was crimson too, and not from exertion.

His arousal would have been obvious if anyone had been looking, but fortunately all eyes were on the bride. Lady Butterwell looked nothing like Tanselle, but having the one squirming half-naked in his arms had started Dunk thinking about the other. Tanselle Too-Tall, that was her name, but she was not too tall for me. He wondered if he would ever find her again. There had been some nights when he thought he must have dreamed her. No, lunk, you only dreamed she liked you.

(...)

When Dunk finally plopped the bride onto her marriage bed, a dwarf leapt in beside her and seized one of her breasts for a bit of a fondle. The girl let out a squeal, the men roared with laughter, and Dunk seized the dwarf by his collar and hauled him kicking off m’lady. He was carrying the little man across the room to chuck him out the door when he saw the dragon’s egg.

(...)

Dunk dropped the dwarf and picked up the egg, just to feel it for a moment. It was heavier than he’d expected. You could smash a man’s head with this, and never crack the shell. The scales were smooth beneath his fingers, and the deep, rich red seemed to shimmer as he turned the egg in his hands. Blood and flame, he thought, but there were gold flecks in it as well, and whorls of midnight black.

—The Mystery Knight

A dwarf fondling the breast of a lady during her wedding night reminds me of Tyrion groping his child bride Sansa during their wedding night. So I would really like that one day someone seized Tyrion by his collar and hauled him liked Dunk did with that dwarf as punishment for his unwanted advances with Sansa.

Another Prophetic Dream

In Ashford, Dunk was involved in a prophetic dream with a dead dragon. In Whitewalls, Dunk was involved in a prophetic dream with a hatching dragon

He was feeling dizzy from the wine, so he leaned against a parapet. Am I going to be sick? Why did he go and touch the dragon’s egg? He remembered Tanselle’s puppet show, and the wooden dragon that had started all the trouble there at Ashford. The memory made Dunk feel guilty, as it always did. Three good men dead, to save a hedge knight’s foot. It made no sense, and never had. Take a lesson from that, lunk. It is not for the likes of you to mess about with dragons or their eggs.

“It almost looks as if it’s made of snow.”

Dunk turned. John the Fiddler stood behind him, smiling in his silk and cloth-of-gold. “What’s made of snow?”

“The castle. All that white stone in the moonlight. Have you ever been north of the Neck, Ser Duncan? I’m told it snows there even in the summer. Have you ever seen the Wall?”

“No, m’lord.” Why he is going on about the Wall? “That’s where we were going, Egg and me. Up north, to Winterfell.”

(...)

He gave Dunk an enigmatic smile. “I dreamed of you, Ser Duncan. Before I even met you. When I saw you on the road, I knew your face at once. It was as if we were old friends.”

Dunk had the strangest feeling then, as if he had lived this all before. I dreamed of you, he said. My dreams are not like yours, Ser Duncan. Mine are true. “You dreamed of me?” he said, in a voice made thick by wine. “What sort of dream?”

“Why,” the Fiddler said, “I dreamed that you were all in white from head to heel, with a long pale cloak flowing from those broad shoulders. You were a White Sword, ser, a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the greatest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, and you lived for no other purpose but to guard and serve and please your king”. He put a hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “You have dreamed the same dream, I know you have.”

He had, it was true. The first time the old man let me hold his sword. “Every boy dreams of serving in the Kingsguard.”

“Only seven boys grow up to wear the white cloak, though. Would it please you to be one of them?”

“Me?” Dunk shrugged away the lordling’s hand, which had begun to knead his shoulder. “It might. Or not.” The knights of the Kingsguard served for life and swore to take no wife and hold no lands. I might find Tanselle again someday. Why shouldn’t I have a wife, and sons? “It makes no matter what I dream. Only a king can make a Kingsguard knight.”

“I suppose that means I’ll have to take the throne, then. I would much rather be teaching you to fiddle.”

(...)

“I hope you will put more faith in what I tell you when you see the dragon hatch.”

“A dragon will hatch? A living dragon? What, here?”

“I dreamed it. This pale white castle, you, a dragon bursting from an egg, I dreamed it all, just as I once dreamed of my brothers lying dead. They were twelve and I was only seven, so they laughed at me, and died. I am two-and-twenty now, and I trust my dreams.”

“Dunk was remembering another tourney, remembering how he had walked through the soft spring rains with another princeling. I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, Egg’s brother Daeron said to him. A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead. And so he was, poor Baelor. Dreams were a treacherous ground on which to build. “As you say, m’lord,” he told the Fiddler. “Pray excuse me.”

“Where are you going, ser?”

“To my bed, to sleep. I’m drunk as a dog.”

“Be my dog, ser. The night’s alive with promise. We can howl together and wake the very gods.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Your sword. I would make you mine own man, and raise you high. My dreams do not lie, Ser Duncan. You shall have that white cloak, and I must have the dragon’s egg. I must, my dreams have made that plain. Perhaps the egg will hatch, or else…”

—The Mystery Knight

Daemon’s dream was proven right since Egg hatched there in Whitewalls and years later Dunk became Lord Commander of Aegon V Targaryen’s Kingsguard.

But what if the dragon hatching in a castle made of snow was a dream for the long future as well as Dunk wearing the white cloak many years later?

That part of the dream could be foreshadowing Jon’ resurrection in a castle made of snow. That castle made of snow could be Winterfell? Maybe, but it also could be the Wall, since Daemon himself mentioned the Wall in this passage, the castle there is called Castle Black but it is certainly covered by snow.

This could also be foreshadowing of Jon’s true parentage revelation, as a Targaryen; and that could happen in Winterfell, that is a grey castle certainly, but also covered by snow.

Also, the white cloaks of the Kingsguards are often compared with snow and called snowy white.

I also read some theories about New Castle in White Harbor as the castle made of snow of Daemon’s dream.

Better with a Sword

Dunk watched a server fill his wine cup. “I am better with a sword than with a lance,” he admitted, “and even better with a battle-axe. Will there be a melee here?”

(...)

“You're better with a sword than with a lance,” Egg said. “With an axe or a mace, there's few to match your strength.”

(...)

“Ser Tommard, this man is the prince’s sworn shield. He’ll kill you!”

“Only if he falls on me.” Black Tom showed his teeth in a hard grin. “I saw him try to joust.”

“I am better with a sword,” Dunk warned him.

(...)

“Black Tom reeled back a step and stared down in horror at his forearm flopping on the floor beneath the Stranger’s altar. “You,” he gasped, “you, you…”

“I told you.” Dunk stabbed him through the throat. “I’m better with a sword.”

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I'm the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Warg imagery once again...

A trumpet sounded.

Thunder started forward at a slow trot. Dunk swung his lance to the left and brought it down, so it angled across the horse's head and the wooden barrier between him and his foe. His shield protected the left side of his body. He crouched forward, legs tightening as Thunder drove down the lists. We are one. Man, horse, lance, we are one beast of blood and wood and iron.

—The Mystery Knight

This is a very interesting passage because Dunk lost that joust and he kind of died for a while (he got unconscious for hours). Dunk fell to the ground after his opponent lance struck him on the head. Later that said opponent, that was drinking with Dunk the night before during the feast, confessed to Dunk that he was paid for killing him.

This is very similar to Jon being killed by his own brothers at the Wall, being alive for a while inside of his direwolf Ghost, and his future resurrection.

Coming back to life

Dunk woke upon his back, staring up at the arches of a barrel-vaulted ceiling. For a moment he did not know where he was, or how he had arrived there. Voices echoed in his head, and faces drifted past him; old Ser Arlan, Tanselle Too-Tall, Bennis of the Brown Shield, the Red Widow, Baelor Breakspear, Aerion the Bright Prince, mad, sad Lady Vaith. Then all at once the joust came back to him: the heat, the snail, the iron fist coming at his face. He groaned, and rolled onto one elbow. The movement set his skull to pounding like some monstrous war drum.

(...)

“Tell me. What’s happened?”

“The same foolishness that always happens in these affrays. Men have been knocking each other off horses with sticks. Lord Smallwood’s nephew broke his wrist and Ser Eden Risley’s leg was crushed beneath his horse, but no one has been killed thus far. Though I had my fears for you, ser.”

(...)

“How long have you been tending me?” Dunk flexed the fingers of his sword hand. All of them still seemed to work. Only my head’s hurt, and Ser Arlan used to say I never used that anyway.

“Four hours, by the sundial.”

Four hours was not so bad. He had once heard tell of a knight struck so hard that he slept for forty years and woke to find himself old and withered. ”

(...)

“A passing groom told him where to find the nearest well. It was there that he discovered Kyle the Cat, talking quietly with Maynard Plumm. Ser Kyle’s shoulders were slumped in dejection, but he looked up at Dunk’s approach. “Ser Duncan? We had heard that you were dead, or dying.”

Dunk rubbed his temples. “I only wish I were.”

—The Mystery Knight

"Four hours was not so bad.” Dunk was four hours unconscious after his murder attempt. Maybe Jon will be dead for four days and it won’t be “so bad”, he won’t lost much of his memories.

Honor

Better a beggar than a thief. He had been both in Flea Bottom, when he ran with Ferret, Rafe, and Pudding, but the old man had saved him from that life. He knew what Ser Arlan of Pennytree would have said to Plumm’s suggestions. Ser Arlan being dead, Dunk said it for him. “Even a hedge knight has his honor.”

“Would you rather die with honor intact or live with it besmirched? No, spare me, I know what you will say. Take your boy and flee, gallows knight. Before your arms become your destiny.”

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

I will kill him if I must. The prospect gave Jon no joy; there would be no honor in such a killing, and it would mean his own death as well. Yet he could not let the wildlings breach the Wall, to threaten Winterfell and the north, the barrowlands and the Rills, White Harbor and the Stony Shore, even the Neck. For eight thousand years the men of House Stark had lived and died to protect their people against such ravagers and reavers . . . and bastard-born or no, the same blood ran in his veins. Bran and Rickon are still at Winterfell besides. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Old Nan, Farlen the kennelmaster, Mikken at his forge and Gage by his ovens . . . everyone I ever knew, everyone I ever loved. If Jon must slay a man he half admired and almost liked to save them from the mercies of Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead and the earless Magnar of Thenn, that was what he meant to do.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

Even if she was a whore... I want to know

"His Lordship said that I had no right to put a fireball upon my shield. He told me my device should be a clump of pussywillows. His Lordship can go bugger himself." Dunk could not help but smile. He had supped at that same table himself, choking down the same bitter dishes as served up by the likes of the Bright Prince and Ser Steffon Fossoway. He felt a certain kinship with the prickly young knight. For all I know, my mother was a whore as well. "How many horses have you won?"

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

"One of the guards overheard Clydas reading the letter to Maester Aemon." Pyp leaned close. "Jon, I'm sorry. He was your father's friend, wasn't he?"

"They were as close as brothers, once." Jon wondered if Joffrey would keep his father as the King's Hand. It did not seem likely. That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont's permission. It would be good to see Arya's grin again and to talk with his father. I will ask him about my mother, he resolved. I am a man now, it is past time he told me. Even if she was a whore, I don't care, I want to know.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VII

True Identities and Targaryen Names

Inside, the Fiddler turned back to Dunk. “I knew Ser Uthor had not killed you. My dreams are never wrong. And the Snail must face me soon enough. Once I’ve unhorsed him, I shall demand your arms and armor back. Your destrier as well, though you deserve a better mount. Will you take one as my gift?”

“I…no…I couldn’t do that.” The thought made Dunk uncomfortable. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, but…”

“If it is the debt that troubles you, put the thought from your mind. I do not need your silver, ser. Only your friendship. ”

(...)

“You are no hedge knight.”

“No.” The Fiddler’s smile was full of boyish charm. “But you knew that from the start. You have been calling me m’lord since we met upon the road, why is that?”

“The way you talk. The way you look. The way you act.” Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. “Up on the roof last night, you said some things…”

“Wine makes me talk too much, but I meant every word. We belong together, you and I. My dreams do not lie.”

“Your dreams don’t lie,” said Dunk, “but you do. John is not your true name, is it?”

“No.” The Fiddler’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

He has Egg’s eyes.

“His true name will be revealed soon enough, to those who need to know.” Lord Gormon Peake had slipped into the pavilion, scowling. “Hedge knight, I warn you—”

“Oh, stop it, Gormy,” said the Fiddler. “Ser Duncan is with us, or will be soon. I told you, I dreamed of him.”

(...)

“I never did you any harm.”

“And never will. Daemon’s mine. I will command his Kingsguard. You are not worthy of a white cloak.”

“I never claimed I was.” Daemon. The name rang in Dunk’s head. Not John. Daemon, after his father.

—The Mystery Knight

These passages give me hope about Aemon being Jon’s Targaryen name:

Daemon. The name rang in Dunk’s head. Not John. Daemon, after his father.

Aemon. The name rang in Dunk’s (?) head. Not Jon. Aemon, after his father uncle.

Who will discover Jon’s true parentage and Jon’s Targaryen name? My bet is on Sansa since she unbeknownst helped Ned to discover that “Prince” Joffrey were a bastard. So it would be a full circle if she discovers by herself that the bastard Jon Snow is a true prince.

The Redhead Lady of the Tale

Mad Danelle Lothston herself rode forth in strength from her haunted towers at Harrenhal, clad in black armor that fit her like an iron glove, her long red hair streaming.

—The Mystery Knight

There is always a redhead woman with a wicked reputation. In the first tale a red haired whore is mentioned; in the second tale Rohanne Webber is a protagonist; and in this third tale Mad Danelle Lothston makes a triumphant entrance riding all armored next to Bloodraven to put an end to the Second Blackfyre Rebellion. Such a powerful image...

An Elm Tree again!

The Hand’s pavilion was half a mile from the castle, in the shade of a spreading elm tree. A dozen cows were cropping at the grass nearby. Kings rise and fall, Dunk thought, and cows and smallfolk go about their business. It was something the old man used to say.”

—The Mystery Knight

Bloodraven put his pavilion in the shade of a spreading elm tree. This is a reminiscence of the first tale:

On the outskirts of the great meadow, a good half mile from town and castle, he found a place where a bend in a brook had formed a deep pool. Reeds grew thick along its edge, and a tall, leafy elm presided over all. The spring grass there was as green as any knight’s banner and soft to the touch. It was a pretty spot, and no one had yet laid claim to it. This will be my pavilion, Dunk told himself, a pavilion roofed with leaves, greener even than the banners of the Tyrells and the Estermonts.

(...)

“There’s my pavilion.” Dunk swept a hand above his head, at the branches of the tall elm that loomed above them.

“That’s a tree,” the boy said, unimpressed.

“It’s all the pavilion a true knight needs. I would sooner sleep under the stars than in some smoky tent.”

—The Hedge Knight

Dunk took that elm tree as his sigil the same way Lyanna took a weirwood as his sigil as a Mystery Knight.

Dunk also took a shooting star as part of his sigil and when Jon’s was born, there was a shooting star symbol around him, Ser Arthur Dayne’s sword, Dawn, made of a falling star, and House Dayne’s sigil is also “a white sword and falling star crossed on lilac”.

So Dunks sigil is really telling us about Jon Snow’s birth story, about the identity of his mother and the place when he was born, that was named by his biological father and was guarded by a knight with a sword made of a falling star.

Roger of Pennytree

Flanking the entrance, the severed heads of Gormon Peake and Black Tom Heddle had been impaled on spears, with their shields displayed beneath them. Three castles, black on orange. The man who slew Roger of Pennytree.

Even in death, Lord Gormon’s eyes were hard and flinty. Dunk closed them with his fingers. “What did you do that for?” asked one of the guardsmen. “The crows’ll have them soon enough.”

“I owed him that much.” If Roger had not died that day, the old man would never have looked twice at Dunk when he saw him chasing that pig through the alleys of King’s Landing. Some old dead king gave a sword to one son instead of another, that was the start of it. And now I’m standing here, and poor Roger’s in his grave.”

—The Mystery Knight

This is a very sad scene where we can see how Dunk still feels guilty for all the men that had to die for him to live the life he is living. Jon shares the same guilt along his arc and is heartbreaking.

Tower of Joy imagery

Bloodraven ordered Whitewalls to be pulled down stone by stone, the same way Ned Stark pulled down the Tower of Joy

“And Whitewalls?” asked Butterwell, with quavering voice.

“Forfeit to the Iron Throne. I mean to pull it down stone by stone and sow the ground that it stands upon with salt. In twenty years, no one will remember it existed. Old fools and young malcontents still make pilgrimages to the Redgrass Field to plant flowers on the spot where Daemon Blackfyre fell. I will not suffer Whitewalls to become another monument to the Black Dragon."

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

“It would have to be his grandfather, for Jory’s father was buried far to the south. Martyn Cassel had perished with the rest. Ned had pulled the tower down afterward, and used its bloody stones to build eight cairns upon the ridge. It was said that Rhaegar had named that place the tower of joy, but for Ned it was a bitter memory. They had been seven against three, yet only two had lived to ride away; Eddard Stark himself and the little crannogman, Howland Reed. He did not think it omened well that he should dream that dream again after so many years.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard X

As you can see, Whitewalls, the castle where Egg “hatched” and revealed his true identity as Aegon Targaryen, is ordered by Bloodraven to be pulled down stone by stone. And after reading this it’s impossible not to think about the Tower of Joy, the place where Jon was born, being pulled down by Ned Stark.

A Dragon Rises

“We had some help, m’lord,” Dunk added.

“Hedge knights.”

“Aye, m’lord. Ser Kyle the Cat, and Maynard Plumm. And Ser Glendon Ball. It was him unhorsed the Fidd…the pretender.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that tale from half a hundred lips already. The Bastard of the Pussywillows. Born of a whore and a traitor.”

“Born of heroes,” Egg insisted. “If he’s amongst the captives, I want him found and released. And rewarded.”

“And who are you to tell the King’s Hand what to do?”

Egg did not flinch. “You know who I am, cousin.”

“Your squire is insolent, ser,” Lord Rivers said to Dunk. “You ought to beat that out of him.”

“I’ve tried, m’lord. He’s a prince, though.”

“What he is,” said Bloodraven, “is a dragon. Rise, ser.”

Dunk rose.

“There have always been Targaryens who dreamed of things to come, since long before the Conquest,” Bloodraven said, “so we should not be surprised if from time to time a Blackfyre displays the gift as well. Daemon dreamed that a dragon would be born at Whitewalls, and it was. The fool just got the color wrong.”

Dunk looked at Egg. The ring, he saw. His father’s ring. It’s on his finger, not stuffed up inside his boot.

(...)

“My place is with Ser Duncan. I’m his squire.”

“Seven save you both. As you wish. You’re free to go.”

“We will,” said Egg, “but first we need some gold. Ser Duncan needs to pay the Snail his ransom.”

Bloodraven laughed. “What happened to the modest boy I once met at King’s Landing? As you say, my prince. I will instruct my paymaster to give you as much gold as you wish. Within reason.”

—The Mystery Knight

And finally, the dragon egg that actually hatched in Whitewalls was Egg, a Targaryen Prince in disguise that revealed his true identity as Aegon Targaryen, a future king, that will also died while trying to hatch dragon eggs, next to Dunk at Summerhall, the place when another human dragon hatched, Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon’s biological father.

GRRM really likes his full circles...

This has been a long ride. I hope you enjoy it.

THE END.

#Dunk #Ser Duncall The Tall #Jon Snow #is this jonsa?#jonsa #a knight of the seven kingdoms #the hedge knight #the sworn sword #the mystery knight #egg #aegon v targaryen #prince duncan targaryen #valarr targaryen #brynden rivers #bloodraven #tanselle too-tall #rohanne webber #mad danelle #danelle lothston

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orangeflavoryawp · 4 years ago

Text

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 15

Some of you will hate me. Some of you will - well - love me just a little less than before, I guess. But this has always been where this story was headed. I can tell you, at least, that our heroes will have their justice in the end, if that softens the blow at all.

TRIGGER WARNING for blood and minor gore.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Fifteen: Tooth and Nail

"It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

They find Rhaegar Targaryen dead on a nondescript morning half an hour past dawn.

Jon and Sansa are roused from their bed and called down to Aegon's solar. Just before they reach the door, Jon slips his arm from her hold to instead reach down and link their hands together. She looks up at him as they stop just outside the threshold.

He sees the nervous flex of her throat and brings their joined hands up to brush a kiss along her knuckles.

"Jon, your father..." she says brokenly, the threat of tears lining her words. All for him. Always for him.

He lets out a shaky breath along her knuckles, keeps his mouth pressed to her skin. And then he pulls back, swallowing tightly. "I'll be alright." A short, tight nod. "We'll be alright."

Later, he tells himself. Grieve later. Rest later. There is too much at stake now to lose himself to it.

She keeps his gaze, says nothing in return. But something of understanding passes between them then, and the graze of her thumb over the heel of his palm is answer enough.

Jon opens the door.

The first gaze he meets belongs to Daenerys. She's standing at the edge of Aegon's desk, arms crossed over her chest with a glance over her shoulder at them when the door creeps open. Her face is a tight mask, the barest of shadows beneath her eyes. It strikes him suddenly, that she has lost her brother. And he cannot rightly tell what it stirs in her, so fiercely stoic is her mask. But the harsh clench of her fingers over her arms, digging white imprints into her flesh – that is enough to tell him something is stirred in her.

Jon looks away from her, to just behind her, where Rhaenys sits in an armchair along the wall, legs crossed gracefully, a nervous finger tapping along her armrest. She's wearing the same dress she wore the night before, and he wonders, briefly, if she's even slept at all. Her eyes flick to Jon and Sansa's joined hands for a moment, lips thinning into a tight line, and Jon is sure he feels Sansa's attempt to pull away, but he holds tight. Doesn't let her go. Rhaenys glances away as they step into the room.

"Welcome, brother." The silky voice calls his attention away and toward Aegon.

He's standing behind the desk, leaning over it with his fingertips perched elegantly along the wood top. The purple bruise from the previous night is harsher now, branching over his sharp cheekbone, the fall of salt-white hair over his shoulder casting it in shadow. "You're just in time," he says.

There is a measure of challenge to his voice, and Jon is perfectly aware as to why. He clears his throat. "Your Grace," he greets, head bowed.

(It is not the sort of challenge Jon ever intends to meet, after all.)

The slip of a smile curls at the edges of Aegon's mouth, like a spill of fine wine.

Sansa curtseys beside Jon as she releases his hand, offering her own greeting.

Aegon stands fully then, hands slipping behind his back. "Yes, well, I suppose even the servants must know by now," he says.

"They know a Baratheon traitor killed their king," Daenerys says, voice even. She cocks her head at her husband. "And they know we're vulnerable to siege. Dangerously so."

"We beat them back," Rhaenys contends, standing and walking toward them, stopping just at Daenerys' side. There's a subtle desperation to the words, a need Jon understands too well, for he cannot imagine her fate had they not beaten them back.

"Yes, but at what cost?" Aegon hisses, a glance to their sister. He shakes his head. "If they can kill a king in his own keep..." A refined sort of snarl mars his mouth.

"'They'," Jon repeats, stepping cautiously forward. "What 'they' are you speaking of?"

Daenerys nearly scoffs. "No one in this room is simple enough to miss the obvious."

Rhaenys folds her arms over her chest, shrinking in on herself.

Daenerys looks back to Aegon. "Stannis had help. He had help from the inside. Or else those gates would never have been opened. Those soldiers would never have made it so deep inside the castle so quickly."

"Agreed," Aegon says, brows furrowing. "And if we mean to show the kingdoms that House Targaryen has not been weakened by this assault then we need to act quickly."

Not been weakened? Jon wants to scream.

Their father is lying dead in his chambers this very moment, staining the air foul, rotting up the room.

Not been weakened?

Jon's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You speak as though you already know who's betrayed us."

Rhaenys glances up at the words, mouth parted anxiously.

Aegon sighs, chin lifting. "Father was near raving in the end there, I admit, but he had one thing right."

Jon swallows thickly.

Aegon tips his head slightly, eyes on Jon. "Viserys' fleet was too conveniently absent."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Sansa begins, stepping up beside Jon, "But are you saying you believe your uncle orchestrated this with Stannis Baratheon?"

Aegon releases a short, sharp laugh – almost a bark. "Hardly, my lady. He hasn't the mind for such a clever coup."

"Then...?"

Daenerys frowns. "Either Stannis is a greater strategist than any of us have given him credit for, or Viserys has been getting some very treasonous ideas from his Lannister wife."

Rhaenys shakes her head, lip between her teeth, chest heaving. "Stannis would have done whatever it took to break Father after the rebellion. Even if that meant allying with the Lannisters."

"But the Lannisters have no reason to break faith with the crown. Not now," Sansa argues.

"They would if they thought they had a chance to supplant Father with Viserys and Cersei," Aegon says, a rueful chuckle leaving him. "Granted we were killed in the process," he finishes, nodding to Jon.

But Jon's mind is reeling, spinning. There's something in the back of his head like a steady scratching, a hum of discontent. It settles in his gut like shifting shards of glass. "Your Grace," he begins, licking his lips. "Do you really think Tywin would chance such a ploy with Ser Jaime in the Kingsguard? A possible victim of the siege? Do you really think he would risk his line, even if he would risk anything else?"

Aegon's mouth dips into a frown at the comment.

"If Cersei wasn't playing to her father's tune and whispering in Viserys' ear," Daenerys snaps, eyes fire-lit, "Then she was, at the least, privy to his treason and chose not to inform us. I cannot believe that conniving woman would not know what was going on under her own nose, in her own home, and thus, that Tywin Lannister would not know. The Lannisters are complicit in this attack, at best. And they are openly traitorous, at worst." Her eyes snap to Aegon. "There can be no mercy for either."

Aegon clenches his jaw, the motion seeming to pain his bruised cheek, or to pain something else, Jon cannot be sure. But there's a hesitance in his features, an uncertainty. It throws Jon just the slightest.

"Your Grace,' he tries, voice low and even.

Aegon's gaze flicks warily up to his.

"We're vulnerable, and we've taken too many losses." He licks his lips, swallows thickly. "But we are not alone."

Aegon quirks a brow his way.

"Call upon the North."

Daenerys releases a disbelieving laugh. "Summon Ned Stark? When we've not even discerned the traitor yet?"

"My father is not a traitor," Sansa says vehemently, chin raised. "He tried to warn us. He sent Theon Greyjoy with his missive, didn't he?"

"How do you know that?" Aegon asks quietly, voice thin, eyes sharpened like cuts of glass.

"I told her," Jon says instinctively, never missing the soft intake of breath Sansa breathes beside him.

Aegon's gaze slips to Jon once more, steady and unnerving.

Jon clenches his jaw at the look, hardly daring to say more.

"And what will the North give us, dear nephew?" Daenerys sneers.

He does not blink when he swings his dark gaze her way. "Time, at the very least."

She bristles at his remark.

He looks back to his brother. "You want to test Tywin Lannister's loyalty? You want the kingdoms to see our strength? Show them that the North still answers to the crown. Show them that fealty and solidarity are rewarded. Make Ned Stark your Hand."

Sansa swings wide eyes to Jon, stepping into him, a hand at his sleeve. "Jon," she whispers.

He presses his palm reassuringly over her hand.

It is too much to expect to be named heir, even if such a thing promises the sort of safety he wishes for Sansa, for their babe. To voice it would cast too much suspicion, especially now. And he never wanted a crown in the first place. Never wanted a hand in it. Let them squabble over heirs. Jon wants peace. Just peace.

But he's not stupid enough to think they can survive King's Landing alone anymore.

Daenerys' mouth opens, but no words follow.

Aegon's hands slip from behind his back, leveling on the table edge before him. His eyes narrow on Jon instantly. "What did you say?"

Sansa's hand curls tight in Jon's sleeve, but he ignores it. "Make Ned Stark your Hand," he repeats, voice steady.

A moment of keen disquiet passes through the room, and then Rhaenys steps up beside Aegon, a hand at his elbow, head bowed to him. "You would slight Dorne with such a choice for Hand," she says evenly. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. "They will not have it. Not with Stark blood next in line for the throne."

Aegon works his jaw, never looking at her.

A sound escapes Daenerys, strangled and low. She clears her throat. "Rhaenys," she seethes, wetness dotting her eyes.

Rhaenys frowns, hand slipping from her brother, face softening as she turns to Daenerys. "You know it as well as I. If you cannot conceive..." she says almost sadly, voice trailing off.

Sansa's hand falls from Jon's sleeve, and he does not miss the motion.

Aegon sucks a quiet breath through his teeth. "Rhaenys," he admonishes.

But her eyes are clear when they look back at him. "Jon is your heir, until you've a child of your own. Or would you rather name our uncle?"

Aegon's face screws into an ugly visage, lip curling at the insinuation. "Viserys will never - "

"No, he will never," Daenerys promises coldly, chin lifting.

"You don't have to name an heir, Your Grace, not just yet," Jon says. "You've just come into your reign. This isn't the time." He swings his imploring gaze around the room. "But we need allies. The North is still our ally."

"They are our subject, if you recall correctly," Aegon nearly snarls. "There is a difference."

Jon drops his gaze in deference, his skin itching with his frustration, knuckles white where he clenches his fists at his side.

Aegon's face slips back into a mask of practiced grace, the curl of his lip evening out. "No. What we need is to reestablish faith in the true Targaryen line." He looks to Daenerys then, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "And I will not let the Lannisters play our uncle like a puppet. Until I've a son to call my own, it must be Jon."

Daenerys's chest heaves, her eyes narrowing sharply. "He is a bastard."

Somehow, Jon thinks it should hurt less by now. And yet, it never does.

At his peripheral, Sansa presses toward him, a measure of silent comfort.

Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose. "He's legitimized, Daenerys."

"A hollow gesture," she cries, voice shrill now, desperate. "He's hardly a dragon."

Aegon ignores her, turning to Jon. "I'll consider your recommendation for Hand, but I promise nothing."

"Aegon," Daenerys bites out, jaw working.

Jon blinks at his brother, mouth parting. "That's not what I..."

Rhaenys shakes her head, a soft curse at the edge of her lips. "Don't insult Mother like this," she pleads, eyes imploring on Aegon.

"Your Grace," Daenerys tries again, voice dangerously low, a stillness overtaking her that chills the air in the room.

Jon swallows tightly when he glances to her, Sansa's words from earlier that morning taking root instantly.

Daenerys knows about the babe.

The air leaves him, the words stalled on his tongue, but Sansa must be thinking the same thing because –

"Your Grace, there's something you should kn – " Her words are cut off sharply.

"Sansa's with child," Daenerys interrupts with a snap of her teeth.

The room goes still. Jon's gut clenches painfully at Daenerys' exhale, his hand going for Sansa's at his side on instinct. He tastes her stark regret in the air, the confession stolen clean from her own lips. It rattles something of rage inside him, quieted only by a branding, instant fear.

Aegon slips his hands behind his back smoothly, eyes riveted to his wife. His pristine features, marred only by the blooming bruise at his cheek, sharpen almost indiscernibly. "What did you say?" His voice is like the snap of scaled wings.

Jon keeps his gaze resolutely from his sister's, even as he feels her sudden, wide-eyed stare on them. He only grips tighter at Sansa's hand in his.

"Brother..."

Aegon's gaze whips to Jon. "It is 'Your Grace'," he seethes darkly.

Jon lets out a stifled breath, blinking back the wetness. "Your Grace," he chokes out.

"How... how long have you known?" Rhaenys whispers out.

It takes all of him to tear his gaze to hers, only to find her eyes fixed to Sansa's stomach, tear-laced and unblinking. She clears her throat, wipes a hand over her face, looks back up at him.

Like the tears had never been.

But he catches the minute flex of her throat when she voices her question once more. "How long have you known?"

"Yes," Aegon breathes lowly. "How long?"

"Please forgive him, Your Grace," Sansa says suddenly, voice wavering just the slightest. "I only just shared the news with Jon this morning. It's what we'd meant to bring to you after we broke our fast but then..." Her voice breaks off with a pained sigh, gaze falling to the side.

"Then our father conveniently died," Aegon finishes for her.

She glances up at his comment, horrified. "No, Your Grace, that's not – "

"Your Grace," Jon pleads, throat tight.

"And how fitting," he interrupts, "That we should be speaking of heirs this morn." The king's smile is thin and wicked.

Daenerys stews in her disquiet at the edge of the desk, watching. Her fingers press white imprints into the pale flesh of her arms where they cross over her chest, like a shield. Or perhaps like a cage.

Jon thinks the distinction is rather lost on him these days.

He clears his throat, runs a reassuring thumb over Sansa's knuckles, though he cannot tell which of them he is trying to comfort more. "Please, Your Gace, there is still the traitor to consider. This... this changes nothing on that accord."

Rhaenys stumbles back a step, eyes drifting to the floor, clearly shaken. "This changes everything," she whispers brokenly.

It only makes him angrier. The vexation stains his throat, brings a growl to air. "Our babe is not the threat here."

"Enough," Aegon says tightly, jaw clenching. He's looking down at the desk before him, breathing deep. "Viserys will be summoned to King's Landing to account for his...dereliction." He looks back up, meets each of their eyes in turn. "I will hear no more talk of my heir. And that is final."

Daenerys' lips part, an aborted breath on her tongue.

"That is final," he presses, locking eyes with her. The flex of his jaw softens just the slightest when she glances away, eyes wet, nails digging half-moons into her arms.

Rhaenys draws an unsteady breath in, clearing her throat. "And Stannis?"

Jon glances to her at the mention, feels something stir in his chest. Remorse, perhaps. Or helplessness.

Always his sister, he finds.

Neither of them done right by, in the end.

She does not look at him.

Aegon sighs, shoulders loosening, and the look he gives their sister is startingly fond, tinged at the edges with a sadness like memory.

Not the sort he wants to keep.

"If he wants to keep his life, he'll talk."

Rhaenys' face screws into something ugly. Daenerys scoffs beside her.

"He should die for what he's done," Rhaenys grits out, trembling. "He must."

Aegon turns to her then, hand reaching for her cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "And he will. After he's spilled his secrets."

Rhaenys shakes her head, face bunching as though sick, stumbling back from Aegon's tender touch. "No, his life is mine. You cannot take that from me."

Aegon straightens slightly, hand falling back to his side. "You forget yourself, sister. I am king now, and my word is law."

"Aegon," she seethes, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes – wild and desperate.

"I'll not hear more," he says, turning away.

She lets out a disbelieving breath, head shaking again. "No, I can't - I can't sleep beneath this roof, I can't - not when he's alive. When he's here, alive, and – Aegon, please, no. I can't! Do not make me, please, brother. Kill him." Her voice cracks at the end, the rupture traveling all the way through her, sending her to violent shaking.

Aegon's eyes slip shut. "Leave me. All of you."

Rhaenys goes toward him, hands outreaching, but Daenerys grabs her back, hands at her cheeks, shushing her, pulling her gaze toward hers. "No, no," Rhaenys mutters brokenly, crumbling in Daenerys' arms, stumbling against her as Daenerys pulls them toward the door, a final, searing glance her husband's way, and Jon feels Sansa drifting toward the two women, face pained, words cracked and teetering at the edge of her lips, and he tugs her back by the hand, keeps her fist clenched in his larger one, swallows thickly as he shakes his head at her, even when his own pity for Rhaenys leaves him rattled.

"You will stay, Jon."

Jon glances up at Aegon's words, startled somewhat. Sansa stills beside him.

Aegon's eyes flit toward Sansa briefly, violet and sharp-hewn. "You may leave, Lady Sansa."

She offers a fumbling farewell, curtseying dutifully, hand slipping from Jon's as she backs away. "I'll wait outside, my lord," she says to him, a nod his way, lip caught between her teeth, and he sees the way her hand slips toward her stomach unconsciously. The door closes behind her before he can do more than croak in answer.

He is alone with his brother now. Or rather, he is alone with the king. It makes a fair difference now, he finds.

He looks up at him, meets his gaze.

Silence brews in the space between them. And then Aegon slips a hand toward the desk, tapping a finely-shorn nail along the table top. He cocks his head at him, a wan smile breaking over his lips. "What am I to do with you?"

The question lights something of unease in him. Jon shifts his weight from one leg to the other, mouth still clamped tight. Words fester and die in his throat, unheard. He swallows them back like bile.

In the end, he has no answer for him.

Aegon stops the delicate tapping of his nail, fingers curling into a fist, slow and measured. He braces his knuckles along the edge of the desk as he leans over it. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You did exactly what Father asked of you. Got a babe on your pretty little Northern wife."

Jon keeps is jaw clenched tight, standing stock-still on the other side of the desk.

Vaguely, he remembers the stone their father kept as a paperweight atop his desk – a stolen favor. He doesn't know why the thought should come to him now – only that it does. He swallows thickly, shaking the memory away.

Perhaps he does have an answer for his brother.

"You ask what to do with me?" he asks, chest heaving, just the once – a single, labored breath. "Send me away."

A finely arched brow is his only response.

Jon licks his lips, continuing. "Send us to Winterfell, away from the capital, away from any courtly influence. I know I will never truly be your heir. I've always known that, and I've never resented it. Naming me is just a means to punish Viserys, to remind him of his place, and I understand that, I do. So, have your justice. Call Viserys to King's Landing and hold him accountable. Drag whatever names you need to from Stannis. And then let us go," he pleads, voice cracking at the end, and he swallows it back, tries to rein in his breath, this thundering need in his chest, this rattle of desperation coiling tight in his lungs.

Just let us go.

Aegon stares at him quietly, a tick in his jaw, head cocked. He takes a moment, lets him stew in his unease. And then he blinks, face slipping into seemingly boredom. "No," he says.

Jon lets out a disbelieving breath, a hand wiped over his mouth, shaking with it. "Your Grace."

"You would have me send you North, and take Ned Stark as my Hand?"

"Ned Stark is – "

"Do not tell me what Ned Stark is," he seethes suddenly, face darkening. "I know very well what Ned Stark is." Aegon's lip curls, something angry and bitter branching out over his features. "He's a safety net for you. A way to placate my need for allegiance without costing you your freedom."

"What freedom, Your Grace?" Jon demands derisively, reckless in his urgency.

Aegon shakes his head. "I will not have it."

Jon leans over the other side of the desk, hands placed along the wood top, staring his brother down. "What are you so afraid of?"

A flicker of resentment lights Aegon's features, and it almost startles Jon with its sincerity, brief as it is.

There, and then gone.

Aegon's lip curls familiarly. "You can ask me that, after everything? After what has happened?"

Jon shakes his head, throat bobbing. "Aegon, talk to me."

"I will not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces," he snarls.

Jon presses closer, eyes imploring on him. "And I will not be the usurper Daenerys paints me as."

"She has reason to be wary, especially now."

"So send me away!" he snaps, acutely anxious, desperate now, teeth clenching at the words.

"With a babe on the way? With the only viable Targaryen bloodline in your wife's belly?" Aegon scoffs. "Come now, Jon, you can't be that simple."

It hurts. It hurts more than he ever thought it would. Jon rears back slightly, face pinched tight. "Is that what I am then? Am I a hostage now? In my own home?"

"You are a member of this House," Aegon says lowly, frown harshening. "And you belong in King's Landing."

Jon's sees red. Instant. Blaring. It overtakes him – rancid and biting. His lungs are full of it. He pushes from his lean over the desk, scoffing, stalking away to the far wall. "Oh, how convenient," he snarls. "To be part of the family – only now. Only now when it suits your purpose. When it is palatable."

"I am your king," Aegon bites out.

"And I am your brother!" Jon yells, stalking back to the desk, shaking with his fury. "Your brother, gods dammit, Aegon, I am your brother!"

"Aye, my brother!" he bellows, fist coming down hard on the desk, a snap of air chasing the motion, like a screech bent in half, a split-open wound. His eyes are wild. Violet-cut. "And I'm supposed to trust you, am I?" he shouts, teeth gnashing. "I'm supposed to take your loyalty at its word when it's already proven so fickle? When you abandoned your king – our father – once before already? Am I to expect the same? Tell me, Jon, is that what your loyalty is worth? Just a passing whim?" he demands, his booming voice filling the room, clattering into every corner, rattling the dust from the eaves.

Jon stares at him, chest heaving. He smacks his lips, the words tart along his tongue, aching for air. "I have never wished harm upon this family," he grinds out, voice catching. "Even when it wished harm upon me." His eyes prick at the corners, salt-tinged and hot. A smarting wetness. His jaw quakes with the effort to keep it at bay.

A stolen stone. Just a stupid, fucking stone. Not even worth the memory it takes to weigh him down.

As passing as a bruise.

(Except bones always remember, even when blood does not.)

A stolen stone, yes. And a loose horse in the night. A crushed petal beneath a boot. Years upon years upon years of it. Over and over. Until his skin is branded with it. Until it slips beneath his tongue like habit.

A shadow he can never shake.

You are not the kind of bastard they've always told you you were.

Jon holds tight to the memory of her words, even when everything else is fleeting.

(Because bruises are just shadows, in the end, and still, they pass.)

He holds tight.

Aegon straightens from his lean over the desk, fist slipping from the wood. An eerie quiet overtakes him then, an unearthly stillness. "Do you know what Father called you in the end there? When he was spluttering blood and breathing his last?"

Jon's rage quiets instantly, the breath raking from him. He cannot take his gaze from him.

Aegon works his jaw, brow furrowed. "Not 'son', not 'Jon', not even 'bastard'."

Jon's mouth parts, a coil of unease tightening in his gut.

"He called you 'traitor'," Aegon tells him.

Jon looks away, a hand wiping over his mouth. He tamps down the quake in him needfully. He looks back to his brother. "What are you trying to say?" he asks stiffly, never minding the rattle in his chest – the ache.

He wonders if he will ever stop looking for love in places it has never grown. His own foolishness, perhaps.

"'He's betrayed me', he said. As he was lying there bleeding, hand at the hole in his chest, the guards in chaos around him, and even when I screamed for him, when I dropped to my knees to hold him, to hold him, it was all he could say. All he could mutter between clenched teeth, his eyes never seeing me. 'He's betrayed me'. And even when enraged he was – he was crying, Jon, did you know that?" Aegon lets out a worn breath, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. When they open, they are wet, just the slightest. Just enough to catch a flicker of light from the far window, the sun seeping into the room like a reminder – irreverent.

Jon shakes his head, chest heaving. A croak leaves him, the words stalled along his tongue.

Aegon's hands wind behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. "And yet you want me to send you away, when I have every reason to try you for treason. When that's exactly what Father would have done, what he would have demanded, had he lived."

"Don't pretend you're doing any of this for me, to protect me," Jon grinds out, bitter suddenly. Bitter and shaken and holding himself together with the sharpness of resentment, with the vehemence of indignation. "Don't pretend I've ever been anything more than a tool to this family."

Aegon swallows thickly, voice hollow when he tells him, "We all have our roles to play." And it sounds so anguished, so unexpectedly regretful, that for a moment, Jon wonders if Aegon believes it – if he will always be this scared and this reluctant to break the mold.

Because he is, Jon realizes. His brother is terrified, he finds suddenly, startlingly.

Of kinghood. Of mortality. Of loneliness. Maybe of all of it.

Jon's throat goes dry, fists clenching at his sides.

And perhaps he would feel sorrow for his brother, for the unbearable pressure he must feel, for this great responsibility leveled on him before his time – perhaps he would ache for him, if he wasn't already so utterly resentful of him, if he wasn't so sick and tired of hiding his own agony behind clenched teeth.

Because Jon has learned well enough by now that understanding is not the same as condoning – that he can still be wronged by that which he pities.

And that he deserves better.

Jon sighs, the exhaustion rushing over him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his voice impossibly tender. "Aegon - "

A sudden banging on the door interrupts him. "Your Grace, Your Grace!" a voice calls.

Both men look to the door instantly, Aegon's command to enter sounding loudly through the room, and a guard bursts in without another second, panting, eyes wide. "Your Grace, it's Stannis Baratheon!"

Jon turns fully to the man, shoulders bunching in alarm. Distantly, he registers Sansa glancing into the room from her place in the hall outside, concern etched across her face.

Aegon narrows his eyes at the guard. "What is it?"

The man gulps. "He's... he's dead, Your Grace."

Jon blinks at the news, lips parting. "What?" It's a searing whisper that leaves him.

Aegon steps from around the desk, hands slipping from behind him and a dangerous glint to his eye. "What in the seven hells happened?" he seethes out, teeth nearly bared.

The poor guard blanches at the tone, mouth trembling. "Your sister, Your Grace, she...the Princess Rhaenys, she..."

Aegon rushes from the room without further word, a curse beneath his breath, and Jon follows instantly, reaching for Sansa's hand as he strides away, and she grasps it instinctively, eyes wide, questions at the tip of her tongue. They make their way through the halls quickly, down to the dungeons. Jon's heart is hammering, his lungs tight. He thinks of Rhaenys' desperate pleas just earlier. He thinks of her fallen face when Aegon hadn't granted Stannis' death that very moment. He thinks of his sister's shuddering form as Daenerys dragged her from the room.

But no, she wouldn't... To kill him would be...

Jon and Aegon stop short at the entrance to Stannis's cell, Sansa's gasp echoing about the stone walls when she pulls her hands to her mouth and stumbles to a halt just behind them.

Stannis is exactly where they left him, arms chained to the wall, back slumped against the stone, head fallen to his collar bone, only now his chest is cut to ribbons, his soiled cotton tunic drenched in blood, so that Jon cannot be sure where flesh ends and fabric begins, a tangled, bloody mess spilling out of his chest cavity, and the entire chamber is filled with a pungency, a sharp, copper-tang that lights the tongue – lessened only somewhat by the acrid scent of wet stone.

Jon rears back, a hand at his mouth. Distantly, he recognizes the light-footed steps of Daenerys coming down the stairwell toward them, racing, frantic.

"What happened? What happened? What – " Daenerys stills at his elbow, nearly jerking back when her eyes land upon the scene, chest heaving with her exertion.

Jon shakes his head, glancing to the side wall where the shadows fall heavy over Rhaenys' form. She sits on the dungeon floor with her back at the wall, bloodied up to the wrists, dagger held tightly and unflinchingly in the palm of one hand, the other curled into a loose fist in her lap, the purple silk of her skirts splattered with intermittent crimson – crumpled and stained. She stares vacantly at the opposite wall, mouth parted as though on a sigh, fingers flexing over the dagger hilt in her palm.

Jon's chest constricts at the sight.

He's only ever seen such a look on her face once before – when they pulled her near-comatose form from her half-dead horse all those years ago, Ser Arthur toppling to the ground behind her in a crumple of flesh and arrows.

"Rhaenys," he whispers brokenly, face pained as he looks upon her.

Her brow flickers at the name, but nothing more.

Sansa is at his side instantly, a hand at his wrist, touch trembling, her heavy, saddened 'oh gods' sounding at his shoulder.

Jon takes a steadying breath in, tries to block out the red. He takes a step closer. "Rhaenys," he tries again, voice wavering, hands trembling.

Stannis's body slides just a fraction, corpse dragging down the stone wall, and then his weight is caught abruptly by his chained arms, his elbows snapping taut at a sickening angle.

Rhaenys barely registers it, breath evening out, eyes unmoving on the far wall.

"What... happened?" Aegon demands, jaw clenching tight over the words.

The guard at the base of the stairs behind them shifts uncomfortably. "She asked to speak to the prisoner privately, Your Grace, and we... we stepped outside for only a moment – only a moment! And then he was screaming, and we rushed back inside, and she was crouched over his form, stabbing and stabbing and silent as the grave as she did so, Your Grace. Not a word uttered since, just..." He blows a breath from his lips. "Just sat there along the wall and waited for you all to come. Wouldn't let us take the dagger – not that we were too keen on trying, Your Grace, if you understand." He seems to shudder at the words. "Stabbed him seventeen times, you see. Couldn't get her off him 'til she stopped suddenly on her own, mouth clamped up tight, not a word, and he wouldn't have lasted 'til a Maester, see, barely got another breath in before he was gulping like a fish, moaning something or other, and then he was gone, Your Grace. Wasn't no helping it. And the Princess Rhaenys, she..." He stops suddenly, a weighted sigh leaving him. "She sat herself right on down along the floor like she was waiting for you."

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth in sudden realization.

Seventeen.

Seventeen arrows sunk into Ser Arthur Dayne's body.

He looks back to Rhaenys, to the dagger held needfully in her bloody hand, the wet glint of it eerie in the torchlight.

She's so utterly still and quiet, and he wants to shake her suddenly – bring back that biting, righteous anger of hers. Even her cruel digs. Even that. Something. Anything but this silence – this ruination.

He can't watch her break a second time.

Daenerys sighs beside him. "There's no questioning him now. We'll get no answers from a corpse."

Jon glances to her out of the corner of his eye, watches the tight flex of her jaw, the tip of her thumb pressed anxiously between her pursed lips. "Is that truly your concern right now? Rhaenys just killed a man."

"She's killed a traitor. A threat to our reign," Daenerys corrects, eyes slanting his way, and they're startlingly akin to his father's eyes in that moment, in the flicker of torchlight that illuminates her face – just briefly, just the span of a breath – like a memory you can't seem to shake. "I'd say she's done us a favor, except, perhaps, a little too hastily."

Jon huffs, brow furrowing. "She's clearly distraught by the experience. We need to get her to the maester," he growls out.

It's ridiculous, all of them standing around talking about it, talking about her. And she's just sitting there, there on the floor, without anyone even bothering to comfort her, and gods, he doesn't think she can survive another break, and he wants to hold her, he does. Wants to pull her into his arms and tell her it's going to be okay (even if it's not). Wants to pull the blade from her grip and clean the blood from her hands. Wants to look her in the eye and hold her face and let her cry and gods, even after everything, he just wants – he just wants to be a brother.

He just wants 'brother' to mean something again.

But he's too afraid to touch her. Too afraid to open that door again.

And he won't. He won't ever open that door again.

But she just looks so lost, and so sad, and so alone. And he doesn't know how to fix that anymore. Doesn't think he ever knew. Doesn't think even she ever knew. Just grasping at a shroud, really, just careening around each other – him and her and Aegon and Daenerys and even Rhaegar. All of them. Just blindly groping in the dark, missing each other by miles, flailing – falling.

Never learning how to fix what they never knew had been broken.

It breaks his heart, watching his sister. Breaks it beyond any repair he thinks could be possible.

He looks down to her bloodied hands.

(There is no going back from that. He knows this intimately.)

And throughout all of this, he is acutely aware of Sansa's presence at his side – the woman he wronged. The woman most justified to demand distance from his sister. She says nothing. Takes it all in. Breathes quietly at his shoulder.

And yes, the other – equally imperative – part of him is unable to reach out to Rhaenys for her sake. Because he will not submit his wife to any further disgrace, any disregard, any hurt. He will not betray his promise to her.

You, only.

And he means it. All the way down to his bones – he means it.

But he doesn't know how to reconcile these two halves of his heart. A yearning to protect. And a yearning to honor. To do right by those he loves. Always. To keep his promises.

Jon flicks his gaze from his sister, unable to look upon her any longer, his throat flexing with his unease.

Aegon looks at his wife, a softness flickering over his features minutely, even as his eyes narrow. "I thought you took her to her rooms," he says, not unkindly.

Daenerys glances up at him, gaze tearing away from Rhaenys. "I did. But she said she wanted to be alone. I thought some rest would do her good. I thought..." She shakes her head, frown deepening. "I guess I never thought she would... " She swallows back the words, voice thick.

Aegon sighs, a hand wiping over his mouth. He crouches down in front of their sister, watches her for an indefinable amount of time, brows pinching together, eyes wetting briefly, before he blinks it away. He clears his throat, takes a breath. "I don't want them to see her this way," he says softly, voice cracking at the end. His eyes flutter shut.

Sansa's hand curls around Jon's wrist, aching and tender. He can hear the shudder in her breath from this close.

Aegon shakes his head, eyes opening once more. He moves to stand. "I want any guards who were present at the attack brought to my solar immediately. And get me a cloak, something to cover her with."

The guard behind them voices his acknowledgement of the command, scurrying out of the dungeons quickly.

Jon watches the man go with knowing eyes.

Sansa shifts beside him. "What are you going to do, Your Grace?" she asks softly.

Jon turns to her, voice caught in his throat, but she's staring at his brother, a tremble lighting her as she holds tight to his wrist.

Aegon slips his gaze to her. "I will do whatever is needed to protect my sister's honor," he says decidedly. He glances to Jon, the two of them meeting eyes, and all at once, it is seven years ago again – when their father had called Rhaenys' rescuers to his solar and had his Kingsguard strike them all down, ensuring their silence.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. His chest feels tight, the words lodged there.

It's not a memory he likes to hold onto.

Aegon looks down upon Rhaenys. "You're a Targaryen now, Lady Sansa. I'm sure you can infer my meaning."

Sansa quiets beside him, watching the scene with keen eyes.

"And Rhaenys?" Jon croaks out.

Aegon sighs, frowning, eyes still on Rhaenys.

Daenerys takes a tentative step toward him, a hand at his elbow. "Your Grace..."

He glances to Daenerys at her closeness, jaw tightening as he nods. "I know. She disobeyed a royal command."

"Your Grace," Jon urges, voice tight.

"But she is my sister, Daenerys," Aegon says, and Jon stops at that, blinking dumbly at him.

Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing, and he is infinite years older suddenly. Wizened. Worn. Even the bruise beneath his eye seems ancient suddenly. Years upon years upon years settled into the lines of his skin.

Daenerys drops her hand from his elbow.

"She is my sister," he whispers brokenly, hand branching over his face, holding it there, releasing a tremulous breath into his palm. He shakes his head, teeth grinding. "You foolish, foolish girl," he croaks out.

All at once, Jon remembers the way Aegon had looked when they pulled Rhaenys from her horse seven years ago. The way his hands (bloodied and calloused – even as a lad, even as a boy too young to have taken life for the first time) gentled over her form when they dragged her down between them. The way he'd settled her to lean against him, nestling her weight into his side. The way he hushed her, a hand smoothing down her hair, the other at her shoulder, holding her to him. How he shook when he breathed her name.

And he remembers how they linked hands, steady and dry-eyed, at Queen Elia's funeral. He remembers how Aegon gifted her a rose after his first tourney, still armored and sweat-lined – silver and gallant. He remembers how Rhaenys sat with him when Daenerys lost their first child, how he came upon them in the gardens to find Aegon's head in the crook of her neck, arms wound tight around her waist, crying into her shoulder as she hummed a lullaby their mother used to sing to them at night.

She is my sister, Aegon had said.

Jon forgets this sometimes. Forgets it too easily, really. But perhaps that is to be expected as a bastard – only ever half-welcomed. Half-needed. Half-loved.

And he doesn't mean to grow this resentment, he really doesn't. But he realizes now that he will never be the sort of brother he'd always hoped they'd see him as.

Even when he wishes to be.

"Oh Rhaenys," Aegon breathes, voice caught in his throat, his hand sliding down his face to watch his sister once more.

She seems to recognize the name, mouth parting at the address. She brings the dagger into her lap, her other hand winding around it delicately – cradling it. Her jaw quakes, and she closes her mouth. Opens it again. Tries for words. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes suddenly as she stares at the far wall. "Father wouldn't give me justice," she whispers, licking her lips. She glances up, eyes drifting just over their shoulders, never really focusing on them. And then her face crumples, the tears gathering quickly. "So, I took my own," she says, shaking with it.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep. He tries to wash this ache from him. Never succeeds.

"My brother," she mumbles, shifting in her seat, glancing around suddenly. "Where is my brother? I want my brother."

Jon's eyes snap open, his chest constricting, and he is half a second away from stepping back, disengaging entirely from the scene, even as his hands bunch into fists at his side, his own tears dotting the corners of his eyes, when Sansa's hand slips down his wrist to wind around his hand.

He snaps his gaze to her, but she's looking down at Rhaenys, tear tracks already lining her cheeks, mouth trembling. She gulps thickly, lashes fluttering with her tears. She gives his hand one final squeeze, before her touch retreats entirely. "Help her," she gets out unevenly, chest heaving with it, eyes never leaving the scene before her.

Jon barely manages not to stagger back. Because he doesn't think he'll ever be able to rightly fathom what it takes for her to say such words, to encourage him, to urge him in comforting the woman who caused so much heartache, who sought to strike a rift sharply between them.

"Sansa," he says, voice rough, eyes flicking over her face.

She only nods. Quickly. Short and static – sniffing back her tears. "Help her," she says again, more a plea than anything now, and he can barely manage to tear his gaze from her face when Rhaenys's frantic muttering cuts him off.

"Aegon," she calls out, the dagger slipping from her grip instantly, clattering to the stone floor. She reaches up, unseeing. "My brother. Where are you? Where's my brother?"

Jon stills, halting himself mid-step. He blinks at his pleading sister.

Her eyes darken as she blinks, focusing, eyes flitting about the room until they land on Aegon beside her. She reaches toward him, crying anew. "Aegon, help me." She tries getting to her feet but she's unsteady, falling into him. Aegon is already reaching for her though, hands winding around her back, hefting her up as she grips at him, face buried in his chest, and then he's dipping down, hooking an arm beneath her knees to lift her up.

"I'm here," he breathes into the crown of her head, her dark hair matted with sweat to her temples.

She winds her arms more surely around his neck, eyes slipping closed on a ragged sigh. "Please help me, brother. I just... I want to sleep."

Aegon adjusts her weight in his arms, grunting with the effort, jaw flexing. "I know," he says. "I know, Rhaenys."

Jon barely manages to step back in time when Aegon starts for the door, brushing past him with barely a glance his way, eyes fixed ahead instead. He makes it to the entrance of the hall of cells when the returning guard comes bounding down with a cloak, and Aegon directs him to spread the cloak over her, adjusting his grip to gather her bundled form more firmly in his arms, and then he's winding back up the stairs without a backward glance to any of them.

* * *

"How are you?"

Sansa laughs. But it's a teary laugh, catching in her throat at the end, a hand to her mouth to smother the break. She shakes her head at Theon's question, and he looks contrite at the motion.

"Suppose that was a stupid question," he mumbles, glancing away.

She laughs again, only this time – genuine.

He flits his gaze back to hers, hopeful, a hint of that mischievous smirk at the corners of his lips.

Sansa sighs, wipes at her eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it to air. "It's not a stupid question. I just... don't really know how to answer it right now." She goes for honesty, because her head is too full of everything else and she only wants to breathe. Her hands drop back down to her lap as they sit beside each other on one of the innumerable benches lining the many sunlit hallways of the keep. Just down the corridor is the door to Maester Gregoir's, where Bran still lays bandaged and drowsy from doses of milk of the poppy. Sansa glances toward the far door where her brother sleeps, her chest tightening.

Theon sighs beside her, leaning back on his hands along the stone bench. "Has the maester said anything? About..." He lets the words teeter off, closing his mouth around an aborted question.

She shakes her head. "He's made it through the night. He'll live, that we know. But whether Bran will ever regain the use of his leg..." She glances back to Theon, a sorrowful look to her eye. "I... I don't know."

He only nods, mouth a tight frown.

"Gods, he doesn't deserve this," she bites out, angry suddenly, hands curling into fists in her lap, her eyes drifting down to the motion. "He doesn't deserve this."

"Neither of you do."

She glances up at him then. "What do you mean?"

He meets her eye, a sigh leaving him. "You know, you may not tell me everything, and I get that." He scoffs, but it isn't harsh, only resigned. "I'm not your brother, after all. Never will be. And I'm certainly not your husband." He swallows thickly, meets her eye. "But I think I've known you long enough to know when you're scared."

Sansa stiffens, her knuckles going white in her lap.

He glances down to her hands, face softening. "You're scared, Sansa. Have been ever since I told you about the missive from Lord Stark. And now with the king – " He stops, scrubs a hand down his face. "Sansa, what's going on?"

She bites her lip, tries to keep from shaking. Her eyes are dry and unblinking when she tells him, "I'm with child."

He straightens from his lean instantly, glancing to her stomach, and then back to her face. "With child?"

She nods, a hand smoothing over her stomach.

Theon cocks his head, brows going high. "And Prince Jon, he knows? The Targaryens?"

She nods again, chest constricting at the memory of their earlier conversation. "Just this morning."

Theon lets out a breath between his teeth, head shaking. "Sansa, it isn't safe for you here."

"Don't you think I know that?" she hisses, fingers curling over the fabric at her belly. "But you're not stupid, Theon, as much as you sometimes pretend to be," she says.

He throws her a look at the familiar insult but she bowls over it with a waved hand as she continues. "You know Stannis could never have gotten this far into the keep without an accomplice, and you know that Aegon – who, may I remind you, is king now – would never let us leave King's Landing until the traitor is brought to light."

Theon scoffs, head thrown back, "Sansa, you can't stay here, you – "

"And you know," she grinds out, ignoring him, "that to hide this babe would only give our enemies more evidence to frame us as usurpers, especially if we attempt to leave the capital following such an attack."

Theon curls his lip at the remark, unable to deny its truth. "'Our enemies'," he repeats roughly. "And who is that, hmm? The Lannisters? The Targaryens? Someone else entirely? Who, Sansa?"

"I don't know!"

"Then you have to get out!"

"Don't you see?" she hisses, eyes flitting between his desperately, her hands moving to grip at her skirts, an anchor, something to steady the quake of fear rattling through her. "There is no 'out'," she scoffs. "Not of this family. Not of this life." She quiets, fierce and still. "There never was."

Theon stares at her hard, jaw grinding. He shifts to face her more fully, taking a deep breath. "Sansa, you just have to get Stannis to talk. You just have to – "

"Stannis is dead." It's a cold, even whisper that leaves her.

Theon's head rears back, eyes narrowing. "But... but he was captured, I know he was. I was there."

She keeps his gaze, fingers tightening over her skirts.

"The traitor, did they kill him? To silence him?"

Her mouth parts, closes, parts again.

The walls – splashed in blood. Rhaenys' haunted eyes. The grotesque way Stannis' body hung by his chained arms, innards spilling to the floor.

Her stomach turns at the memory, her skin tingling, a tremor going through her.

(To know it was Rhaenys who could carve such ugliness.)

Sansa turns her head. "I don't... I don't think that it's."

Theon looks out across the hall, brows furrowed in confusion. "But then how..."

"Please don't ask me how," she whispers tightly.

It is not her sin to bear, nor hers to speak. And she thinks of all the things Rhaenys deserves from her, after what she'd done to her and Jon. She thinks of all these things, and yet, can only settle on silence.

So silence she keeps.

Theon glances back to her, notes the determined look in her eyes, the tight clasp of her hands in her skirts. He says nothing, and she is grateful for it.

She swallows back her trepidation, takes a deep breath. "Stannis is dead," she says, voice cracking. She clears her throat, tries again. "And with the king dead now also, no one is above suspicion."

Theon growls beside her, eyes shifting as he thinks, shoulders curling.

Sansa softens at the sight, her hands easing their fisting in her lap. "Theon, this information is dangerous to whoever has it, you understand? You cannot repeat what I've told you. Your life would be at risk."

"I know," he says, voice rough.

Sansa sighs, eyes closing momentarily. "And I'm afraid for Bran." She opens her eyes once more.

Theon cocks his head toward her. "I'm not leaving the capital any time soon, you know."

"Promise you'll protect him?"

"It's what I'm good at, didn't you know?" he says on the edge of a chuckle, reassurance seeping into his words.

She nods, swallowing tightly. The breath eases in her chest somewhat at the consolation.

Theon eyes her quietly a moment, before asking, "And you?"

She blinks up at him, words halted along her tongue. He's staring at her so determinedly, and she realizes, just then, exactly what her answer is. She softens at his look. "I'm not alone here anymore, you know," she says. And there's a measure of surety that hadn't ever been there before.

"I'd make the same choice, every time."

He'd come for her. Every time.

No, she's not alone. And she would never be alone again.

Theon flits his gaze between hers, still hard, still uncertain. She can see the clench of his teeth from the tick in his jaw.

She finds it in herself to smile – small and sure. "Jon will protect me."

She's never said it aloud, and maybe that's because she hadn't fully trusted it until now. But she remembers the way he'd put forth her father for Hand, and how he curled his palm reassuringly around her own, and how he'd held her earlier that morning, trembling and sweat-lined and bare before her – bare in ways they've never been with each other.

How he held her more precious than anyone ever has.

She notices, belatedly, the tears beading at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't bother to blink them back.

Theon's face softens at the sight of her, mouth parting slightly. He looks at her, and looks at her, and then finally looks away. His throat bobs, his hands curling over his knees when he sighs out, "You trust him, then?"

She nods. "I do."

"And you love him, then?" He looks back to her with the question.

"I do." Her answer is instant. Hardly a thought, rather – instinct.

Theon nods, never looking away. "Have you always?"

At this, she quiets. Because no, she hadn't always.

It's a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love. It has never been an easy love.

"No," she says, but it isn't with any sort of surrender. It isn't a confession of weakness or wrongness. It's just the truth.

And here's another truth:

It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again.

"I've never seen a man so scared in my life," Theon says suddenly, voice tight with remembrance.

Sansa furrows her brows at him, licking her lips. "What?"

"Jon. In the courtyard, with the attack. When he was screaming for you." He turns his stare to the wall, gripping his knees. "I've never seen a man so scared."

Sansa blinks back the memory, the scrape of air along her lungs when she'd laid eyes on him, watched him scramble toward her, her limbs heavy as they moved, as they carried her across the courtyard and into his arms, as she crumpled into him, shaking and beaten and wailing.

And she remembers, distantly, the image of Theon at her peripheral, bow still in hand.

Sansa winds her hands together in her lap. "Theon..."

Theon's gaze shifts back to hers, mouth a tight line. And then his lip quirks, just the slightest, just a hint. He rakes a hand through his hair, leans back along the stone bench. "I think maybe you're right."

She arches a brow in question, throat still too raw for words.

He throws a knowing look her way. "You know, the kind of man that can look like that – he's got something to protect alright." A roguish grin breaks across his face.

Sansa feels the lightness in her chest, the ease. She smiles back at him. "Thank you."

He nods, a gruff sort of acknowledgment sounding in his throat.

Her smile flickers, her hand going over his wrist then. "For everything, Theon. Thank you for everything."

His grin falters, eyes peering into hers.

She licks her lips, blinks back the wetness dotting her lids. "I know I wouldn't have made it without you – that Bran wouldn't have made it without you."

Theon sombers instantly, watching her.

Sansa pulls her hand back from his wrist, back straightening as she curls her hands into her lap once more. "I won't ever forget it," she promises fiercely, never looking away.

Theon purses his lips, a hoarse sort of laugh leaving him. "Yeah, well..." He stops, clears his throat, smiles once more – curled at the edges, wolfish – of a sort.

The image warms Sansa, her eyes wetting further.

He tuts at her, shoulders pulling back when he clears his throat once more. "Well, you'd better not. Because I plan on calling in a royal favor or two in the future, you know."

Sansa nods conspiratorially, a teary smile etching across her lips. "Of course."

Theon sighs then, eyes going to the ceiling, a hand wiping over his mouth. "Gods, this fucking place. Never thought I'd miss the asscrack of fucking nowhere that is the North."

Sansa braces a hand to her mouth as she barks a laugh, attempting to stifle it, and failing miserably. "Not enough snow for you, Greyjoy?" she taunts. "You've turned into a right Northerner, have you?"

He preens at the tease. "Near enough."

Before she can say more, Maester Gregoir opens the door down the hall, catching sight of the two of them along the bench.

Sansa stands instantly and makes her way toward him to greet him.

The greying man nods deferentially, a wan smile gracing his face. "Your brother's asking for you, my lady."

Sansa takes a breath, steadies herself. "Thank you, Maester." She turns to Theon but he's already bowing his farewell.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "Pretty sure Ser Rodrick is already crying for my return anyway," he laughs, head nodded toward the guest quarters.

Sansa offers an appreciative smile, curtseying delicately before striding through the door and making her way over to Bran's cot. She takes his hand, settling in a seat at his side, heart keening at the slight moan that leaves him.

Distantly, she takes note of Rhaenys' curled form along the other cot across the room, the princess' back to her, slumbering softly. Sansa swallows thickly, turning her attention back to her brother. She wipes a hand along his brow, relieved when she notices he's since sweated out his fever. "Bran," she greets gently.

His eyes flutter open to meet hers, a heavy breath raking through his lungs. "Sansa."

She nearly crumples at the sound of his voice, her words catching in her throat, her lip trembling. "I'm here," she says.

He blinks up at her, eyes focusing and re-focusing. "You're here?"

"I'm here. I'm okay, Bran," she assures him.

"I thought..." He smacks his chapped lips, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "I thought you'd left."

She catches the break in her voice before it can make it to air. "Never."

Bran nods, the tension easing from his features. "That's right," he mumbles. "You would not leave me." He licks his lips, tries to form the words. A half-laugh breaks from him. "Stubborn as Arya, you were."

Sansa chuckles in response, watery and exhausted. She squeezes his hand in hers. "Though perhaps not half as skilled."

Bran groans something unintelligible, shifting along the cot. Sansa reaches for his shoulders, trying to ease him as he settles. "Why did you come for me?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.

Sansa blinks at him, a disbelieving breath leaving her. "Why did I come for you?"

His eyes search for hers, try to focus in his drowsiness, this state of half-wakefulness, half-dream. She wonders if he will remember this conversation, if he even knows what it is he's saying.

Bran nods, head turning to look at her more fully.

Her throat goes dry, her words sticking along her tongue. She glances down, moving to tuck his hand back beneath the blankets. "You're tired. And you haven't all your wits about you with that medicine in you. Rest."

But Bran doesn't let her pull her hand away, gripping it fiercely.

She stills at his bedside. He's staring at her, those familiar Tully eyes harsh in the candlelight – familiar in a way she doesn't particularly want to admit to.

In the way a mirror is familiar.

"Why did you come?" he asks again, his voice gravelly from sleep. "When you could have died?"

It's not something she thinks she'll ever forget – the stark, branding fear that had lanced through her when that man had gripped her by the hair and hauled her back, torn her from her clawing brother, sent her spinning with a ruthless slap along her cheek. She doesn't think she'll ever forget the wails, or the smoke, or the tightness of her own lungs in her chest as she ran and ran and ran and screamed. The fear. The godsdamned fear. The way it stained her to the root.

The way it stains her still.

(She only finds sleep in Jon's arms.)

No. She can never forget that. Not that.

Sansa opens her mouth but only a croak leaves her. She clamps her jaw shut, tries to smother that tremor that lights beneath her skin.

Why did she? When death had almost certainly awaited her?

Bran turns his head, a pain-touched moan easing from his lips, eyes slipping shut on a delirious sigh. "So stupid," he mumbles out.

Sansa stills at his words, brows furrowed sharply. "Bran, you're my pack, my – "

"Pack, pack, always 'pack'," he sneers in his drug haze, his free hand reaching up to his head. "So stupid, Sansa," he moans.

She rears back, a sharp pain in her chest, hand still gripping at his. She shakes her head, unable to find the words. "Bran, I don't..."

"Always the 'pack'," he grinds out, head turning back to face her, eyes alarmingly clear, even as he shakes from the effort, beneath both the pain and the drug. "Always the pack with you, like – like you aren't part of it yourself." His head falls back to the pillow, drowsy once more. "Like you aren't part of it yourself," he mutters groggily.

Like you aren't part of it.

Sansa sits back in her seat, hand slipping from her brother's.

"Jon will protect me."

Maybe she hadn't ever fully trusted it before because it wasn't something she thought she could ask for, or have, or demand. Maybe she'd gotten too used to living for others, even when those others were ones she loved dearly. Maybe she'd always seen the pack as something outside of herself.

And has it always been this way? Has she always been so dismissive of herself? Her own needs, her own wants?

Did she lose herself when she went looking for something more?

"Tell me what you need."

She'd never heard those words before until Jon spoke them – never even knew she needed them.

Sansa's mouth opens, a shallow breath breaking over her parted lips. She slumps with the revelation, a watery laugh caught in her throat.

(To be important to someone. To be important to herself.)

She sucks a shaky breath in, eyes tearing.

(To know that 'pack' does not mean others before self, but the whole before self. A whole that she is a part of. That she deserves to be a part of.)

Sansa curls both hands around Bran's now as he turns in his drugged state, trying to find a comfortable position to return to sleep.

"So stupid," he mutters again, eyes already drifting shut, and Sansa laughs at the words, blinking at the hot tears lining her lids. She squeezes his hand beneath her own, wants to remember this warmth always. She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, tugging the blanket up his chest with one hand. "Rest, Bran," she manages roughly, the weight of tears behind her words.

But it's a comforting weight. A freeing weight. Because it bespeaks a grief that is hers, and a fear that is hers, and a joy that is hers. It bespeaks a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love.

(Because loving yourself is sometimes the hardest thing in this world.)

"Everything's so heavy," Bran says on a sigh, gripping at the sheet pulled up to his chest.

Sansa smooths his hair down, smiling at his sleep-touched face. "Rest," she says again, a gentle hum following the words, the faint start of a song.

She warms instantly at the smile that tugs at his lips when he hears the note.

And so, she settles further in her seat. And so, she sings her brother to sleep. And so, it begins – her watch to keep.

* * *

Sansa wakes some hours later, sitting up from where she had fallen asleep with her head over her arms, braced along the edge of Bran's bed. He's sleeping sounding before her, and she brushes the hair from his forehead, blinking in the late afternoon light. She glances up and finds Rhaenys sitting along the edge of her cot, watching them.

Sansa straightens, her hand retreating.

It's not a conscious stare, she thinks, the woman's eyes slightly unfocused, just a touch off kilter, as though her gaze had caught along her shoulder and not her face. As though she wasn't really seeing them.

Pulling her lip between her teeth, Sansa brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and blinks away the sleep, standing slowly. She watches as Rhaenys seems to register the motion, her gaze shifting up to meet Sansa's. Like seeing her for the first time.

Rhaenys' mouth opens, and then closes. She blinks, curls her hands over the edge of the cot. Looks away.

There is no conversation in this world that Sansa particularly wants to have with this woman right now. And yet, something tugs at her insides, sets her feet to motion. She steps around the cot, glides through slants of dimming light from the thin windows. She can hear Maester Gregoir's scribbling at his desk in the next room over, the door between them still ajar. It's unbearably quiet otherwise, and Sansa has to steady herself, smooth her hands down her skirts, keep her face an impassive mask. She stops just before Rhaenys, a bit off to the side.

Rhaenys looks to her hands gripping the edge of the cot, seems to catch sight of the blood caked nearly to her elbows, and she releases the cot instantly, stilling a moment, before bunching her hands together in her lap, fingers curling over her knuckles with an acute awareness that belies her quiet, untethered state.

Sansa glances to the water bowl along the table at the edge of the cot, catches sight of the clean cloth hanging over the edge. She reaches for it, twists the excess water out. "Here," she says, handing it to the princess. The word is a jagged cut of air. She clamps her mouth tightly closed after its release, hardly knowing why the tremor is there at all.

Rhaenys looks at it out of the corner of her eye, jaw tightening. Her hands bunch tighter, and she looks away.

Sansa stands with her hand outstretched for only a while longer, nodding quietly to herself when she finally sets the wet cloth back to the bowl. She opens her mouth once more, finds no words to muster, lets her gaze fall to the floor.

She closes her eyes, trying to push back the memory of that morning's discovery. She doesn't know which sight was worse: Stannis or Rhaenys.

In the end, she thinks it matters little.

Rhaenys shifts along the cot, the noise catching Sansa's ears so that she opens her eyes once more, and finds Rhaenys reaching for the towel herself now, taking it to her stained hands with jerky, half-coherent motions.

Sansa only watches her a moment, before she's overcome with an inscrutable discomfort, as though she were intruding on something intimate. Her eyes flit away, a delicate sigh escaping her. "I'll leave you, my lady." And then she gathers her skirts to go.

It's the king's funeral tomorrow, after all. And it will be a long day of ceremony. Rest, she'd told Bran. But she needs rest herself.

And she needs Jon, she finds.

"You know what he took from me," Rhaenys says suddenly behind her. Sansa stops at the words, at the evenness with which she says them. She turns to glance back at her over her shoulder.

Rhaenys is watching the steady motion of her hands as she wipes the towel over her palms, scrubs slowly and surely at the blood caked there.

Sansa stares at her, suddenly breathless.

"You know what fear his presence here stirred in me," she says, almost like an accusation, her jaw tightening over the words, brows furrowing sharply.

Sansa realizes then that she's speaking of their conversation just before the attack – how Rhaenys had gripped at her, begged for her not to leave, clung to her like a lifeline.

And she imagines the woman hates that Sansa was the one to see her like that. That Sansa was the one she clung to, revealed herself to, was weak before.

But Sansa can only nod, her words kept carefully behind the cage of her teeth.

She does not blame Rhaenys for her terror. Truly, she doesn't. She blames her for a great many other things, of course. But never for that.

(She remembers what fear feels like behind the crack of white knuckles. And she can never imagine a barrage of them. She knows this, admits it.

But her pity can only take her so far.)

"I couldn't go back to that," Rhaenys whispers tightly, fingers clenching over the cloth in her hand. She stills her cleaning, finally glancing up to Sansa. Her dark gaze is steady as stone. Not a flicker of smoke. A dead thing, wrapped in soiled silks. "I won't... go back to that," she says lowly.

A quiver makes its way down Sansa's spine, sharp in its coldness. She cannot take her eyes from the woman.

Rhaenys sets the towel back into the water bowl with a grace that almost mocks the muddied state of her hands, her skirts. She rinses the cloth, wrings it out, watches the water run pink. She takes the cloth back into her lap, gliding it up her bloodied wrist. "I waited, you know. Waited for him to come to me."

Sansa blinks at her words, confusion flitting across her face, before Rhaenys looks up, meets her eyes once more.

She understands then, without knowing how.

"I waited for Jon to save me," she says. The cloth swipes gently around her narrow wrist.

Sansa's shoulders bunch, a wariness lodging tight in her chest, face hardening.

"But he was too busy saving you," she continues, fingers splayed out as she dips the cloth between them. Her eyes flick toward Sansa's stomach, settling there. "You and that babe of yours." It's almost a sneer. Almost, but not quite. There is still too much quiet beneath the words, still too much stoicism keeping her rooted and blank.

But Sansa curves her palm across her belly instinctively, a jolt of protectiveness moving within her, flaring hot – instant and irrepressible. She feels the silk bunch beneath her fingers, tries to moor her heart to the sensation, to anchor there. "Whatever his choices, Jon has no regrets," she grinds out, the pity drowned out of her tone. Only caution remains. Only the slow circling of a wolf on watch. "Can you say the same?"

Rhaenys stills her slow wiping, sighing as she settles the bloodied rag in her lap. She looks down to it, jaw working. She blinks fiercely – like trying to clear the shroud away. Trying to see through the marring of her own skin. "I will," she says. She looks back up then.

(It's a face Sansa will remember for years and years.)

Rhaenys tips her head, the shadow of a smile curling at the edges of her lips. "I will," she says again, and Sansa cannot be certain whether it is a promise or a threat that colors her words.

She wonders if there's even a difference with this family.

Taking a single step back, she grips more firmly at her belly, never releasing her stare, never turning her back on the dragon before her. Her teeth grind – a war of pity and rage and rancid, fleeting greed coiling tight in her gut. "Rhaenys...," she begins warningly, not knowing where her censure will lead her.

And then Rhaenys laughs – nothing bright or boisterous. Only surprised. Enlightened, almost. Softening out in a disbelieving breath, a shake of her head. "She was right," Rhaenys says with one last, vehement swipe along her bloodied wrist, eyes never leaving Sansa. "To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."

Sansa tastes bile at the back of her tongue, that coil in her gut bunching high in her throat now, a flash of red, and then a sudden, obtrusive halt. She rears back at the words, mind whirling.

Her hand slips from her stomach. "Rhaenys, what...?"

The door pulls open behind her, and she turns abruptly, words caught in her throat. She settles somewhat at the sight of Jon. He offers her a reassuring smile as he moves toward her. Behind him, Daenerys steps through the threshold, eyes landing on Rhaenys. She carries an orange silk gown in her arms.

Jon reaches her with a hand at her elbow, his eyes flitting over to her brother's cot. "Bran?" he asks in concern.

"Sleeping," she answers, a hand going to his at her elbow. She watches as Daenerys makes her way quietly over to Rhaenys, setting the gown on the table beside the bed. Sansa clears her throat, gaze still watchful over the two women. Distantly, she notices Jon's uneasiness beside her, how he leans toward her like comfort, his own gaze hesitant upon his aunt and sister.

"I am well, too, brother," Rhaenys says a little too sharply, dropping the soiled cloth into the bowl at her side. "If you were at all concerned."

Sansa knows how the words pain Jon, without even needing to see his face. She feels his hand curl more tightly over her elbow, hears the breath raking from him.

"Rhaenys..." he begins, and not knowing how to finish, it seems.

But Rhaenys looks to Daenerys then, wiping at her eyes, dragging a rough curl back behind her ear. "I'm done resting," she says determinedly.

Daenerys watches her with discerning eyes, sighing at the ragged look of her, head dipping down when she reaches for her arm, goes to help her from the bed. "Come," she says simply, and Rhaenys follows, one last, unnerving stare sent Sansa's way. She doesn't even glance at Jon.

Sansa blows a tense breath from her lips, turning swiftly, tugging Jon out the room with her as he fumbles after her.

"Sansa, what – "

When the door slips shut behind her she turns abruptly, winding her arms around his back, burying her face in his chest.

He stills, hands held mid-air.

"Please," she gets out on a heated breath, fingers curling in his tunic. "Please, will you just hold me?" she asks, eyes squeezing shut.

She feels his worried sigh brush along her hair, but his arms are already slipping around her at the request, pulling her into his chest, one hand snaking up her neck to settle in her hair.

She holds him tighter, lets it fill her, brands the skin of his throat with the anger of her exhale, with the exhaustion of her heavy pant in the crook of his neck. "Just... hold me."

And he does. Wordlessly. And endlessly.

She thinks he would stand there and hold her for eons, if she asked it of him.

For eons and epochs and long, countless ages.

For all the time that she may need of him.

For always.

The heel of his palm is cool at the nape of her neck.

She breathes.

He holds her.

And she breathes.

* * *

"Do you need more time?" Sansa asks gently, standing from her seat at the vanity to walk toward Jon.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned over with his elbows resting along his thighs, hands linked between his knees. He glances up at her question.

She stops just before him, brushing a fine braid behind her ear. It's the morning of the former king's funeral, and after having broke their fast with the rest of the Targaryens (a stilted, quiet affair that had her near screaming in her own skin, in much the same way she imagined every one of them at that table felt), Jon and Sansa had returned to their chambers to ready for the ceremony, donning their second best leathers and silks.

Their best, of course, are for Aegon's induction ceremony.

It's not a detail that escapes Sansa.

Jon sighs before her, rubbing a hand down his face. "No, no, I'll be...I'll be fine."

She cocks her head at him, lip caught between her teeth. She reaches a hand out toward him, palm up.

He glances to it, smiling softly, before slipping his own hand around it, tugging her toward him slightly so that she presses against his knees, staring down at him while he grazes an affectionate thumb over the back of her hand.

"Besides," he adds, "It would be improper for us to be missing, or even late."

Sansa huffs at that. "This all happened so fast. The attack, and now King Rhaegar's death. Why should you be expected to stay stoic, unaffected?" She shakes her head, ire filling her. And sorrow. "Even royals should be allowed to grieve how they need – publicly or not."

Jon chuckles at her remark, a sad smile lighting his lips as he looks down to where he holds her hand. He watches the motion of his thumb across her hand, slow and measured. He takes a breath, releases it slowly. "I'm afraid the show must go on," he says darkly, eyes never leaving their joined hands.

She reaches her other hand to his cheek, stroking down the length of his beard, heart clenching when he doesn't even look up at the motion. "Jon," she urges.

It's a worn, weathered smile that tips the corners of his mouth when he finally looks up at her. "But I thank you all the same, my lady." He pulls her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles, swift and clean.

She misses the warmth when it goes.

His eyes catch along her waist and he cocks his head at the laces there, motioning toward it. "Your ties," he says.

She glances down, twisting somewhat to see what he's talking about, and notices the loosening laces along her side. "Oh," she says, brows dipping down, before giving him an impish look. "Help me?"

"Here," he says, nudging her to back up as he gives her an indulgent smile. She steps from his knees and turns to the side as he rises, releasing her hand to reach for her laces instead. His fingers are deft and practiced, tugging the laces out of their holes and threading them back through evenly.

She chuckles at the concentration on his face, watching him.

It's a calm, crisp morning strangely enough, even in the midst of the chaos that descended upon the keep ever since the night of the attack. And this room, this moment, it feels like a pocket of peace tucked away from the world. She holds it tight to her chest, tries to imprint it to memory. His face, endearingly focused. The soft hue of morning light that hits his dark curls from the near window. The steady, even lull of his breathing – rooting in its constancy. The conscious delicacy in his calloused hands when he tightens her laces.

She wants to cry suddenly, and she doesn't know why.

She wonders what this image might look like with the backdrop of snow falling past their open window. With the faint hollering of Arya and Rickon down the hall. With the crisp tang of winter filling her nose. With Winterfell, all around her.

She wants to cry suddenly, and she knows exactly why.

Keeping her eyes fixed to Jon, Sansa lets out a shallow breath of hesitation, voice low when she asks him, "Why did you put my father forward for Hand?"

Jon stills his work, eyes still fixed to his hands.

She stays watching him a moment, breathing deeply. "We haven't talked about it yet."

Jon swallows, nodding. He returns to his work, tying the laces off at the end. "Aye, we haven't." He straightens fully when he's finished, hands returning to his sides.

"Jon."

He shakes his head, a sad sort of resignation tainting his exhale. "You said you were all alone." His eyes finally meet hers.

She blinks at him, turning fully to face him. "What?"

"When you learned about my past with Rhaenys. The things you said..." He clears his throat, gaze dropping. "You said you were alone, and I guess I – it was the best thing I could think of at the moment. The best way I could make sure you were never alone here again."

Something swells in her chest, near painful in its intensity. Her throat bobs, her voice cracking. "Oh," she says, and then laughs at her own inarticulate answer, a hand going to her mouth. "Jon, I..." But no words seem right, and so she stops trying, reaching her arms around him instead, bracing around his shoulders as she pulls him into her. His arms loop around her waist instinctively, his hands warm at her back.

He sighs into her hair, his head dipping to her shoulder. "I just... I just thought that if there was no way to return you home, then at least you were safer with Lord Stark in the capital. And as Hand, he'd be able to protect you in ways I might not be able to."

She curls her hand along the nape of his neck, sighs at his throat. "Thank you." It's a tremulous exhale that leaves her, and she grips him tighter at its release.

Jon presses his temple to hers, a hand smoothing up her back, and then down again. "I don't know if Aegon will accept my suggestion, but I had to try. And even if he grants us leave to go North, if Ned Stark is Hand, we can be sure that he'll also speak for Northern interests. Your interests."

"Our interests," she corrects, muttered into his collar, her eyes slipping shut.

She feels his smile against her cheek in response, and then his short nod. "Our interests."

She doesn't move to release him just yet, too reluctant to be without him. His hand gliding up and down her back in comforting sweeps settles the breathlessness in her, but she's warm, almost unsettlingly warm, and when she opens her eyes her vision blurs at the edges, just a touch. She blinks it back in surprise, vision clearing quickly.

Sansa pulls back just a touch, enough to face him, her arms still wound around his shoulders.

He sighs at her mouth. "I never want you to feel trapped like that again. Like you have no way out – especially because of me."

A fond scoff leaves her lips. "Oh, Jon."

His hand settles at the small of her back, his thumb rubbing circles there. "And now, with Aegon and his suspicions, and Rhaenys..." He trails off, mouth clamping shut before he can manage the words.

Sansa drags her nails comfortingly along the nape of his neck. "I never... never thought her capable – of that."

Jon's gaze darkens, a worried furrow to his brow. "Neither had I."

They stand in each other's embrace a while longer, each remembering what they'd rather not remember. And then Sansa sighs, meeting his gaze. "Jon, something's not right with her. The way she looked back at Maester Gregoir's... " A shudder arches up her spine. "I can't shake that look from my mind."

Jon bows his forehead to hers, a heavy breath leaving him. "I know. And I'm scared, Sansa. I really am. I don't mean to alarm you, but... " He sighs, eyes slipping shut. "I don't know anymore. I just never thought she could do such a thing."

Sansa blinks at that, something pricking at the back of her mind. Something she should remember.

"Jon," she says warily, mind whirling.

"Hmm?"

"Something she said to me yesterday," she muses, voice trailing, eyes narrowing. "'She'...?" Her words cut off at the sharp twinge in her gut.

Jon looks at her curiously, arms loosening around her back to settle back at her hips. He dips his head to better look at her. "Sansa?"

Her eyes slip shut, a tight breath leaving her. The twinge mellows out into dull ache, hanging low in her belly. She shakes her head. "Sorry, I just... I think I need to – "

Another twinge, this time sharper, tighter. She bows beneath the pain of it, breaking from his embrace. "Oh, oh, I uh... I think – I need to sit down."

Jon's eyes go wide, shifting between hers frantically, his hands moving to her elbows instantly to help her to the bed. "Sansa, what is it?" His gaze shoots down to her stomach when her hand braces there. "Is it the babe?"

The quake in his voice is worse than any lance of pain.

Sansa starts to shake. "I don't - gods!" She doubles over, tears springing hot to her lids, mouth parting on a gasp.

"Sansa! Sansa, what is it?"

Her vision goes white, a low whine escaping her as she drops to the bed, one arm going out to brace her weight, the other wound around her stomach, trying to hold back the terrible pain, like a corkscrew winding slowly into her womb.

And then she feels the wetness between her legs.

"No," she mumbles, gasping, fumbling to right herself on the bed, arm protectively around her middle. She shakes her head vehemently, the tears salt-sharp at her eyes now. "No, no, no," she moans.

"Sansa," Jon begs helplessly, trying to ease her along the bed, face screwed up in fear.

The wetness is warm and heavy between her legs now, and she cries out, a shuddering wail cracking the air in her lungs, eyes screwing shut.

"Oh gods, Sansa," Jon moans, his own distress palpable.

She grabs for his sleeve, knuckles white and trembling. "Get the maester," she grinds out between tears.

He doesn't need a second command, bounding to the door and throwing it wide. "Bring Maester Gregoir!" he bellows at the guards outside their door. A passing chambermaid startles and drops a water basin, sending it crashing along the stones. "Now!" he shouts, his booming voice echoing through the hall, and the sound of their retreating footsteps reaches Sansa where she moans and drags herself up the bed.

When Jon turns back to her he stills instantly, eyes wide, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth.

The branding horror on his face lights a sickness in her, freezing her in place half sprawled over the bed, arm still wrapped tight across her middle. She follows his gaze to the spread of sheets she'd just dragged herself up, eyes lighting on the dark stain of blood trailing up to the soaked seat of her dress.

"Oh gods," she shudders out, sobbing anew, knees curling into her stomach, vision blurring, and she's hot, so inexplicably hot, sweat already lining her brow and then she's sick, bile rising sour and instant up her throat, making her cough on it, and she opens her mouth, gags on a vile breath, spits into the sheet, feels it dripping down over her chin and it's - it's -

Red.

A croak leaves her as she shudders atop the sheets, a trembling hand rising up to her chin, smearing the wetness there, and then pulling back before her tear-filled eyes for her to see. For her to see the blood staining the tips of her fingers. She looks down with disbelieving eyes, focusing on the spit-up of blood she'd just coughed into the sheets.

"Jon," she gets out shakily, terror coloring her voice, eyes fixed to her own blood-drenched fingers, "What's happening to me?" she sobs.

Just before she blacks out, she feels Jon's hands pulling her back by the shoulders, his cry of her name distant and muffled, his fearful face a hazy shroud above her.

Just before she blacks out, she remembers:

Tooth-and-nail loves will always leave you bloody.

#from instep to heel #jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #my writing #got fanfic

26 notes · View notes

yeeterparkersblog · 5 years ago

Text

Last Days | PART 2

Pairing: 6 Underground! Four/Billy x reader

Word Count: 5.9 k

Warnings: Stealing is bad, kids; Fat shaming, oops; drinking?; bleeding? Ohno!; baby boomers.

Summary: To everyone else, he was a suave young man in a gang of thieves, someone they would rather not get tangled up with. To you, he was a cheeky bastard who wouldn’t get out of your hair and most of all, a rival thief. But one day, Billy decides to reach out to you, proposing that you work together.

Publishing Date: 22 January 2020

A/N: Right. It’s been a month. I am sorry. Point is, school started and I hate Chemistry. I didn’t expect all the love that Last Days Part 1 has gotten. Thank you so much for all the likes, reblogs and hella nice comments I’ve gotten. Thank you for being so patient. I have no idea when Part 3 will come out, but I will always try my best. You guys are the best, thank you so much, you have no idea how much my face lights up when you leave a sweet comment or you message me to tell me how much you liked the story. Anyway, here’s Part 2.

PART 1

((this is what reader wears to the gala. ALSO OSCARS BEN!!))

“Now remember the plan. Be confident.”

The BMW neared the country club, and even from the car, you could see how luxurious it was. Elegance was radiating off the pristine white walls. The topiaries were clean cut and even the grand fountain in the courtyard seemed to mock you.

“Yes I remember.” You shifted uncomfortably in the car seat, the nerves undoubtedly setting in. “We’ve gone over it a dozen times.” But it was easier said than done.

“It’s alright. The gala is an open event.” He glanced at you sideways, pulling into the main entrance. “But the snooty rich can smell peasants from miles away, so I’m going to need you to stop fidgeting.”

“Just act like you know you belong. They’ll feel too stupid to ask what you’re doing here.” He nudged his head towards the gate. “Steady, (Y/N). Security guards.”

You sat up in the seat, putting on the most snobbish face you could muster. You hear Billy quietly chuckle beside you.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” Billy whispered, his lips barely moving as he drove past the guards. He gave them a small nod, the kind that rich people would give to ‘simpletons’. The security guards didn’t give either of you a second glance and just proceeded to let the car in. As soon as you were out of their range, you resume your relaxed form almost immediately.

“Wow.” You chuckle. “Did it take you long to learn that nod?”

“Took me a while to get the amount of narcissism just right. But the whole ensemble is what ties it together.” He smiled. “Lavish clothes. Expensive car. Trophy wife.”

“They really should get better security.” You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from laughing. “The museums too. It’s like they want us to rob them. They’re practically begging for it.”

When you don’t hear a response from Billy, you turn to him, only to see a hint of a smile ghosting the corners of his lips. “Yes, they are.”

We were pulling up closer to the banquet hall. We could hear the slight chatter of the upper class and the hum from other luxury cars.

“One month of planning.” You take a deep inhale to attempt to soothe yourself. “Let’s see if it’s all worth it.”

“Eyes up. Stay sharp.”

As soon we reached the hall, two valet attendants rushed to our car, opening the car door for us. The attendant on my side offers his hand, and with my nose in the air, I take it and assume my role for the evening. He guides me to Billy’s side at the foot of the stairs, and almost instantly the other attendant sticks out his hand.

I mentally sigh. These people probably make more money in one evening than I do at Ritter’s in one year. Must be nice.

Meanwhile, Billy didn’t bat an eye. He gracefully took out 2 hundreds and placed them in both attendants’ hands. It was probably the last of his money, but he wasn’t fazed at all.

All to play the part, I guess. This heist better work.

The two attendants thanked him with a small smile, and the two of them strode off. One to park the BMW, one to find another rich customer.

“Right.” Billy clears his throat next to you and the two of you face the grand staircase that leads to the banquet hall. He holds up his arm.

“Ready, Charlotte Hallowell?”

You smile up at him, lacing your hand in his. “Why of course, Arthur Hargreaves.”

---

“…and he left me the fortune in his will, including the company. My dear father, may he rest in peace.”

The two middle-aged women nodded solemnly, too intrigued in Billy’s sob story to notice your smile. You swirl the flute of champagne in one hand, the other still holding onto his. Billy’s thumb would occasionally swipe over yours, a reminder to play the part.

“Well I know you’ll do a brilliant job.” The brunette spoke first. “You must be devastated after your father’s passing though, Mr. Hargreaves.” Her words sounded sincere, but her face, probably from too many Botox treatments, failed to convey any emotion.

“Please, Dolores. Call me Arthur.” He smiled charmingly at the now blushing woman.

“Oh- Oh my.” You hear her let out a giggle. “Aren’t you delightful?”

An unsettling feeling suddenly made its home in your gut.

“So Arthur.” The second woman, Margaret, spoke next. “You and uh… Catherin-?”

“Charlotte.” You cut in. “It’s Charlotte.” A fake smile crept on your face. You took a steady breath to calm down.

“Fine. Charlotte.” She turned her attention back to ‘Arthur’. “So are you two dating? Married? I don’t see a ring.”

There it was again. That unsettling feeling rearing its ugly head. A visible frown made its way upon your face, and your hand instinctively gripped the champagne flute tighter. But of course the ladies didn’t notice, too fixated on what ‘Arthur’ was going to say next.

God, you really shouldn’t be letting this affect you. But the two women’s complete disregard of you was throwing you off your game. Or maybe it had something to with Billy? Nah, can’t be. You doubt rich housewives are his type.

So you kept quiet. You couldn’t trust yourself to speak sensibly if you were to open your mouth. Too much was at stake.

“Charlotte and I are married.” Billy suddenly blurted out, and you felt his hand squeeze yours tightly.

Shock was evident on you and the ladies’ faces, but you did a better job at hiding it. But this wasn’t the plan. The plan was Arthur and Charlotte were supposed to be just dating. You felt his thumb run over yours again – this time a comfort.

But no matter how taken aback the ladies were by the news, they still had more prodding to do.

“If you’re married,” Margaret interrogated first. “How come Charlotte isn’t a Hargreaves? I seem to recall her last name being something else.”

“That’s right. Her name is Hallowell.” Dolores continued. Good to see someone remembering your name. She suddenly turned to you. “Are you too proud of a woman to take your husband’s name?”

Oh wow. Okay, fuck you too.

Steam was practically exiting your nostrils. It took all of your will to hold yourself back from saying something that you’d regret. You took a sip of your champagne, all while maintaining Dolores’ piercing eye contact.

You felt Billy’s hand let go of yours, and protectively wrap around your shoulder instead.

“The Hargreaves may be a family of class, but so are the Hallowells.” Billy’s voice was controlled. “Charlotte isn’t too proud to take my name, she’s proud because she knows her worth.”

You grin to yourself. How nice of Billy to stick up for you, even if it was a cover story. But if Billy felt that this was okay… Oh well, a little wouldn’t hurt.

“See? I didn’t have to take my husband’s name to be somebody.” You gave the both of them a sickeningly sweet smile. “But you two wouldn’t know anything about that.”

The two women clasped their hands to their hearts in unison, and it would have been creepy how on beat it was if it hadn’t been so bloody hilarious! They gasped audibly, their form amusingly resembling that of Joffrey Baratheon when he had been poisoned.

You bit down on your lip to stop your grin from spreading any further. You were trying your best, but you could already feel Billy’s body shaking with silent laughter beside you.

It was only now you’d realize how close you two were. His body was pressed against yours, and his laughing had sent jolts of electricity down your spine. Your shoulder, where he still has his hand on felt warm with his touch.

“WELL I NEVER!” Margaret suddenly burst out, and you force yourself to swallow your oncoming fits of giggles. “You millennials are just so rude! How-!”

“Come. Margaret.” Dolores interrupted before she could go into a full rant. “We know when we’re not wanted.” The both of them stuck their noses in the air and shoved their way through you and Billy, separating you two.

The spot on your shoulder felt excruciatingly exposed.

“I don’t think they know when they’re not wanted.” Billy scoffed at the ladies who were making their exit hastily. He smoothed down his white suit. “Or they wouldn’t have come to the gala at all.”

You let out a hearty laugh, the first real one ever since your arrival here.

“I think they’re just intimidated, (Y/N).” His voice dropped to the lowest whisper at your name. “Their husbands would take one look at you and drop them the very next second just to get a chance with you.”

You chuckle quietly, a pink hue tinged your cheeks. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

“Of course. Why else did the women approach me?” He stood up just a little bit straighter. “Maybe they would have backed off if they knew I had you as my gorgeous wife.”

You shoved him playfully. “Piss off.”

But you didn’t fail to notice how your heart had sped up with his words.

“But I don’t think it was a complete waste of time.” You continued.

“How so?”

“Dolores strikes me as a person who’d love attention. I mean, did you see the pearl necklace around her neck?” You were received with a small smirk of his. “Would be a shame if she lost it.”

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The clinging of a fork on a champagne glass brought you and Billy out of your hushed discussion. A silence went over the crowd as all heads turned towards the man.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re so very delighted to have you all here tonight. But you’re not here to listen to me talk, you’re here for my newest addition in the collection, of course!”

Resounding applause came from the crowd, who were now anxious to see the necklace. Many of them were tiptoeing and tilting their heads, trying to get a better view of the covered case at the front.

“Forget everything else that the committee has to offer. All the other gems that you’ve all seen in the country club’s jewelry room? That’s absolutely nothing!” The man boasted loudly, and the crowd was egging him on. Billy’s demeanor shifted to that of concentration, his body suddenly rigid. But you barely noticed, you too were caught up in the man’s boast.

“This is the most beautiful and priceless artifact I have ever set eyes on. That’s why I am honored to present to you…” He took a step back next to the case with a flourish, whipping off the black cloth in a second.

“The Ruza!!”

Oh, it was beautiful. It was glittering gold and as bright as the sun. The small gems on the necklace made for intricate patterns on the design. It was big, but not so bulky that it felt like too much. 5 million pounds. Not too shabby.

But of course, you weren’t the only one who thought so. Oohs and aahs from the crowd were taken in by the presenter with pride. He had more words to say, more facts to gloat about, but you’ve heard enough.

“Billy!” You whisper-shout at him. “The Ruza. We gotta put the plan in action now.”

He didn’t say anything back, he looked too deep in thought. His brilliant eyes darting back and forth between you and the gold necklace.

“Billy?” You waved your hands in front of his eyes. “You should get ready. I’ll go get Dolores’ pearl ne-”

“(Y/N), I don’t think we should steal the Ruza.”

His words took you by surprise, and a stunned silence was your first response.

“What!” You took a deep inhale to calm yourself down. “Billy, please don’t tell me y-”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He cut in. “Like I said before, there are always certain risks involved in this job. But my new plan will significantly decrease those risks.”

You pursed your lips in uncertainty. “Billy…”

“Trust me, please.” He scratched the back of his neck. “(Y/N).”

You bit down on your lip. “I trust you.” A small smile creased his lips. “Let me hear it.”

---

“This must be worth at least 50 million.” You managed to breathe out.

The sight before you was one to behold. Twinkling and shimmering in their individual cases, more than thirty types of jewelry. Diamond necklaces, ruby rings and Swarovski crystal earrings. SO! MUCH! MORE!

“Billy, this could set us up for life!” you gasped. You were shaking with anticipation, looking around like a little kid at the toy store.

“We’re only taking one.”

Your smile dropped. “Of course we are.”

“Question is, which one.”

He walked around the jewelry room, examining each case and the treasure inside. He took his time. There wasn’t a single person in or near the room besides the two of you. Security guards were either posted at the front gates or in the banquet hall where the gala was.

“(Y/N), do you know why we’re taking one of these and not the Ruza?”

Your memory went back to when Billy stiffened up during the Ruza’s reveal.

“Forget everything else that the committee has to offer. All the other gems that you’ve all seen in the country club’s jewelry room? That’s absolutely nothing!” The presenter had said.

Billy saw the glint of recollection in your eyes. “They don’t care. They really should know better.” He did a double take at a gold bracelet, and kept on walking. “All the attention’s on the Ruza now. But I bet someday, it’s going to be replaced just like these.”

“Well, which one of these is going to get a new home?”

“Even though they don’t get a lot of attention anymore, somebody’s gonna notice if we steal an important one.” He shook his head at a large assortment of gems on main display. “We’re choosing something that people won’t miss.”

You made your way to the corner of the room, where the display lights weren’t as bright, where the display cases weren’t clean. A sapphire tiara caught your eye. You ran your finger along the glass case, leaving a clearer line.

“A tad dusty.” You observed. “Probably hasn’t had any love since its revealing.”

He strode over next to you, and observed the case. “’S nice.” He circled the case, looking around for any security measures. “Do you see anything to look out for?”

“The pedestal looks different from the newer ones.” You remarked. The displays at the front had a shiny gloss, the glass looked too thick to even cut, and clean as a whistle. Meanwhile the tiara’s pedestal was older, dusty. It looked like no one even bothered to upgrade it since its installment.

Billy took a few more seconds to deduct it.

“I think this is it.” Billy said. “2, or maybe 3 million?”

“The Ruza was 5.”

“The Ruza has 200 sets of eyes on it right now. This one doesn’t.”

You smacked your lips. “Suppose 1.5 million is better than prison.” Your mind went back to the original plan. “Do I still get to steal off Dolores?”

He sniggered at your question. “Right now I just need you to make sure no one comes in here. That, and delete the security footage.” He pointed up at the corner of the room, the red blinking light of a security camera staring back. “So no, you don’t get to steal off Dolores.” You frown in disappointment.

Heavy footsteps suddenly neared the jewelry room. A guard! Billy caught your look of distress.

“But you get to do Plan B.”

And your frown was replaced with an excited grin.

---

“Hey, please!” You run up to the security guard, the click-clacking of your heels echoing in the hallway. You fan yourself, taking shaky breaths as you approach him. “You’ve got to help me!”

“Ma’am, what’s wrong?” He asked, watching you as you wiped away a tear, a trail of mascara streaking down your cheek.

“My earring. It’s missing!” You pointed at your left ear, which was without an emerald stud. “I don’t know where it’s gone. You must help me! Please, please.” You let out another sniffle and sob, adding onto the act.

“Oh uh…” He looked nervous, he didn’t know how to comfort a hysterically wailing woman, losing her mind over a missing earring. “Does anyone else know ab-”

“NO! You mustn’t tell either!” You dabbed away your nervous tears. “You mustn’t tell my husband. He’d be livid!”

“Where’s your h-”

“The banquet hall!” You spat out a little too quickly. “But I don’t dare go in there. Arthur will see its missing! And then… ” You wail loudly, your hands covering your face to muffle it. The security guard looked around uncomfortably, finally settling on awkwardly patting you on the back.

Needless to say, ‘Arthur’ or Billy wasn’t in the banquet hall. Duh. He’s getting his hand on the tiara. And the security guard had been walking too close to the jewelry room. Plan B was that you’d kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of the guard, and delete the footage. And so you had stuffed your left earring in your bra as Billy watched in amusement, and ran out the room in inconsolable tears.

“Maybe it’s in your purse?”

“Don’t be daft!” You shoved your open purse in his face. “I’ve checked!” And that was why you had to, unfortunately, stick the earring down your bra.

“Oh!” You shot up, wiping away another crocodile’s tear. “The cameras! Perhaps you could see where the earring has went!”

“I doubt the cameras can-”

You cut him off with another loud dramatic weep, and a fat tear rolled down your cheek theatrically. “Arthur will never let me hear the end of it. This is all YOUR FAULT!!! The committee will be hearing about this!”

That did it. The guard silently sighed and with a final roll of his eyes, he plastered on a fake smile. “Alright we’ll go check the footage. Please follow me.”

---

Either you played ‘damsel-in-distress’ too well, or the guard was dumber than he let on. He had left you alone in the surveillance room.

The moment you two had entered the room, you cried out for a drink. And the guard, not wanting another tantrum from you, obliged immediately without giving it a second thought. That, or he wanted to get away from your whining.

Again, there was no one else in the room but you. There was a lock system at the door, where you needed an authorization card to get in. Security was probably confident that no one could enter.

You executed the plan immediately. Your fingers danced across the control panel, pulling up the current feed from the jewelry room.

Billy was looking at you, well the camera. You couldn’t help the grin pulling at your lips. He waved up at the camera, knowing that you had probably made it to the surveillance room already.

“Hey there.” You said back, fully knowing that he couldn’t hear you.

You took one last look at his smiling figure before disabling the camera and security measures in the jewelry room. And when Billy saw the red blinking light on the camera go off, he got to work.

For good measure, you deleted the footage that placed the two of you at the scene of the crime. Footage in the hallway which you and Billy had to pass to get to the jewelry room. Footage when the two of you were inspecting the displays. Footage when you ran up to the guard. And of course, footage inside the surveillance room.

You were sure to replace the missing footage with stills, as to make it look like it hasn’t been tampered with.

And... Done!

You took a breath of relief, leaning back into a chair.

“I’ve done my part, Billy. Now it’s all up to you.”

---

After chastising the poor security guard for not finding your tiny earring on the cameras, you left with a huff and headed for the banquet hall. If things went off without a hitch, Billy would be right there waiting for you.

But he wasn’t. Though you were sure he wasn’t caught or anything.

No alarms had gone off. No security guards have ran to the jewelry room. No blond man had been tased and handcuffed. That was enough to reassure you. For now.

You head towards the hor d’oevres table anxiously, stuffing down a bruschetta in an attempt to calm yourself. You took a quick once-over of the large room, but there was no sign of him still.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn around rather excitedly, expecting to see Billy. Instead, you were met with the cold and calculating eyes of Dolores. Your shoulders drooped with disappointment, but you plastered on a smile nonetheless.

“Charlotte.” She smacked her thin lips. “Where’s Arthur?”

“He’s g-”

“Oh dear, has he gotten sick of you already?”

A sly smile accompanied the nasty remark. You bit down on your lip to keep yourself from throwing all of the curse words in existence at her.

“But not to worry. A pretty thing like you.” She stared you down head to toe, tutting. “But I think if you scarf down another bruschetta, I’m afraid that dress of yours won’t be able to contain anymore.”

OH! You fumed quietly, purposely taking another hor d’oevre from the tray with a flourish.

“I don’t appreciate your passive aggression, Dolor-”

“Why I’m just stating facts now, dear. No need to get upset.”

A silent stare-down ensued. Dolores, judgy and critical; you, silent and furious.

“If I may ask Dolores,” You start. “How much money does your husband’s company rake in per year?”

She suddenly threw her head back in shrill laughter, as if you had said the funniest joke she’s ever heard. “My dear, if you’re comparing that, I’m afraid you’ve already lost.”

You scoffed. “Humor me.”

She tossed her curls back with pride. “At least a billion a year.” She boasted with a conceited smile on her face. “Why do you ask?”

You mirrored her smile. “Then you’re living proof that all the money in the world can’t buy you class.”

You took a big bite of another piece of bruschetta in front of her, savoring the taste. The offended look on her face added a satisfactory zest to your bite. The red on her cheeks resembled that of the cherry tomatoes on your snack.

While Dolores struggled to form words, you noticed Billy enter the banquet hall. He was fidgeting with his suit jacket, arm placed strategically over the outside of his pocket.

He caught your eye, and nudged discreetly at his pocket, then the hallway.

Dolores suddenly grabbed your shoulder, forcing you to look back at her. “This is extremely disrespectful. You’ll regret messing with me and my name. My husband will be hearing about this.”

“I don’t even know your last name.” You dusted off the crumbs. “Is it Malfoy?”

“But I know yours, Charlotte Hallowell. And I’m asking you to leave.”

You laugh. “Gladly. Oh and, remember that name.” You brushed past her towards Billy. “The woman you chastised for being in a happy marriage.”

“Watch it, Hallowell.”

You stopped in your tracks and looked at her over your shoulder. “I’m just stating facts now, Dolores dear. No need to get upset.”

And with a final grin, you strut off to Billy, much to the fury of Dolores. You were greeted by his curious smile.

“What was all that? She looks like she’s about to explode.” He offers you his free arm.

“Just teaching someone a lesson.” You laced your hand in his. Your voice dropped to a whisper. “Did you get it?”

He nodded, fingers tapping on his pocket. There was a barely noticeable bump, but it was scattered, definitely didn’t take the form of a tiara. You questioned that.

“Had to break it into smaller parts. More discreet.”

You nodded. Makes sense, all you needed were the gems on the tiara. It didn’t matter if it was whole or not.

“But it was a lot stiffer than I thought.” He subtly turned over the hand covering his pocket. A napkin was bundled in his hand, it was stained red. He discreetly moved it to the side, revealing a gash on the inside of his palm. There were wisps of dried blood around it, hastily wiped. The gash looked red and angry.

“Dear God, Billy!” You whisper-shouted at him, suddenly stopping in your tracks to rummage through your purse. “Let me ge-”

“Not now. Not here. Keep walking.” With his voice hushed, he turned his hand over like nothing ever happened. His arm tugged on yours to keep walking.

“You’re b-”

“Later.” He insisted. “The sooner we leave the better.”

You didn’t argue with that. The two of you left the banquet hall, fortunately, without a problem. And it was at the valet, waiting for the car, where you realized the two of you didn’t plan for what happens after the heist.

Perhaps you may work together again. Or maybe you’ll take your share of the money, and part ways.

Your heart, unbeknownst to you, ached at the possibility that this might be the end. And so your grip on his forearm tightened.

---

It wasn’t until after Billy had drove the car out onto the main road, that you two could let out a huge breath of relief. You immediately hunch down into a more comfortable position, kneading your back which was sore from standing up as straight as a plank the entire night.

“Wow.” You sigh. “You know I actually anticipated a lot more Mission Impossible out of this.”

“I only wish my other heists have gone this smoothly.” Billy removed his injured hand carefully from the wheel, leaving a small stain there. “Do we have any ointment or bandages in the kit?”

“Hold on.” You pulled out a small box from the back seat, looking through it. “Bandages yes. Ointment no.”

“That’ll do for now.” He sticks out his hand to you, but with his eyes still focusing on the road. “If you don’t mind…?”

“You’re going to need to disinfect it.” Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, guiding it into the light. “God knows how long the tiara’s been polished.”

“You said there’s no ointment.”

“There’s a convenience store not so far away. We’ll go there.”

“In these clothes?”

“We’ll be quick.”

“Fine.” He took a quick glance at you examining his palm. “But can you wrap up the cut? Bandage it or something. At least to stop it from bleeding out.”

You nodded, returning your focus to his wound.

Up close right underneath the dim light in the car, you could see how rough and calloused his hand was. The concealer on his knuckles, just slightly wearing off to reveal the tattoos underneath. Tiny scars dotted along his thick fingers, from scrambling up too rough of walls or ledges. They left small white dashes that were barely visible.

“(Y/N), if you could just stop my bleeding instead of caressing my fingers, that would be gr-”

“Eyes on the road, tosser.”

---

You had just finished up bandaging his hand when he pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store. You were careful to not slam the car door shut on your silk gown. Billy watched, entertained, as you lifted up your dress to walk, like a proper princess.

“Don’t laugh.” You bunched up the bottom of the dress, kicking off some material with your heels. “You wouldn’t want to get this dress dirty if you knew how much it was.”

“I paid for it.”

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to go to a convenience store dressed like you were going to the Oscars. Two people smoking outside the door gave you and Billy some funny looks. You avoided their curious stares while continuing to struggle with you dress.

“(Y/N), this is hard to watch.”

Billy started to crouch down behind you, collecting the flowy material in his larger than yours hands. He ignored the stings in his palm and lifted it up like a cape, or like a really long bridal veil.

“Hurry on in.” He stood up. “Floor inside is definitely cleaner than tarmac.”

You blinked at him with large eyes. You quickly whip your head to the direction of the store, hiding the tinge on your cheeks that just barely showed up. Shrugging it off, you nodded your head in response.

“Right.”

You headed towards the store, walking slow enough so that Billy could keep your pace steadily. As soon as you stepped in, the lone cashier slightly widened his eyes at you and Billy’s fancy get up, but didn’t say anything else. ‘Beat It’ by Michael Jackson blasted through the speakers.

“Is the floor okay?”

His voice was right beside your ear, his hot breath fanning your cheek. His deep voice a sudden contrast with the loud music. You instinctively bit down on your lip in response.

“Yeah, you can put it down.”

He carefully let down your dress, bending down to smooth out any wrinkles that have formed. You smiled at this, heart fluttering.

“Thank you.” You suddenly whispered. “Thank you so much.”

“’S nothing. No need to be so grateful.” He laughed, brushing it off. “You look great!”

If he had just stayed one more second before leaving abruptly to get the ointment, he would’ve noticed your face fall with disappointment. You had so much more to say to him.

But you digress. There was a time and place for everything. And the doorway of a 24-hour store while a cashier looked on from behind a comic book was neither.

While he looked over the variety of medications on the shelves, you chose to browse through the refrigerated beverage section.

Deep green bottles catch your eye. Bottles of beer stored neatly in the fridge, the same one that you had served Billy months ago.

“Okay alright.” He pursed his lips and gave you a twenty. “I’ll buy a beer. But I want to talk to you, alright? It’s about the ring.”

You glared daggers at him, trying to see if he was just playing if you. Maybe he’s finally come to his senses and has decided to give you ring.

“Fine.” You said. “Hold on.”

You came back with a warm bottle of beer and sat down, pocketing the change. It was the least he could do for you. You shoved the bottle towards him. “Well?”

He shot you a look before he started talking. “Look I’m very sorry to have left you behind like that. I’m glad you got out fine, yeah?”

“Good, thanks.” You mumbled. It was nice, but not quite what you wanted to hear. “So I’ll be taking the ring now.”

“W-What? No?!” Billy looked almost baffled. “I already pawned it off! Where do you think the money for this disgustingly warm beer came from? And the ring is rightfully mine, by the way.”

A/N: I use the word ‘ointment’ a lot, I’m sorry. I hate it too. It sounds too much like ‘moist’. I can’t, for the love of baby yoda, think of a more suitable word. Also I’m thinking the beer bottles as Heineken because it suits the mood board I made and its green like Ben’s eyessss, but this is not sponsored obviously, I just like the green. Also Billy in the store, is inspired by Ben Hardy at 7-11 after the Oscars so just imagine that :3. Alright, back to the story. yeet~

A light bulb went off atop your head- an idea. You grabbed two cold bottles straight from the fridge, and trudge towards the cashier counter, where Billy was already paying for a bottle of ointment. ((im so sorry lol))

The two bottles thudded against the counter and you looked up at Billy expectantly.

“What?”

“As a small celebration!” You nudged the bottled closer. “It’s just one bottle each. I’ll even pay you back if you want me to.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s no need.” Billy remarked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The confused cashier looked back and forth between the two of you. “You’ve had quite a bit of champagne already tonight.”

“Oh you’re no fun.” You push the bottles in front of the cashier and looked at him instead. “We’ll buy these.”

---

“What are the beers for, really?” He asked, both of you getting in the car.

“Fine, an apology. For the crappy warm beer I gave you a few months back.” You admitted. “It’s an apology.”

“It’s not really if I’m paying for them.”

You shoved him playfully in his seat. “Then it’s a thanks.”

“A thanks?”

“I meant what I said inside the store, Billy. Thank you so much.” You put heavy emphasis on the ‘so’. You had on a sincere face, trying your best to express your genuine gratitude for all that he’s done for you. But you were still met with his puzzled stare.

“It’s just a dress, (Y/N)” He laughed. “I mean it’s expensive but it’s j-”

“NO! I mean…” You trailed off, taking a few seconds to think of what to say. Billy looked questioningly at you the whole time.

“What’s wrong, love?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the nickname he’d decided to call you.

“Okay can we find somewhere we could talk? Have a drink?” You pointed at the two bottles in the cup holders. “A car isn’t going to cut it.”

His lips creased with a soft smile. “I tell you what.” He put the bottle of ointment ((sigh)) into your hands. “Fix up the cut for me, and I know exactly where we can go.”

No words were spoken on the way there. The silence wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. Only the occasional hiss of pain from Billy or a check-in from you temporarily broke the silence while you cleaned and re-bandaged his wound.

“It’s alright.” You said quietly, finishing up the job with medical tape. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better now, thanks to you.” Billy smiled at you warmly, and you knew he meant it with every word. Your smile followed his, only bigger.

The car had stopped and Billy got out before you. You didn’t know where you were, or at least you weren’t familiar with this area. But you weren’t complaining.

It was gorgeous up here. Yes, up.

You two were on a sort of hill, overlooking the city. No buildings or other people around, not bustling with the sound of traffic and loud chatter. You and Billy were probably the only people within the mile radius. It was quiet. And peaceful.

The closest light source was from a solitary streetlight a few feet away.

Billy was sat on a nearby bench. He patted on the seat next to him, brandishing the two bottles of beer you had bought earlier. You gladly accepted, making yourself comfortable.

Even in the darkness you could see the outline of his sharp features, see how handsome he was. The distant city lights reflected in his emerald orbs, and his plump lips curved in a small smile as he handed you your bottle.

“What did you want to talk about?” He asked.

---

A/N: Yes basically thats the end of part 2. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE like, reblog or tell me what you think. IT MEANS SO MUCH! it would make my whole day. I can’t promise you when 3 is coming out, but i’m trying oml.

Tags:

@pippin248 @takemetoneverland420 @queenlover05 @sjeunhaelover

#6u!billy x reader #6u!four x reader #6 underground #ben hardy #borhap cast #bohemian rhapsody #queen #roger taylor #ben!roger taylor #billy x reader

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the-jade-cross · 4 years ago

Text

Knight of the Forest - Chapter IV

“Absolutely not!” Lillia objected. “I will not be wearing a cinch or a corset of any kind!”

“But my lady,” the poor maid tried pleading with the 16-year-old girl who had not work a cinch or corset in her life. “King Joffrey has announced his new betrothal and his marriage coming up in a few months and people from all over Westeros will be attending the wedding. You know your parents would want you to look your best.”

Lillia’s shoulders slumped in sadness and the cherry color of her cheeks faded. “Father has been dead for almost five years Mary…and Mother… let’s just say she never held love for me… and I doubt she held love for Robin. She just fawned over him because he was a son… let’s just say she was disappointed that her son was girly, and her daughter was like a boy.”

Mary nodded sadly, knowing full well that it had only been a few weeks since Lillia had received word of her mother’s act of suicide and while it had inflicted pain and misery in the young girl, the pain was not as much as some would deem since the only motherly love Lillia ever felt in her life was from Mayaka Tyrell.

“My lady… it will be a good 5 months before the wedding. The houses of Marbrand, Rowan, Stokeworth, Martell, Redwyne and the Prince of the Red Flower Vale will be attending the wedding. If you do not wish to wear anything appropriate for the time being, please consider it for the wedding.” Mary pleaded. “Not for me but for yourself. If Cersei Lannister does not like what you are wearing, your stay here could be painful.”

“The only reason I haven’t been assaulted, attacked, thrown out or poisoned is because Tommen is my friend and Ser Jaime has taken on responsibilities of my guardian now that my parents are dead,” Lillia pointed out as she finally selected a simple cream dress with a silver ribbon around the waist with long sleeves and a white underdress to hide her lower arms and her ankles. “Did you hear anything about who Joffrey will be wed to?”

Mary shook her head, “I thought he was to be married to Lady Sansa Stark.”

Lillia shrugged, “That was how it was for a while, but Sansa wouldn’t be sitting in the garden grinning from ear to ear if that was the truth. I have a feeling Joffrey’s lustful, evil eye has landed upon another poor soul and he has discarded Sansa. Personally, I am glad because he would have destroyed what little life is left in Sansa… but now I feel bad for whoever will be occupying the other side of his bed.”

Mary giggled slightly as she helped Lillia slip into her dress and then proceeded to gather a few strands of Lillia’s long golden curls and pull them back to the back of her head. Lillia, despite the fact that she was still the type to climb trees and joust with Ser Jaime and Tommen, had decided to not cut her hair and now the long golden curls fell to her round backside and not only drew the attention of many of the men in the castle but also the annoyance of Cersei Lannister who already hated the fact that Sansa was a lovely girl in her own home and now with a second lovely girl (not to mention that previously Evelyn Stark walked the halls of Kings Landing).

“Well,” Lillia chirped, taking up the valerian necklace that Jaime had procured for her, she placed it around her neck so that it rested against her slightly tanned, freckled skin and decided to lose any other jewelry, “I am going on a walk and hopefully Sansa will be able to tell me who the lucky bastard is.”

When Lillia finally located Sansa, who had departed from the gardens and had climbed to stand upon the battlements, the girl was looking down upon the cavalry that was arriving but sadly, due to Sansa’s slightly taller height and Lillia’s lack thereof, Lillia was unable to tell whose calvary it was.

“So… I heard about Joffrey’s marriage,” Lillia said as she tried to stand on her tiptoes to see over the battlements but failed miserably. “But by the smile on your face and the color returning to your cheeks, I am guessing it is not to you.”

Sansa turned and beamed at the girl. She had not gotten to know Lillia incredibly well like Evelyn had when they visited Highgarden but in the past months that the two have been in Kings Landing, the two had found each other’s silent company very enjoyable.

“Renly Baratheon has died, and his wife is left a widow. They aided Joffrey in the War of Blackwater and as thanks for their involvement, Joffrey agreed to marry her,” Sansa replied, her shoulders relaxing in relief.

“And who are the poor souls?” Lillia inquired, grabbing at the battlement railing in the hopes of heaving herself high enough to make out a flag.

Sansa chuckled at the petite girl’s struggles. “Margaery Tyrell.”

Lillia had just succeeded in lifting herself almost all the way onto the top of the battlement when she dropped down, almost twisting her ankle but luckily saved herself before staring at Sansa with a gaping mouth, “Say that again?”

“Margaery Tyrell,” Sansa replied, confused. “She is the one to wed Joffrey. Why?”

When Sansa saw Lillia’s face go slightly pale and then a bright crimson, hope and excitement in her eyes, she caught on slightly, “Lillia? Do you know them?”

Lillia grinned widely and grabbed Sansa’s hands, “I grew up with them at Highgarden! I cannot believe it! I haven’t seen Margaery in years! And Willas and Garlan and….Loras…”

“I do not believe Willas and Garlan are here,” Sansa replied. “It was just Mace Tyrell, Margaery and Loras. Loras helped in the fight and when Joffrey asked him what he desired in payment, Loras requested Margaery wed Joffrey. I owe them everything! If they had not suggested it to Joffrey, I would be the one wedding him!”

Lillia’s face paled, “So…. Loras…. Is here…”

Sansa nodded before frowning, “Lillia… are you alright?”

The girl hastily reached down and grabbed the bottom of her skirt before heading off, “I’ll tell you later!”

Sansa had a hard time keeping up with the fast footed girl as they rushed to the Great Hall. When she finally caught up with Lillia, the girl was peeking around one of the large pillars, looking at the crowd of Tyrell men who were feasting and drinking after their long journey.

“Why are you hiding?” the red head inquired.

“I want to see Margaery but not Loras…. Let’s just say we parted on not so good terms a few years back.”

Sansa smiled in understanding before pointing out the youngest Tyrell girl, “There she is, with Joffrey.”

Lillia spied the girl and quickly made her way through the crowd, leaving Sansa to remain hidden behind the pillar, the red head not wanting to encounter the king.

When Lillia came upon Joffrey and Margaery, she had to stare in wonder at Margaery. There was a time with the girl had been the same height as Margaery who had a few years on her but now, Margaery was a good few inches taller with slightly shorter auburn hair than Lillia but had grown with matured features and a beautiful face and elegant posture.

“Margie?” Lillia said softly, not wanting to interrupt since Joffrey was boasting loudly to the girl who pretended to be listening.

Margaery turned her head and immediately her eyes widened in joy at the sight of the girl before she rushed over to her, drawing Lillia into a tight hug.

“LILS! I cannot believe it! It is you!” She cried, pulling away to get a good look at the girl. “I never forgave father for sending you and Maya away. Oh, it is so good to see you! You have grown up! And Maya, have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

Lillia giggled at Margaery’s many questions, “I’m so happy to see you too! Out of the two of us you definitely grew up right. And yes, I have spoken with Maya. I have not been able to see her personally, but she promised she would visit soon and with you here and your marriage to King Joffrey, I am sure you will see her.”

As the two girls chatted like two hens, a pair of blue eyes watched them from afar. Loras had been drinking and laughing with some of the men when he had spied his sister having a joyful heart attack and almost run over a petite, blond haired girl before the two had entered that state of girl chatter that Loras often deemed dangerous and scary.

However, he found his eyes drawn to the girl. She was a petite thing and standing next to Margaery who was almost the same height as Loras, the girl only reached Margaery’s shoulder. Her long golden hair was curly and fell to her hips that swayed just right. Loras was never interested in girls and had found himself drawn to men but this girl… made him forget all of that in an instant.

From what he could see from his side view of her face was that she was rosy with a little more plumpness than Margaery who was perfectly slender and elegant. The blond girl wore a simple cream dress that accented her curvy hips and perfectly rounded chest and the paleness of the dress brought out the rose of her cheeks and the freckles upon her skin that was slightly darker than Margaery’s pale complexion.

Loras found himself striding over to the two and greeting his sister, only for the strange girl to freeze before slowly turning around, green eyes wide and Loras didn’t have to ask to know exactly who the girl was.

“Loras…” The girl whispered, almost shocked with her green eyes reflecting a feeling Loras couldn’t distinguish.

“Lillia!”

(The past couple of chapters have been set roughly in season 1-3. However, for the rest of Part 1, it will be set in season 4:))

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

Lillia’s eyes widened as round as the giant water lilacs that grew in the garden of Kings Landing when her eyes locked with the all too familiar and yet unfamiliar Loras Tyrell. It had been a good couple of years since she saw him and the last time she did, they had been nothing but children but now… the Loras standing before her was a man… a grown man with curly dirty blond locks that fell almost to his shoulders, thin quirked lips, straight nose, stormy grey eyes framed by dark, thick lashes and the just slightly cleft chin.

He wore a simple dark grey doublet over a dark green shirt, the high collar of the doublet accenting his sharp cheekbones. His eyes were trained on her and Lillia fought the deep urge to fidget with her blond curls so instead she gripped a pinch of her skirt in her hands discreetly and began to knead it between her thumb and pointer finger to keep from blushing or practically breaking down in tears.

“Loras…” the girl managed to choke out, not surprised at how soft and almost shy her voice sounded.

Lillia saw Loras’s deep, calculating orbs scan her up and down before observing each corner of her face as if trying to memorize every detail though she wondered why it took him so long since due to her “couple of goats too thick” figure according to Cersei Lannister, her face and figure did not require that much attention since she lacked the sharp features someone like Cersei would possess.

“It…” Loras said, smile still evident on his face and his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “its really great to see you again.”

Lillia beamed at him and Loras felt his heart flutter at the rosy way her cheeks flushed as she smiled.

“You too,” she said, voice still gentle but with a slight bubbly excitement edge.

Margaery smirked knowingly at her brother and best friend before speaking, “I was just telling Lillia that I hope we see Maya while we are here.”

Loras tore his eyes from the blond, “Oh, I almost forgot! You haven’t seen Maya since you’ve been here?” he immediately asked of Lillia, turning his attention back to her.

Lillia shook her head, gold curls bouncing, “No. I have not seen her since I left Highgarden.”

This wasn’t a lie since she had only been communicating with Maya via the pinnacle which was just their spirits talking, not actually seeing each other face to face and she was not about to reveal to Loras who, she knew for a fact was protective of his sisters and an avid swordsman, that his big sister was living in a brothel and Lillia could talk to her because of her strange ability to control earth and plants. It was crazy enough explaining it to Evelyn, Maya and Nanteza without showing them. She couldn’t even tell Jaime because she would then have to tell him everything including the fact that his wife was alive, in the wild and some dragon mother with fire powers.

“There you are Lills,” a familiar voice said and Lillia sighed at having been rescued before her heart exploded.

“Ser Jaime!” Lillia chirped joyfully, turning her eyes from Loras and over to Jaime who had a wickedly smug look on his face.

“Ser Jaime,” Margaery greeted, “lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Jaime bowed to the Tyrell, “My Lady. Ser Loras.” he greeted.

Loras bit back a growl when he saw Lillia inch closer to Jaime as if seeking out protection.

“You are wed to Evelyn stark is that correct?” Margaery inquired.

Jaime nodded, “That is so. I have not seen her in almost two years.”

Margaery gave him a sad smile, “I am sure Evelyn is well. I remember meeting her at my sister’s name day and if Eve is anything like she was then, she is safe and well.”

Jaime smiled gratefully at the kind and encouraging words from his soon to be in-law but Loras ground his teeth. He watched as Jaime lent down and whispered to Lillia just loud enough for the Tyrells to hear.

“Tommen wanted to know if you would dance with him tonight.”

Lillia chuckled and snorted in the process, making Margaery giggle and Loras and Jaime smile at her unladylike action.

“It seems I am doomed to be Tommen’s dance partner until he learns the steps. Fear not though, I coated my shoes with iron.”

Jaime chuckled and planted a fond kiss in the girl’s blond hair. Anyone could see that the love between the two was like father and daughter but to Loras, it was not like that but much more extreme.

“It must be difficult,” Loras said to Jaime, trying to keep his voice calm, “To have lived two years without the comforts of a wife.”

Jaime saw the way Loras’s eyes practically burned green with jealousy as they drifted back to Lilli and he caught on to the root of the boy’s comment. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Jaime spoke back.

“I heard that you remained in your sister’s cap while she was married to Stannis. I suppose you and your brother in law were close?”

Lillia’s jaw dropped, having heard the rumors that Stannis Baratheon’s wife had been left a virgin due to the king’s lust for a certain knight but she hadn’t realized it was…. Oh gosh, that explained many things!

Margaery pretended to be vastly intrigued by her wine and Loras’s jaw tensed as he and Jaime stared each other down. When Lillia touched Jaime’s arm to snap him out of it, Loras’s eyes turned to the girl and was shocked to find the light and color in her face gone, replaced by misery and pain.

“Will you excuse us?” Jaime asked, sensing Lillia’s desire to depart and when Loras made to speak to Lillia, a single scowl from Jaime shut him up.

Once Jaime had escorted Lillia to one side of the hall and fetched her a glass of water, Lillia collected herself.

“Why did you say those things to him?” She asked Jaime, “He has done nothing to you and yet you treated him like he was your childhood bully.”

Jaime sighed, “You love him Lills. I can see it as plainly as you have a nose upon your face. But he doesn’t see it because he is a foot, an idiot and most definitely interested in men. I will not have him treat you all friendly and sweet and lead you to believe he is in love with you, only for him to break your heart. You are too good to have to experience a broken heart.”

“I know!” Lillia snapped before her voice became soft, “I know he doesn’t love me and never will. That was made clear to me long ago.”

Jaime let out a breath before gathering the girl into a hug, well aware that Loras was glaring at him from across the room. If only the young fool knew that five months prior, Jaime had named Lillia his ward. Mostly to keep Cersei from forcing the girl into an evil marriage since if a girl is claimed as a ward, whoever her guardian is cannot lay sexual hands on her and is the only who can determine the ward’s husband.

“Lillia Arryn?” a girl’s voice squealed.

Lillia pulled away from Jaime and almost fainted when she recognized the tanned skin, big dark eyes, plump smooth lips, petite slender figure and brown hair immediately.

“Nanteza!?” The Dornish girl rushed into Lillia’s arms and began to ramble as a smiling Jaime left to give the two some privacy.

“I cannot believe I’m seeing you right now!” Nanteza squealed. “When uncle Oberyn told me we were coming to Kings Landing, I never thought I would actually get to see you!”

Lillia beamed, “You are definitely a sight for sore eyes!” the blond exclaimed. “Where is your uncle?”

Nanteza smirked mischievously, “He dropped by the brothel right when we landed, and you’ll never believe who he met!”

Lillia frowned before she realized the truth and her eyes rounded, “Maya!?”

Nanteza nodded, “OF course the dim wit didn’t recognize her, but I went with the guards to bring his trunks to the brothel and I saw her! She wears a mask and surprisingly modest brothel clothes. She keeps her hair covered but there is no mistaking those eyes.”

“Oh this is just getting better,” Lillia squealed before her face went serious, “But Nan… you do realize that this is the opportunity we have been hoping for. We need to get Maya out of that brothel as soon as we can and make up a reliable story to hide the truth about you know what.”

Nanteza nodded. This was going to be interesting.

#got #game of thrones #Jaime Lannister #loras #Loras tyrell #Loras Tyrell x oc #Loras Tyrell x reader

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wallofprompts · 4 years ago

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Another chance to win the fight AU

(AO3 One-shoot Collection )

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(283 AC – 285 AC) Catelyn

The Maester said her first child would come in less than a moon’s turn, yet Robert chose to attend a Tournament at the other side of the continent.

He hadn’t been there when the little boy finally came. Stannis and Renly had, though, when she had held the screaming, red-haired babe and announced them she’d call him Robb.

Stannis had voiced that their brother would be pleased with the choice.

He was not.

“He doesn’t look anything like me.” Was what Robert had said a fortnight later when he came back from the Tournament to meet his firstborn.

Catelyn keenly felt how Robert barely looked at their son and even worse when he did it with contempt, as the babe had already disappointed him.

Two years later, Robert went hunting at the first signs of her second childbirth. She remembered the mortification she felt when her waters broke and he fled the room, she also remembered the disapproving look Stannis had on his face while his older brother was leaving.

Once again, her good-brothers met her babe before her husband. They had waited outside her rooms for the six hours it took for their niece to came into the world.

“She’s less wrinkle than Robb was,” Renly stated looking at her small little face. Catelyn had smiled amused by the boy statement.

“Robert said I could choose the name if it was a girl.” She explained to them. “What do you think of Sanna, after your lady mother?”

“Mother’s name was Cassana.” Renly replied, frowning.

“Catelyn knows it,” Stannis explained to the younger boy, “but her exact name would be bad luck.”

“Oh,” Renly scrunched his face pondering over his brother’s words. “Then, Sanna is bonny.”

“Hm,” Stannis nodded, “She looks just like her mother.”

Cat had avoided his stare, so they couldn’t notice how Stannis’ remark had made her blush.

Robert came back a few hours later, bringing a boar as a gift for their new child. However, he spared only a couple of minutes with her and the babe. That time, he didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched with irritation when his eyes landed on their daughter. Catelyn hugged Sanna a little tighter when she noticed Robert’s expression.

He left soon after to ‘celebrate’ by getting himself drunk with who knows whom.

Robert’s celebrations began to get worse that year. The whispered rumours about his whoring ways, the squandering of their income on gambles and benders and new other bastards became common knowledge for everyone in Storm’s End and half of the Stormlands’ lords.

Stannis had taken over the castellan’s duties and his fights with Robert over his expenses were frequent.

Everything reached the tipping point the day the steward, Stannis and Catelyn walked in Robert’s solar to find him humping a servant girl. The steward scurried away mumbling some apologies and the girl fled covering her breasts.

“Have you no shame anymore?” Stannis asked him full of contempt, “Have you resolved to pollute every shade of the Baratheon’s House?”

“You have no right to speak to me in that tone,” Robert's face turned red with rage while he was still lacing his breeches. “I am Lord Baratheon!”

“Then act like it.” Catelyn spoke softly but icily, her lips pale with repugnance.

“What did you just say?” Robert bellowed, walking around the table to come close to his wife.

“Act like you were a Lord.” She hissed, her head high and proud, though her hands trembled with anger.

She never saw or even imagined the brutal blow that came after it.

Catelyn stumbled, holding her left cheek, so shocked that at first, she didn’t feel any pain.

“Watch your mouth, woman!” He warned her raising his hand again.

The second blow didn’t land.

She lifted her eyes to see her good-brother grabbing Robert’s forearm. They scuffled and pushed each other until Robert stumbled and fell like a sack. He had a cofounded look on his face like he couldn’t believe he had fallen.

“You’re drunk.” Stannis accused him, “Is that what you are now, a drunkard who beats women? Your own wife!”

“It shouldn’t be her,” He snivelled from the floor, like the most pathetic fool Catelyn had ever seen. “It had to be Lyanna!”

‘Her again,’ Catelyn thought, her cheek and left ear were pulsing with pain. She hated the woman most of the time, but others like at that moment, she knew the northerner girl had just been smarter and luckier than Cat.

She had gotten away from this beast while Cat had not.

By then, she knew he’d have been nothing different with the wolf girl. Mayhaps he’d have kept his whoring ways out of her sight, but he had done that with Cat at first. Maybe he had cared about her children, but maybe they’d have looked too northerner and he’d have disliked them as well as he disliked Robb and Sanna for their Tully’s looks.

“You have a dutiful, handsome wife,” Stannis countered him, “Yet you keep pinning for the one who rejected you!”

“Oh, handsome yes,” Robert scoffed sitting up on the floor, “But cold and limp like a dead trout when I fuck her.”

‘You mean when you grossly grope me and then take me like an overweighed dog in heat.’ Cat thought. She wished she was brave enough to say it out loud, but she felt her face swelling and her soul quailed at the thought of a new slap.

She hated herself for fearing such a sad, disgusting being.

Catelyn heard them fighting while she turned around, walked away and close the door.

She wandered through the keep noticing the servants gazing at her. She tried to hide her face, shamed by the signs of her husband’s abuse.

The feeling made her angry. Why did she have to feel ashamed?

She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet it didn’t go away. She ended hiding in a balcony that looked over the sea.

Cat stared at the waves breaking with fury against the rocks, feeling their fury as her own.

Was this how her whole life was going to be?

She was his wife, so she couldn’t run away, hide or leave. She knew he wouldn’t care if she did, but she couldn’t leave her children. Robert didn’t care about them, but he would never let her take them with her.

Catelyn was wiping away her tears when Stannis found her.

“Let me see that,” Stannis asked her curtly.

He had nothing of his brother deceivingly charming ways.

Cat remember thinking of him as unpolite, almost rude when they firstly met, but since, she had realized he was just not accustomed to treating with women and his shyness came out as curt and brisk.

She turned her face to show him and she felt the brush of his fingertips below her chin. She noticed how his heavy brow frowned upon the inspection of her face.

“The Maester must take a look at it,” He announced.

Cat recoiled from him, the previous feeling of shame and fear coming back in full force. Stannis was astonished at her reaction, retrieving his hand from her face.

“I’m sorry, Catelyn,” He said contritely as it was him the one who had hit her. “I should have stopped him before – before.”

“Cat.” She muttered.

“What?” He frowned, confused.

“My friends call me Cat,” She explained, searching his eyes. “Please, call me Cat.”

His lips quirked a little and she pondered if that was the closest as a smile someone had ever seen on Stannis’ face.

“Cat.” He tried the sound of it.

Tears pricked on her eyes, no one had called that since she had left Riverrun. She had been so alone these past years; her marriage had been nothing like she had imagined in her maiden dreams. Curt, gruff, headstrong Stannis had been the closest to a friend she had. She looked down at his hands, yes gruff, but also dutiful, just and thoughtful, if not kind.

Catelyn didn’t know what came into her, maybe it was the certainty of how bleak her future would be or the knowledge that there was no escape from it, but she closed the space between them and pressed her lips against Stannis’s.

His lips were dry and warm, yet her stomach fluttered unexpectedly.

Stannis let out a shaky breath before tentatively pressing back against hers for a few glorious moments.

It ended as suddenly as it had begun.

He stepped back, panting heavily, looking at her face rattled but resolute.

“This can’t, won’t… occur again.” He assured.

“I’m…” She wasn’t sorry, but he was right. “It won’t.” She promised.

#asoiafedit #asoiaf rarepair #Catelyn Tully #Robert Baratheon #Stannis Baratheon #robert x catelyn #stannis x catelyn #pre asoiaf #pre asoiaf au #pregot #pregot au #another chance to win the fight

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malereader-inserts · 5 years ago

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If Not For You

Fandom: Game of Thrones Pairing: Cersei Lannister x Male!Targaryen!Reader Summary: A tale of what if, a tale of being loved like one should be Word Count: 1,461 A/n: This is a complete AU and suddenly Cersei is nice-ish, what if Jaime becomes the rude twin whereas Cersei becomes the considerate one?

“(Y/n) is a fine young lord.”

She hears that way too often that she’s resorted to scoffing, she was promised Rhaegar and comes betrothed to the second son. It wasn’t that she wanted the prince soon to be king, but she’s seen how pretty Rhaegar was, a fine prince of twenty.

“Be glad, sister dearest,” Jaime murmured, “At least (Y/n) is around our age.”

Age didn’t matter to Cersei, so be it that she was thirteen and the prince was seven years older. Cersei could tell that there was a bitter tone in Jaime’s voice, she paid no attention to it when she was more focused about being married to the middle child of the dragon children.

She did not know what you had looked like, all she could think that you were probably the least attractive man in all of the realm. She hadn’t heard tales of you in war, though there were few, she didn’t felt there was greatness to be bestowed to you.

She was very bitter about everything, she was promised Rhaegar.

And yet, when she stood at the front of her home standing by her father and her two brothers she hears you coming from the distant, grimacing at your boyish behaviour as she could hear a melodic laughter in the wind. Then, in came you in her view.

You were quite the man.

Riding in upon your black horse, your white hair sharp as snow with vibrant violet eyes that could glare daggers if need be. Your hair was long, like traditional Targaryen men, carefully braided. She noticed the dragon sigil on your armour and a charming smile.

She scoffs.

She hates to admit, you were prettier than your brother, more handsome more attractive. Perhaps, it was a blessing that you were closer in age, two years age gap as she found herself smiling at you when you approached her.

Jaime doesn’t miss her rosy cheek as you kiss her knuckles before addressing the rest of the family.

“Your grace,” Tywin addressed you, causing you to look over to him, Cersei noticed how the first time in years her father looked thrilled.

You were tall, there were muscles under your armour - she could tell, fifteen years old and you were already fighting battles were as Jaime was rolling his eyes, you weren’t special.

“Ah, Lord Tywin!” You greeted, nodding his way before looking at the boys, “And you two just be Jaime and Tyrion.”

“Yes, your grace,” Jaime nods, standing at full height, he couldn’t help but noticed how you much taller than him.

“I’ll be seeing more of you in Kings Landing,” You continue whilst Jaime seethes when you’re far too happy, “Your father tells me you are to join the King’s Guard once you finish rank to knighthood.”

Cersei looks at her twin then back at you, she adored Jaime. She wanted to continue to adoring him, but one look at you he was nothing compared to you. So, when she sees her twin look at you with a glare, that you’ve promptly ignored, she tries to hate you.

She really does, but with your kind nature, she can’t help not to.

“I despised you.”

“I’m aware,” You say, half asleep and slowly falling further asleep before jerking away when you felt a hand slap you on the chest, “What is it, dearest wife?”

“I was speaking to you,” Cersei hisses at you, she leaned her chin against your shoulder, “I despised you.”

You crack open one eye open to stare at her, to find her smiling at you fondly. Her fingers softly dancing across your scars from the rebellion. The rebellion had been a few months and you had been married to Cersei for three years now. Your father murdered by her brother whilst you and your brother Rhaegar fought side by side at the Trident.

The two of you had participated in the murder of Robert Baratheon. Leaving Rhaegar to be king, he had a coronation and suddenly he was a single father nursing the child of Lyanna Stark. News had spread fast about Lyanna and Rhaegar, the secret marriage and the son that was born.

“No, you didn’t,” You softly say, bringing your hand to move a fallen hair back behind her ear, “Your brother despised me.”

“He was jealous,”

“You were rude,” Cersei smacks your forehead, “Ow!”

You wince in pain at the violent hit, rubbing your temple as Cersei rolls her eyes before placing a soft kiss where she had struck you.

“Is that how you treat your wife?” She teased, interlocking her hand with yours, “What will happen to Jaime?”

“Rhaegar wants him executed for treason,” You explained, as Cersei’s face falls flat, “I have convinced my brother that Jaime should be sent to the wall, I don’t think I have ever seen your father more relieved by the news.”

“My brother has never been smart,”

“Perhaps,” You hummed, as Cersei rest her head against you as you bring your arm around her, “Though, between us, murdering my father was the smartest thing he has done.”

Cersei starts to sink in relaxation to your touch, your finger tracing circles on her upper arm. She never expected to fall in love with you.

“I love you (Y/n).”

“I’m aware.”

“They’ll get married, won’t they?”

You looked over to Cersei, many years had passed and yet she was surprised to find herself still infatuated with you. You turn to look at her with a gleam in your eyes.

“Aegon and Daenerys will learn to love each other,” You murmured, looking at the children who were both five years of age, “Family tradition, to keep our line pure.”

Rhaegar looking dishevelled after looking after Aegon whilst you were responsible in aiding the parenting of your younger siblings Viserion and Daenerys.

“And yet, you’ll be sending them to Essos? Why?” Cersei asked, questioningly.

“Rumours of Roberts’ brothers, Stannis and Renley are trying to declare war on our house. Sending my two younger siblings to Essos and Aegon to the North is the best course of action,” You says, looking over to her, “And you will find yourself home, back on Dragonstone.”

“I will not be-”

“Cersei, my dearest lion,” You speak with affection, caressing her cheek, “you may not be a damsel in distress, but I need my wife and my children safe.”

“And you’ll be here?” She asked, thumbing the fabric on your shoulder, “With your brother?”

“He’s my brother and we are stronger together. I fear Jaime may come back to pledge loyalty to the Baratheons and-”

“Kill him,” Cersei answers, without thinking before nodding her confirmation, “My brother would do anything to steal me away, I rather stay with you, I’d do whatever you want me to.”

“Then protect our children,” You insisted, a boyish grin she had learnt to love appearing, “Little Jaehaerys is very excited to be an older brother.”

You turn to cast your eyes to see your son, a year younger than your sister and his cousin, play with the rest of the children. You looked at Cersei, pregnant with your second child.

“The baby will be a princess,” You announced smugly.

“Perhaps, I’ll be allowed to name her this time.”

“Jaehaerys is a better name than Joffery,” You retaliated back, disgust evident when you say the name she had suggested.

“Myrcella,” Cersei had decided as you smile, nodding.

“Princess Myrcella Targaryen,” You say, fond of the name, “You’ve convinced me with your common names.”

“It’s not-!” She paused to see your teasing smile and amused eyes, “I wonder why I agreed to marry you.”

“You didn’t agree, you were forced,” You reminded her, “You’re lucky I had my eyes set on you when you visited Kingslanding when you were twelve and I was fourteen. Imagine marrying Robert Baratheon and act as a common whore.”

“Then, the realm would be a different place,”

“Aye, my lion, aye it will be,” You agreed, before tugging her to talk to your brother, “Be merry before we part, be in the children’s lives before we go back to our duties.”

Cersei looks at the dark-haired heir and her sister-in-law, who was very beautiful even at the age of five, playing with her little boy whilst the other middle child, Viserion was sitting about glaring. She takes in the moment and found herself incredibly lucky.

She would hate to think about a different ending to Robert’s rebellion, she was happy where she was. She wanted power when she was younger, but she found herself content - she may not be queen but she was a princess by marriage, and that was good enough for her.

“I love you, my dragon.”

“And I love you, my dearest lion.”

#cersei lannister #cersei lannister x male reader #cersei lannister imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of throne x male reader #x male reader

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sullybot · 4 years ago

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Fragile Flower - Oberyn AU part 1/?

Hey guys! My friend @okamixkeshin and I like to RP a lot of different things, and recently we have been REALLY obsessed with Pedro Pascal and his many roles. So, here are a few pages of our GoT AU where Oberyn lives. It is in RP style, so it can be a little rough to read, but I don’t have the time to re-edit and make it more streamline, so. Enjoy!

There will be smut. You have been warned.

“You know what it means to be a noble lady, Audra.” Tella, her mother, explained as she brushed through the long locks of silky auburn locks before carefully weaving her fingers through for a five row braid.

“Yes, mother.” Audra replied quietly, wincing slightly at the brush through her hair. She usually loved it when her mother did her hair instead of one of the handmaidens, but not today. Over the past year since the war for the Seven (now six) kingdoms had ended, both of her older sisters had been married off. Magdalene was married to Sandor Clegane, originally it was going to be Jon Snow, until he was banished. Ophelia, to Gendry, the last of the Baratheons. Audra was the youngest, having turned fifteen just the spring before. It was peak summer now and warm. Not too hot. They were the family of Pink Lady, near Clegane’s keep. Further North than King’s Landing, so it wasn’t quite as hot, which she was thankful for. She wasn’t one who did well in heat, not with her fair complexion. That made her nervous, also. The suitor supposedly picked for her was a Prince from Dorne, a man she’d heard of, but never seen. Oberyn Martell. She knew very little about him, other than his previous partner (they wouldn’t call her a ‘wife’, which made Audra dread meeting him) had died during the war, as well as all of their children (who were bastards, though, no one called them such).

She had no idea what to expect, only what was expected of her during this meeting.

“What are you going to do?” Tella questioned gently. She really did hate having to marry off all of her daughters like this, but what was she supposed to do? She had barely any footing, and what she did have was entirely because of how she’d assisted the North during the war.

“I am going to do what is expected of me.” Audra answered before letting out a long breath and continuing, “I will do everything I am able to, and do my best to seduce the prince of Dorne… He does not need to wed me, only bed me and leave me with child. If I have his child, you will speak with Queen Sansa of the North to allow the child to take our name so that we may secure ties with the Dornish, while also ensuring our family will have an heir.”

“That’s my girl. Good. They’ll be here before night fall. Make sure you see your maids and get all of your womanly needs situated before the Prince gets here. If he’s anything like he was before the war, he’ll bed you before morning.” Tella said, placing a gentle kiss atop her daughters head and smiling, “I love you, very much.” She said before leaving the room. “I know…” Audra said softly, closing her eyes and doing her very best not to cry.

Oberyn had long suffered through the war. After narrowly escaping one bad situation after the other he had returned to Dorne to ride out the rest of the godforsaken war. Now the war was over and things were calm, and he had been invited to spend a few weeks with the gracious Pink Lady family. He was looking forward to his time there as he had heard rumors of the family trying to marry him to one of their young daughters. He was a cobra and a resourceful spy. His people were the best in the business. So when he arrived he graciously retired to his room and took his dinner there after briefly greeting the lord of the house, claiming that he would dine with everyone in the morning. Satisfied with that he ate his dinner peacefully in his room and began to get ready for the night, changing into a pair of silk pants and sitting down on his bed with a lamp on the nightstand so he could read for a little while.

Audra and her handmaidens but so much effort into her that was ultimately, for the day, a complete waste. All of their Dornish guests retired to their rooms upon arrival and Audra had never even been given a chance to introduce herself. During dinner, all her mother did was lecture her about how she needed to find a way to meet the Dornish Prince and get him to bed her. Dinner was also full of 'delightful' tips for now to please a man, which Audra would rather have heard from literally anyone except her own mother. Knowing that her mother did these things made her lose her appetite. After dinner, she'd taken a candle to roam the halls, to find the room her mother had given to Oberyn for his stay. She stood outside the door quietly, her evening shawl wrapped over her shoulder. A shimmering midnight blue over the lilac of her day dress. She lifted a hand to knock on the wood, but her heart rate quickened and she couldn't. She couldn't muster the courage to do it and she turned, fleeing down the hall, up the stairs and into her own room. Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow was just as awful, if not worse. Her mother did her hair while lecturing her again, but much earlier now. Before the sun was up, to make sure she was proper for when the Princes awoke. She was in a pastel yellow dress now that laced up the front. It was tight, but the fabric was thin and flowing, showing as much of her womanly shape as possible. She stood in the great hall with her mother as they waited for breakfast, her blue eyes; exhausted. They were now waiting for the Martell's so they could all dine together this fine morning.

Oberyn had expected someone to slip into his room in the night, but aside from the soft footfalls that he heard outside his door before he retired to sleep, he didn’t hear anything else. He woke peacefully and well rested when the sun was just barely starting to show tendrils of light. No matter where he was, he always managed to wake before dawn. Years of training. He ventured through the palace and found a courtyard where he could train. He spent an hour there until the sun was finally peeking over the horizon and then returned to his room to wash up and change. He wore golden robes with yellow, red, and white embroidery, the signet of Dorne on the lapels and the back. Doran, his brother the first Prince, wore similar clothing though in purples and blues, and Oberyn took the challenge of wheeling his brother’s chair down to the dining room where people were gathered waiting for them. “Good morning to our gracious guests. I apologize, for neglecting you last night, but the trip was a very arduous one, and we thought it best to greet you all fresh faced.” Oberyn said with a soft forward bow before locating the spot meant for Doran and lining his chair up with the table before moving to the spot he was guided to.

"Mother, really?" Audra whispered as the two Dornish men entered the room, her eyes focused on the man in the chair and dreading every moment of her life that lead to this moment. This was the man she needed to bed? How cruel and unfair the gods were. She paid little attention to the man pushing the chair, though he is the one who spoke. Surely no one of great importance would have such a task. Tella grabbed Audra’s arm hard enough to make her wince and then slowly lead her over to the table. "Take a seat, Audra. Don't keep our guests waiting." Tella said, sitting Audra down across from the younger man who had been pushing the wheelchair. Tella took her own seat across from the chair bound man. "It is a pleasure to have you both at our table. Things have been quite lonely here in Pink Lady since the war. I am so sorry for your losses that you've suffered. I lost my husband and both of my sons, so I feel your sorrow." "My mother is correct, it's very nice to have company." Audra spoke, finally looking up from her plate. The man across from her was beautiful. Strong, well dressed, a kind face and beautiful dark hair and sun kissed skin. She wished her skin could look like that, but it only turned red with too much sun, and she ended up with more freckles when the stinging skin healed. Her eyes then traveled to the other man, who looked a few years older but had longer hair with streaks of gray. "My mother had hoped that having the company of strong men may make us feel less vulnerable in these trying times. It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Oberyn." Doran simply looked at her and chuckled softly to himself with a small shake of his head. "Someone must have gotten confused. I am Prince Doran." He said, lifting a hand to point over at Oberyn, "This is my brother, Oberyn." "W-what." Audra smiled, trying to hide the confusion and panic on her face as she looked up at Oberyn with wide blue eyes.

Oberyn took his seat after the women took theirs, pulling his chair up to the table silently and settling down with one hand resting on the table casually. “It is good to visit our allies, even in times of peace. Dorne is a close friend to those of the Pink Lady, and are always glad to pay you a visit.” He murmured, nodding his head gently to the two women, though when the beautiful young girl sitting across from him called his brother by the wrong name, a devilish grin crossed his lips, and he let Doran handle the interaction. “I do believe… that is the first time anyone has mistaken the two of us.” Oberyn mused, glancing over at his brother and chuckling softly before he turned his attention back to the girl across from him. “You are the youngest of the daughters, yes? Lady Audra, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He said gently, his smile gentle and disarming.

"We would love for you to stay as long as you see fit. We have our Summer festival in a fortnight and we would be honored if you would stay long enough to attend. It's quite the ball." Tella said with a smile before it quickly faded as Audra very spectacularly made a fool of herself. She only turned to look at her daughter to see how she would handle the situation. She didn't want to step in if she didn't have to. "Yes, I am." Audra responded with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I wasn't told anything about which of you was which. I'm sure that if I hadn't missed introductions yesterday when you arrived, I wouldn't have made such a foolish error. Please, forgive me. It's a pleasure to meet you as well, prince Oberyn." She said before looking at Doran, "And you as well, Prince Doran. It's an honor to have you as our guests. If there is anything we can do for you." She said before looking at Oberyn again and speaking a little more slowly, more sultry, "anything at all… please, let us know."

Oberyn chuckled gently and raised one shoulder lightly as she apologized, “There is no need. We decided that greeting everyone with fresh faces was more important than getting names right. It was an honest mistake.” He assured her, taking a few items from the center of the table and putting them on his plate, doing the same for his brother who couldn’t quite reach the items he wanted. He took a slow drink of juice from his goblet and set it down to look at Audra quizzically at her sultry offer. It made him wonder if the steps outside his room had been hers last night. “I will remember that. On our way through town I heard mention of market day, and I thought it might be interesting to venture down to the city to explore it.” He mused, “Perhaps you will accompany me, Lady Audra?” He asked, spearing a piece of sausage with his fork and taking a bite without taking his eyes off of her.

"I would love to show you around our palace and our town." Audra said, keeping the smile on her face. She was feeling more and more uncomfortable as his eyes never left her. It was like he was trying to look inside of her, into her head to see what she was up to. Surely he didn't have that sort of power. She managed to look away from him and grab her fork, starting to slowly eat some of the food on her plate. Though she didn't look at him, she could still feel his eyes on hers. "I've heard rumors that your eldest, Magdalene, is with child in Clegane’s Keep. Do you know anything of this, Lady Tella?" "Yes." Tella said with a small chuckle, "I received the raven last week sharing the good news, though I hadn't told anyone else yet. I'm surprised it took so long, really. They've been married almost a year. I had thought for sure she'd have been with child within the first month. Can't imagine he was the kind of man to wait for her comfort." She explained with a weary smile, "the letter was her handwriting, and I think she's excited. We are going to see her when you gentlemen head back to Dorne. Don't make that affect how long you'd like to stay. Children take nearly a year." "Maggie is with child, and you didn't tell me?" Audra said, looking up from her plate and turning to look at her mother. She remembered what The Hound looked like and it sent a chill down her spine. Her sister had to bed that man, probably often. Oh, poor Maggie… "I didn't want to tell you prematurely. Much can happen during a pregnancy." Tella said calmly, not looking at Audra. "I suppose now I'm only waiting on you and Ophelia to have children." "You'll be waiting for a while, mother. I'm not married yet. There aren't even any suitors lined up for me. There are so few families left." She said without thinking about who their guests were, for just that moment. "I'm sure Ophelia won't be far behind. She seemed to like Gendry."

“That is wonderful news. It is nice to hear of children to be born, after all the violence that the world has gone through.” Oberyn mused as he lowered his fork back to his plate and instead focusing on his food from where he had been staring at the young woman across the table from him. He needed to get his mind off of her. Despite the last interaction, and the footsteps he had heard the night before, it was highly unlikely that she was the one he had been expecting. A light chuckle left Oberyn when Audra protested, “Present company not included?” He asked teasingly, one of his dark eyebrows raised as he leaned back in his chair and took a long drink from his goblet again, having finished the food he had selected for himself. “My brother has two capable sons, and I am currently unencumbered. While I take no stock in rumors… I had heard some whispers that there was talk of a formal alliance with Dorne? Though my unreliable sources did not mention specifics.” He questioned playfully.

Tella opened her mouth to speak, to try and gently bat away his probing question, but Audra beat her to it. " Formal alliance with Dorne?" Audra questioned with one eyebrow raised. "I can assure you that my mother and I did not consider our customs when it comes to dealing with the Dornish." She said with a small shrug of her shoulder. "You seem mildly offended, 'present company not included', since when has a Dornish noble married? Let alone married outside of Dorne?" She questioned with one eyebrow slightly arched. "No. We hadn't considered Dorne, but if you're looking to make an exception, based upon what you see." She added, looking herself up and down before looking back at him, "Surely we would be willing to listen to what you had to offer." Audra could feel her heart beating as if it may crack her ribs, but her face was calm. That's what mattered. She couldn't see her mother's face, but Tella had never been more proud.

Oberyn grunted in amusement, “You wound me.” He joked lightly, enjoying the banter that she was engaging him with. She was amusing, and fiesty. It was a nice change. “I will have to take that into consideration.” He admitted and glanced at his brother, who was trying not to laugh into his breakfast. It was good to see his brother so amused with his younger brother's discomfort. “You have a very skilled negotiator for a daughter, Tella. You should be proud.” Oberyn praised her and set his glass down beside his empty plate. “I like her.” Doran chuckled into his breakfast, “She’s not afraid of you. Most women are too intimidated by your beauty to retaliate.” Doran snorted and took a drink.

"I am proud of all of my girls. They've grown up to be brilliant young ladies, as well as beautiful." Tella said with a bright smile while she spoke to Doran. Audra finished her meal quickly and looked to her mother, "I'm going to go prepare for the tour for prince Oberyn." She smiled, "may I be excused?" "Of course you may. Take the horses, why don't you? It'll be easier on the feet." "Of course. I'll saddle them myself." Audra smiled before standing. "I'll be in the stables whenever you are ready, Prince Oberyn." She smiled before walking out of the dining hall and outside to the stable to prepare for her day.

"I will be there shortly." Oberyn agreed with a slight bow of his head and excused himself from the table to return to his room. He changed into something more suitable for their adventures to the market, a more plain set of robes that would be easy to ride in. After running his fingers through his hair he headed down to the stables in hope of assisting with saddling his own horse.

Audra had finished saddling her horse and only begun on his when he appeared into the stables. "You really did follow quickly, and even changed." She laughed softly before turning back to the horse. He wasn't at all what she'd expected. After Maggie was married off to Sandor Clegane, she really didn't have high hopes of anyone good looking or even relatively young. This man could only be in his mid thirties or so, sure, a fair bit older than she, but not like the fifty-something lords that were married to girls her age before the war. "We could walk, if you'd rather. I'm sure you spent most of your journey here on horseback." She said before turning to face him, "unless… you'd rather start with our tour of the castle? I can show you some of my favorite rooms…" She said, attempting that slow and sultry tone with him again.

"You've already got them nearly ready. It would be a waste. Besides… Etherion needs the exercise. He gets antsy when left in the stables too long." He mused, patting the nose of his pitch black horse and walking around to adjust the saddle, deftly tightening a few straps and securing them firmly before he slid the bridle onto his head. "I'll take advantage of the tour of the castle once we get back." He assured her, glancing down at her with a faint smile. He almost appeared unaffected by her flirting. "Would you like a hand up?" He offered, nodding to her horse.

"I'd love a hand up." Audra said with a smile, trying not to be discouraged by his immunity to her seduction. She knew she wasn't the most seductive. She didn't have much in the way of practice, and from what she'd heard from her mother, Oberyn had nothing but practice. "City it is, and then later we will look at the rooms." She said before putting one foot in a stirrup on her beige and white horse, waiting for him to assist her before making another movement.

Despite his apparent indifference, Oberyn was not unaffected by her. She was beautiful, and her obvious attempts at flirting with him were endearing. He wanted to spend more time with her. He also wanted to hear her moan his name, but for now he would settle for this. Coming closer he came around behind her and settled his hands rather boldly on her hips. "Pardon me." He murmured in a deep rasp close to her ear and lifted with ease to help her up onto the horse. Once she was settled he adjusted her skirt behind her as if it was nothing and turned to his horse, easily pulling himself up and walking out of the stables to wait in the courtyard for her.

Audra gasped softly when she heard him beside her ear and got into her horse gracefully with his help, adjusting her dress and looking at him as he mounted his own horse. He was so strong and resilient. She couldn't help but stare at him and wonder what it would like to touch him. What his skin felt like. How hard his muscles were. She wanted to know all of these things. She followed him out of the stables and started to explain the sights and the buildings they passed through the afternoon. They went around the city and the market until the sun began to set over the horizon. Audra was well liked and well respected in her community. Everyone knew who she was and was pleased to see her, so pleased, that no one even questioned the presence of the Dornish Prince, only treated him kindly and offered him food and gifts, just as they did to her. "Thank you for the company this afternoon, Prince Oberyn." Audra smiled as she got back into the stables and dismounted her horse with ease, wincing slightly. Riding for that long wasn't her strong suit. "It really was a pleasant day for it."

Oberyn thoroughly enjoyed himself. He hadn't expected to come back with a bag full of gifts, but as he dismounted he had both that and the purchases he had made that day strapped to the back of his horse. He instructed a stable boy to have it taken to his room, and gave the child a small shiny coin to do it. He turned to face her when she spoke, a smile crossing his face as he lead his horse into the stall and began to strip off the tack. "It was my pleasure. Thank you for the tour of your lovely city." He said gently. After a quick brush down and a nose pat to his horse he helped her do the same and began to walk back to the palace with her. "You are quite looking quite pink, little flower." He mused, spotting something in the gardens on their way back to the palace. He stopped and crouched down to break a piece off of something that looked like a cactus. "Come here." He murmured, beckoning her to him.

"I unfortunately am quite pink. Hopefully it wasn't too bad. If I am lucky, itll have faded and been replaced by more freckles come the morning." Audra laughed gently, walking slowly with him back toward the castle. Her heart was already racing, knowing what she would need to do once they were inside. Did she want to do this before or after dinner? She didn't know. She didn't want to do it at all. Their time together had been short, but she liked him, and it felt dirty to use him for a child, the way her mother wanted her to. She eyed him curiously and came beside him, kneeling down carefully beside him. "You've found the Aloe Vera plant. They are lovely, aren't they? Mother hates them, which is why I grow them all the way out here. Father loved them. Said they were useful, though I don't know what he meant. I know very little about plants."

"Indeed. They are very useful." He explained, lowering himself onto one knee and breaking off a small piece of it. He peeled the outer skin away and rubbed his fingers along the center to gather the viscous gel from the inside. Satisfied he had enough he set the piece down on his thigh and reached over to cup her cheek with his free hand, "Hold still." He murmured softly. Cradling her chin, he began to apply the aloe to her face, gently covering the worst of the sunburn and then applying more to his fingers to rub into the rest of her sunburn. His fingers were gentle and feather light. "It is very effective on sunburns."

Audra watched him with intense curiosity as he opened the leaf and touched the sticky substance inside. She was so focused, she wasn't prepared for him to grab her chin. She gasped in surprise and looked at him, looking into those lovely brown eyes and wanting to kiss him. She understood now what her mother meant, about how this man affected women. She was blushing, but it couldn't be seen past the sunburn on her cheeks. "It feels cold." She remarked softly with a timid smile. "It already feels better."

"If you let it soak in and can resist the urge to rub it, it will get better by nightfall." He explained softly, very much aware of the effect he was having on her. The urge to kiss her was very intense, but he ignored it. Instead he finished applying the gel to her face and slowly stood, taking her hands in his and helping her to her feet. "Perhaps tomorrow I will take you up on your offer to show me the palace." He mused, his hands lingering a moment before he loosened his grip to let her pull away.

Audra smiled and thanked him quietly when he helped her to stand. She swallowed hard and said something, though it was hard. "Wait. You've missed a spot…" She said gently when he released. She didn't move her hands from his until she reached up to touch the sun kissed skin of her chest. Her cleavage that her dress didn't cover. "I think this area could use some attention too, don't you think? It would be such a shame I'd this is the part of me that was sensitive and burned after today, don't you agree?"

"It would be a damn same, wouldn't it?" Oberyn agreed, a soft chuckle leaving him as he broke off another small piece and squeezed it onto his fingers. He stepped closer to her, so close that her breasts almost brushed his chest, and gently began to rub the gel into the tender pink skin of her cleavage, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm surprised… I didn't expect a young flower like you to be so bold." he teased her, lifting his head to glance around them a moment before his free hand slid between them and lightly grazed the underside of her breasts through her dress as he worked on the exposed sunburned area.

"Don't underestimate quiet flowers…" Audra said with a playful smile before looking away from him briefly as his hand touched her cleavage, the gel cool and soothing against her hot skin. This was the only time she'd been thankful for the pink skin, for it hid her blush. "I'm usually not so bold, but a lot of the remaining lords in this part of the country aren't worthy of it, either." She tried to explain. She didn't want to call them all far, lazy slobs, but that's really the truth of it. Old men with no fire left in them, who certainly didn't deserve someone like her. She gasped and looked back up at him when his other hand briefly brushed her breast before going onto her cleavage. "How scandalous…"

"Hardly scandalous." Oberyn mused playfully. He withdrew his hand from her cleavage and wiped his fingers on his pants. "But if anyone saw this…" he whispered playfully and curled a hand around her hip as he dipped his head and kissed her suddenly. He didn't hesitate, his movements slow and purposeful as he kissed her thoroughly and held her close to him with one hand, the other still hidden between their bodies where it slid up just enough to palm her breast and lightly tweak the hidden pebble of her nipple through the fabric.

"Oh really? The Dornish really do have different ideas of what is a sc-" Audra was cut short by his lips meeting her own. Her eyes went wide and she didn't know what to do with herself. Her impulse was to push him away and slap him, but that would be bad for the alliance. She could already hear her mother yelling at her. She placed her arms on his biceps and squeezed nervously before letting out a small cry of surprise as his hand touched her breast and applied pressure to her nipple, which grew instantly erect. No one had ever touched her like that before, let alone so boldly. She finally broke the kiss and used her grip on his arms to step back from him. "Please! Prince Oberyn, think of my reputation. Please at least wait until our evening tour of the castle where no one can see us."

Oberyn pulled back when she pushed at his arms, pulling his hands away from her and watching her flushed reaction with a smile. Even with her sunburn it was obvious now. "Maybe you didn't notice, but the garden is quite secluded." He purred with a light chuckle. "Perhaps I was too forward. You lingered outside my room last night… I thought you were prepared for this sort of thing." He murmured softly, and nodding towards the castle. "Let's return. I'm famished and I'm sure dinner is waiting."

"Not secluded enough. There are eyes everywhere." Audra managed to tease, regaining her composure after only a few short moments. She wanted to kiss him again. She hadn't even been able to enjoy it because she was so nervous. His mustache was soft and his lips were warm. The muscles of his arms were so hard. She wanted him to pick her up and pin her against the wall. "I didn't know if you were still awake and I hadn't wanted to bother you." She said, not denying that she'd been outside his door. "Perhaps tonight will work better. You'd be expecting me, and there wouldn't be eyes or ears trying to spread rumors through our city."

"I see." Oberyn murmured and watched her as they walked back towards the castle. "Come by tonight then. I'll be waiting for you once night falls." He purred playfully and caught her hand in his briefly to bring it up to his lips and press a kiss to her palm before letting go of her reluctantly and walking up the stairs to open the door for her.

"I'll be there as soon as mother is asleep." Audra assured him, unable to keep herself from smiling as he kissed her palm and released her. She walked inside and disappeared down a hall. She showed up for dinner, having cleaned herself up from their travels earlier in the day. Tella was still doing her best to attempt to charm and disarm Doran. Audra wasn't sure, but she assumed she was trying to distract him long enough for her to bed Oberyn. If that was the case, she wouldn't have to try for much longer.

@reylo-hope Here is the chapter I promised you. I’ll post another one soon, if you like this. (The smut comes soon)

#oberyn #oberyn smut #oberyn x oc #oberyn lives #he killed the mountain #got #gameofthrones #i don't own anything #if you think of more tags feel free to add

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thatlittlered · 5 years ago

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Vows | Chapter Three

Summary: A faithful dog or a broken man… Whatever the case, Sandor has taken vows he does not intend on breaking.

Series Masterlist.

The cloak remains on your shoulders, a heavy reminder of your new title.

You hear the door open and close but keep your eyes on the view from the small window, the sun setting and melting into a beautiful accord of pinks and yellows. It almost calms your nerves, just almost.

His steps are loud, they’ve always been but in the confined space of these quarters, they seem deafening. You can’t help but flinch, which he notices, gathers you’re afraid of him.

Wrong. It’s not him that you fear, but your new circumstances.

He pours himself a glass of wine, the good kind you would only find in the king’s court. A gift from Tyrion Lannister, along with a request that he does not harm the older Stark girl. As if he would ever.

“Stare at it all ye want, the sky’s not goin’ to change its fucking colors.”

“It will, by nighttime.” Sandor snorts at that and realizes you truly are a Stark, clever answers always at the edge of your tongue.

“That’s a long time to stare a’ nothing.”

You turn to him, shift your body enough so that you’re facing the man they call ‘Hound’, the fearsome warrior and now, your husband.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, how ‘bout ye have a drink and stop shaking like a fish?”

“I cannot help it, my lord.”

The man scoffs and it’s loud and graceless just like everything else about him.

“I’m no fucking lord, girl. And there’s no need to be so scared, I won’t lay a hand on ye.”

He watches your eyes widen, beautiful features of the north lifting in shock.

“But you’re my lord husband-“

“I’m just a dog following orders, nothin’ more. Because ye see, little bird, one day a pretty little lord of some house will come your way and try to wed and bed ye and certainly won’t appreciate finding out you were spoiled by some brat king’s dog.”

Lovely eyebrows almost meet in a frown, relief washing over you before a newfound curiosity sneaks its way inside your brain.

“You seem awfully convinced that our marriage shall be forgotten as fast as it was ordered. You must not have a lot of faith in your king’s reign then.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, an almost smile, but it’s one you’ve never before witnessed on this man.

“Let’s call it a hunch, girl. So drink some wine, lock the door and take the bed for the night.”

He makes to stand and immediately, you feel impossibly small compared to his size.

When your mouth makes out words, it’s a whisper, “And where will you lay?”

“Nowhere near your noble virtues, rest assured.”

He stands to leave, one large hand grabbing the bottle and another the door.

“Get some rest, little bird. Noone’s gonna touch ye in here.”

And you do.

◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇

Eleven nights and eleven mornings come and go. Noone dares set foot in your chambers except for the doting handmaidens and sweet Sansa, ever prepared to weep for your misfortune. She begs for the truth, that you share your burdens with her and confess the monstrosities of your husband.

There is no such thing to share.

Sandor remains but a shadow in your life. Nothing but fleeting glances of him when you do leave the quarters you’re supposed to share. Your handmaiden swears she will speak nothing of his absence and calls this union your best chance at safety in this city.

The Hound’s lady wife now more than ever seems unapproachable. The king himself seems to neglect your presence in the court, rather focused on the impending threat that is Stannis Baratheon. He is content to let you suffer in the hands of his dog, for now, longs for the sight of bruises and misery on you next time your paths cross.

So for now, there is quietness. The days are idled away, resting on armchairs near the window and taking walks in the most secluded parts of the gardens, admiring all you had hated upon your arrival.

The quietness makes everything beautiful and you find yourself entranced by blends of pink and yellow flowers. It dawns on you then, just how far away from home you are, far from the northern winds and Godswood.

For the rest of the morn, there is an odd sadness following you. When before your mind was plagued by thoughts of your family, now images of your home flood it. Beds with furs and the never-ending lessons with Septa Mordane who once slapped you for ruining Sansa’s needlework after you took the blame for Arya’s antics.

What you wouldn’t give to go back in the days when a septa’s rage was the worst thing to fear.

The last rays of sunlight for the day kiss the water of Blackwater Bay and light escapes your chambers. For the longest time, your hands are weaving through curls, braiding and unbraiding with no purpose.

A bowl of grapes lies untouched on the small table that’s stained with wine, the only other piece of furniture in here save for the bed and armchair.

Sandor Clegane is either a modest man, or entirely indifferent.

Your eyes fall on the expensive fabric tossed beside the bed, all butterscotch yellow and black thread embroideries with your husband’s sigil. It’s the same cloak he lay on your shoulders just days ago, large and warm like the man himself.

The man whose eyes never leave you once they find you but spends his every night in another’s bed.

The man who always barks at you to mind your own business and yet respects you enough to never touch you.

That mystery of a man whom you fear and respect all the same… your lord husband.

◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇

Tags: @love-and-marij @blackwires @captainbuckyboobear @shxrrybomb @well-aint-that-strange @sunflowersandstringlights @bckybrnesrp @thatcutewerewolf @fallatyourfeet @immortalmurphy @iicelland @dorned @modblink @awolfhasnoname @maxinikins @raindancemaggi3 @rainyforrest @evelynfreakinaddams @cleganegirl @wildmaelstrom @ciccithedreamer @simplybrandielaine @captainmarvelfuckedmeup @the-anchored-sailor-girl @tessimagines @valhalla-ally @cha0tic-neutral @slytherh0e @sister-beehive @doitliketennant @anita-e-taylor @emithefangirl @fandomsfanman @iceinhermind @67impalagirl13 @imalittlebean @podthesquiz @scarstrashywritings @missespiruette @homesoutofhuman @ixybirdflower @0midnightheart @jordancollier133

#sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #sandor clegane imagine #sandor clegane series #the hound #the hound x reader #new series #vows #rory mccann #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones series

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multi-fandom-imagines8 · 6 years ago

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A Good Wife

Request: Hi there! 😀Can I request a Jaime Lannister one-shot, where he falls in love with the eldest of the Stark children and Robb's older twin sister? Robert felt the need to unite the Great Houses even more, so he decided to strip Jaime of his 'Sir' title and betrothe him and the Reader (much to her family's dismay and Robb's anger).Robb is her closest and best friend, and when the war between the kings starts, R flees from King's Landing back to her brother's side, much to Jaime's shock and hurt. Requested by @witch-of-letters

Warnings: death (but I think everyone who watched the first season knows who’s”, swearing?

Word Count: 1948.

Sansa was always the one who wanted to marry quickly and preferably a prince or a king. Arya wanted to be a warrior and hated being a lady. You were in the middle. You trained with Robb, Jon and Theon but also took ‘ladies’ courses like sewing, behaving etc. You were the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark so you had to be a role model for both your sisters and your brothers.

After the ‘usurper’ king Robert Baratheon visited Winterfell, both his ‘son’ Joffrey and Sansa showed interest in e each other. He asked your father to become hand of the king and wanted to unify the two houses by marrying Joffrey to Sansa. Ned wasn’t pleased but he accepted because Robert was the king and he was his friend. Not to mention, he was an honorable man and never wanted to cause trouble. The other reason that made his accept is because he wanted to marry you to Jaime Lannister.

“Robb! Y/n, I need to talk to you” he interrupted your duel with Robb.

“Someone’s in trouble’ Robb teased.

“Shut up” you left with your father to your chamber where he told you to sit down and have a drink for this.

“What’s wrong, father?” You saw the discomfort on his eyes.

“I never forced anything on you, have I?”.

“Never”.

“Daughter, I need you to do something for our house. You are to marry Ser Jaime Lannister”.

“What? The queen’s brother? No, I don’t want to. He’s arrogant and I don’t want to leave the north. This is my home” you refused.

“Y/n, please. I’ve never asked you for anything. You have to do this for the greater good. If Sansa is to marry Joffrey, I need to make sure that she’s safe. That you’ll be with her”.

“But you’re hand of the king now, you’ll be there for her”.

“I won’t have the time. I will be busy attending meetings and dealing with the realm’s issues. Besides, who knows for how long I’ll serve and what about after I’m dead? She’ll be all alone in the south”.

“Don’t say that, please! You’re going to live a long and happy life. I will do as you say, but only for our house”.

“Thank you, it’s a great responsibility but I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling it. I knew I could count on you” he embraced you and kissed your forehead.

“And winter is coming!” He reminded you.

When Robert told Jaime, he refused. But Robert stripped him of his title and threatened to kill him if He doesn’t obey his command. He had to accept and went to tell Cersei. She tried to convince Robert, but to no use. Cersei hated you and from that day she treated you badly.

You requested that the wedding take place in Winterfell where your whole family was and could attend and Robert approved.

“So you’re really getting married” Robb entered your room as you were preparing.

“I wish I didn’t have to” you expressed.

“Leave us” Robb dismissed your ladies so you could have a private conversation.

“Then why did you agree to do it?” He asked.

“It was father’s wish. The king suggested it to unify our houses and father couldn’t refuse, you know him” you informed Robb.

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll stop the wedding- I’ll convince him” Robb wanted to help you so bad.

“It’s too late, Robb. The wedding is in a few hours. Besides, I have already agreed” you put your hand on his upper arm to comfort him, even when you were the one who needed comforting.

“Is there something I can do?”.

“Just hold me” and so he wrapped his hands around you and rested his head on yours.

“I wish the queen had a sister. Maybe then, you’d have to marry her and I’d stay here” you joked.

“I can still do that”.

“What? Marry Jaime?”.

“Sure. He has long blond hair and kind of looks like his sister” he tried to cheer you up and it worked.

After the wedding, you waited in your chamber for Jaime to come. He eventually came… late when you almost fell asleep.

“My lord” you courtesied.

He ignored you and poured himself some wine, but he was already drunk. You could see that he was forced into this, so you wanted to ease the tension between you. You walked towards him and held his hand, taking the cup from it “let me”.

“I don’t know how you imagined this marriage to be. I do not want you. I will not touch you or sleep with you. We will have separate rooms when we get back to King’s landing. You are not to interfere with my business or ask me questions about my whereabouts. I will fuck whoever I want and I expect you to not get jealous. We will only see each other at feast and formal events, where we pretend to love and care for each other. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be” he rudely instructed and left the room.

You were in shock at first. You felt offended but then relieved that you didn’t have to sleep with him.

Months went by and you only saw Jaime a couple of times. You felt lonely and missed Winterfell and your family. Sansa was still here, but she wasn’t Robb and only talked about herself. Ned was also there, but he was too busy, that sometimes you even tried to help him out of boredom.

One night, someone knocked on your door. You weren’t sure if you should open it or not. After all, you were alone and nobody usually knocks at that time. But you decided to take the chances. To your surprise, it was Jaime… drunk.

“Are you going to invite me in or are we going to stand here all night?” He boldly asked.

“Come on in”.

“Do you have wine?”.

“You’re already drunk. What do you want, Jaime?” You crossed your arms.

“I- I just needed to talk to someone” tears were forming in his eyes.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” You sat next to him at the edge of the bed.

“It’s uhm Cersei”.

“What about her?”.

“She- uh- she…I can’t. I shouldn’t. I’ll get in trouble if I told you”.

“Jaime, I know about your relationship with Cersei” you admitted.

“What? How?”.

“I have eyes and ears”.

“And you haven’t told anyone. Why?”.

“What kind of wife would I be if I did that?” You chuckled.

“Since you know, I can tell you. She refused me tonight and sent me away. I can’t bare to be apart from her” he confessed.

“It’s alright. I’m here for you” you wrapped your arm around him and he rested his head on your chest. There was silence in the room for a moment before he spoke “you’re a good wife, Y/n! Thank you” he lifted his head and kissed you.

You pulled back from surprise and asked “what are you doing?”.

“Treating you like a wife” he pushed you on the bed and was now on top of you kissing your lips and neck.

“Stop! We shouldn’t do this”.

“But we’re married”.

“That does not make it right. I don’t love you and you love your sister. You're drunk and you’re hurt. You’ll regret this in the morning. You just want a distraction and I can’t be it. If you want to forget, go fuck a whore” you pushed him and moved from beneath him, walking to the door and opening it for him.

“Now, leave, please!”.

The next day, you were walking with Sansa in the garden when he approached you.

“My lady! Y/n! Can I borrow your sister for a moment?” He asked Sansa.

“Of course” she left you two to talk.

“I just wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. Please forgive me. I promise, I’ll never come near your chambers again”.

“It’s alright, you were drunk. I forgive you. Don’t make such promises”.

“What does that mean?”.

“I’ve thought about it. If you want us to be really husband and wife, I will give you a chance. You can visit my chambers tonight” and with those words, your marriage truly began. You were happy for a time. You even fell in love with each other until the worst day came upon you. The king died, your father found the truth about Cersei and Jaime and the parentage of the sons and daughter of the queen. She imprisoned him and he was to be executed. You begged Jaime to do something, but it was to no use. Cersei and Joffrey told him to admit that what he said was a lie and confess his treason. And he did for your sake and Sansa’s, but Joffrey beheaded him to everyone’s shock. Sansa begged Cersei to spare her life and she did because she was still young and betrothed to Joffrey. The way she saw it was that she has the north in her grip, having Sansa as a hostage for them to not rebel against the throne. And she also had the chance to kill you, but Jaime defended you.“She’s her father’s daughter. She’s as much traitorous as he was”.

“No, she’s not and you know it. And if it were true, you would’ve executed Sansa too”.

“She’s just a child and she’s to be Joffrey’s wife”.

“And Y/n’s my wife!” He yelled at her.

“Only in name. You don’t love her, step aside”.

“I do love her! And she.is.my wife! Not in name only. She had nothing to do with what Ned Stark did. Now leave her be. She is a Lannister now! Just accept it”.

You were sitting by the door on the other end of the wall, listening. That’s when you remembered you are a Stark and you always will be no matter what or who you marry. It was time to go home. It was time to reunite with your family.

At night, you managed to pack a few things and sneaked snuck off to Sansa’s chamber.

“Wake up. Shhh! It’s only me. We have to go”.

“We can’t. They’ll kill us” Sansa was terrified.

“There is a chance, yes. But if we stay here, we’re as good as dead. Come with me, sister”.

“I can’t. If you- if you survive and get to Robb, don’t forget about me. Tell him to come and get me” Sansa refused to leave, so you had no other choice but to leave her behind. You said your goodbyes and were about to get on your horse when you heard his voice.

“So you’re going to abandon me?”.

“I have to go, Jaime. It’s not safe for me here”.

“I’ll protect you”.

“You can’t. Not when it comes to Cersei”.

“Please stay”.

“I have to go home. I’ve been here too long that I started to forget who I am”.

“You’re my wife”.

“I am a Stark and I always will be”.

“You’re a Lannister”.

“No. You are. Your sister is. Your bastard son who murdered my father is. I’ll never be a part of this hateful family”.

“You don’t mean that”.

“I do. Every word I said, I mean it” you tried to hurt him to make it easier for the both of you, but he knew better.

“I love you”.

“But I- I don’t” tears were forming in both of your eyes.

“You’re lying. I know you love me. You’re free! Go to your family! Be happy!” He didn't want you to feel guilty, so he pretended to be okay with you leaving.

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favefandomimagines · 6 years ago

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Completely Enamored (r.s.)

Summary: Your eldest brother, Robert Baratheon, has decided to marry you off to Ned Stark’s oldest son. Neither of you want it, neither of you know how to get out of it. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

AN: this is a little different!! i have recently started watching game of thrones and have fallen in love with robb stark. yes i know what happens to him and i’m not okay SO this is my coping mechanism. ENJOY xx

Warning: only Theon saying a swear word

“I simply do not understand why I must be the one to do this. Especially when Joffrey is of age, you plan to have him marry Ned’s daughter.” You complained to your brother, Robert. “Because my dear sister, we need to make our alliances stronger than ever.” He answered

“Ned Stark is beyond loyal to you. You don’t need me to marry his son to solidify that.” You rebutted. “Daenerys Targaryen is being given to Kahl Drogo. She has an army now and if I am to avenge my love then I need this.” Robert said, his voice stern.

Robert knew better than to yell at you. Because you may look beautiful and fragile on the outside, the inside is strong and fierce.

“You cannot use losing her as probable cause to marry of your younger sister.” You snapped. “It has already been decided, Y/N. You are marrying Robb Stark and we leave for Winterfell in the morning.” Robert concluded. You glared at your older brother before exiting his chambers, but not without slamming the door.

“I don’t even have a say in the matter? You are just deciding that I am to marry Y/N Baratheon?” Robb asked his father, after hearing of the news that you two were to marry. “We need to strengthen our alliance. The King says it has to be done.” Ned replied.

Robb was furious. Not only was he being ordered to do this, but he’d lose his sense of freedom. A wife would stop him from doing all of the things he loved most. “It’s been decided, Robb. The King and Queen will be leaving Kings Landing in the morning.” His father added.

Robb sent him a glare before storming out of the room.

The journey to Winterfell was long and difficult and you didn’t think you could spend another month, trapped in a carriage with your nephew.

“Now, Y/N, you are betrothed to Robb Stark. Make a good impression.” Cersei told you. “I fully intend to do so.” You replied. “I was betrothed to your brother and now I’m queen.” She added. “You despise each other. And I am almost certain he’s been with every woman in Lord Baelish’s brothel.” You said.

Cersei swallowed before she put on her signature fake smile. Call yourself a romantic, but being in a loveless marriage was something you never wanted to face. You wanted to marry someone for love, not power. But Robert had other arrangements for you.

The carriage stopped in front of what you assumed to be the Stark family.

“Are you excited?” Sansa whispered to Robb. He looked down at his sister before he returned his gaze to the gold and red carriage. “What if she hates me? What if I hate her?” He asked.

“Y/N Baratheon is said to be the most beautiful and gracious member of house Baratheon. It will not be possible for you to hate her.” Sansa told him. “That will not stop her from hating me.” Robb said.

Sansa rolled her eyes slightly as Robert greeted her father warmly. Cersei stepped out of the carriage, followed by Joffrey and then you.

Jamie got off his horse to assist you with exiting the carriage. “You look nervous.” He whispered to you. You looked up at him and nodded your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I am petrified. What if he hates me?” You asked him.

“It is nearly impossible to hate you, my lady.” Jamie replied.

Jamie was a bit of a “suck up” when it came to you. He knew well, as did all of the seven realms, that you were Robert’s favorite sibling. Therefore, a friend of yours is a friend of his, which is a very useful title.

“May I present my sister, Y/N Baratheon.” Robert said, grabbing your hand. “Y/N, you remember Lord Eddard Stark.” He added. You looked up at Ned and smiled before bowing courteously.

“Yes. Very good to see you, my lord.” You greeted him. “You as well, Lady Y/N.” Ned replied. “May I introduce my children. Rickon, our youngest, Bran, Arya, Sansa and Robb.” He added.

You greeted them all with kind smiles, especially the younger ones, as they seemed a bit overwhelmed. Your eyes landed on Robb and you gave him an even sweeter smile. He looked at you and it felt as if you two were the only people present. ‘Maybe this won’t be so bad after all’ He thought.

As everyone dispersed, you noticed Sansa looking longingly at your nephew.

“I see you have noticed Joffrey.” You said approaching her. She looked over at you, a look of embarrassment etched across her face. “My apologies, my lady.” She said to you. “It’s quite alright.” You told her with a smile.

All the while, Robb was watching you interact with his younger sister. As well as completely ignoring what Jon was saying.

“Can you keep a secret?” You asked her in a hush tone. Sansa smiled wildly at you as she nodded. “I overheard my brother and the queen talking and I have reason to believe that they are arranging to have you and Joffrey wed when you are both of age.” You said.

Sansa’s face lit up, giddy with excitement over the thought of marrying Joffrey. She smiled at you even bigger before hugging you and running off.

You chuckled a bit, coming to the conclusion that she was a very sweet girl.

“Should you have told her that?” You heard a deep voice ask. You turn around and see the eldest Stark walking slowly towards you. “Probably not, but, I spoke truthfully.” You answered.

Silence fell upon the two of you before Robb remembered who you were. “Uh, apologies, my lady. I am Robb Stark.” He stammered bowing to you. You laughed again, which was music to his ears.

“Please, call me Y/N.” You told him. “If we are to be married, there is no need for titles.” You added. Robb stood up straighter and smiled at you. “I suppose you’re right.” He said.

“So tell me, Robb, is it always this cold in Winterfell?” You asked, pulling your cloak tightly around you, trying to keep warm. Robb didn’t give you a verbal response, instead he took off his own furs and wrapped them around your shoulders.

“We can’t have you freezing to death now can we?” He said to, his face only a few inches from yours. “Thank you.” You said.

Robb backed away from you to make sure he didn’t overstep. “Y/N,” You beard Cersei call you. You turned your head to look at your sister-in-law, signaling her to keep speaking. “We must get you ready for the feast.” She finished.

You nodded your head to her, before she retreated back inside. “I have been summoned.” You said to Robb. “I will see you at the feast, my lady.” He said. You gave him a playful glare, him laughing slightly.

“I will see you at the feast, Y/N.” He corrected. You gave him a smile, nodding your head curtly. “Much better.” You told him before heading towards your chambers.

—-

“Is being here as bad as you thought?” Cersei asked you, as your handmaiden was doing your hair. “It’s freezing, the sun hasn’t been out once and the men here are, uh, unconventional. But, after meeting Robb Stark, all of that has disappeared.” You answered.

Cersei remained quiet as she nodded her head. She silently envied you. Though you were her sister-in-law and you never did anything to upset her, she envied how lucky you got. You were forced to marry someone and the both of you just so happened to be enamored with each other.

“We do not wish to be late.” She spoke as she stood up from her seat. You followed her out of the room and towards where the feast was being held.

You sat next to Cersei and Lady Catelyn, not being allowed to sit amongst the Stark siblings. Who were soon to become your siblings as well.

Robb was seated next to Theon Greyjoy. Almost the entire time, his eyes never left you.

“Robb, are you listening?” Theon asked his friend. “Yes, yes, I’m listening.” Robb answered, snapping back into reality. “You keep staring at Y/N Baratheon.” Theon pointed out. “You’re one of the lucky ones. There could be uglier whores to marry.” He added.

Robb slammed his cup onto the table and looked at him. “Do not call her that.” He snapped. Theon glared back at his friend before returning to his food.

The eldest Stark watched you carefully as you were conversing with his mother, you smiling and genuinely interested in the conversation you were having. He found it impossible not to stare at you. You just took his breath away.

“Tell me, Lady Y/N, how are you enjoying Winterfell?” Lady Catelyn asked you. “If I may be so bold, your son has made my arrival much better.” You answered.

Lady Catelyn smiled at you, very relieved to hear that from you.

As you continued to talk with Lady Catelyn, you noticed Robb get up and leave the feast rather early. You were a bit upset you didn’t get to talk to him as much as you would like, but your brother forbade you from being in the middle of a bunch of drunk men.

A few minutes have passed, when Sansa approached you. “Lady Y/N, Robb wishes to see you in his chambers.” She told you. You smiled at her warmly as you stood up, excusing yourself politely. You wrapped your clock around your body before making your way out of the room.

You received where to go from Sansa, since you had no idea where to go. When you arrived, you knocked on the door softly.

It opened quickly and there stood Robb. “I thought you weren’t going to come.” He said. “When my future husband requests my presence, it would be rude not to come.” You answered.

Robb smiled down at you before he moved aside to let you into the room. You removed your cloak due to the fire that was started in the fireplace. “If you do not mind me asking, why did you ask me here?” You asked facing him.

“We never got a the opportunity to talk more before the feast.” Robb answered. You sat on the edge of the bed as Robb sat next to you. It should have been an uncomfortable and awkward situation but it didn’t feel as such to the both of you.

You talked for hours, telling each other every detail of each other’s lives. It had only been a day and yet you felt like you’ve known Robb your entire life. Of course you knew of each other but never on an intimate level.

Robb had been listening to you talk about growing up with all brothers, when he noticed that the sun was rising.

“It looks like you have been here all night.” He commented. Your eyes widened as you turned around to look out the window. “Oh, I am so sorry.” You apologized standing up from the bed. “It’s okay, really. I loved being able to talk to you. To get to know you.” Robb said, following suit.

You picked up your cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders. Robb walked towards you and grabbed the strings and began to tie it closed for you.

“We’ve only known each other for a mere day and yet I have found myself completely enamored with you.” He said. You looked up and smiled at him before you pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“I’m completely enamored with you as well.” You whispered to him before turning to leave.

Robb watched you walk out, a smile forming on his face. ‘This will not be as bad as I thought.’

**I’m thinking of doing a part 2 to this, maybe a part 3. So if you’d be interested in that, let me know!! If I don’t get any feedback, I’ll probably leave it at this!**

#game of thrones #robb stark #jon snow #sansa stark #arya stark #theon greyjoy #cersei lannister #jamie lannister #joffrey baratheon #robb stark imagine #imagine

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asoiafdrabbles · 4 years ago

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II.46

With his firstborn child staring up at him with eyes it shouldn't have, Jon Baratheon's entire world falls apart.

Margaery/Jon (Nearly Everyone Survives the Rebellion AU)

Jon stared at the babe, feeling sick.

"Your great-grandmother," Margaery rushed to say, gripping their son desperately, "she was a Targaryen. That could--"

He laughed, and the sound was broken, fragile. Madness, he thought, hysteria building, there's madness in my blood.

"It's not that and you know it's not. That--our enemy was right."

For almost all his life the deposed King-Across-the-Sea, the Targaryen that had abducted his mother, had claimed Jon was his son. Nothing his mother said or did, none of his father's assurances, had stopped the lizard's insistence.

And he'd been right the whole time.

"I'm not a Baratheon. He's," Jon looked at their son, tears coming to his eyes, "he's not. By the gods, Marge, when father--when the King finds out--"

They were at Highgarden, the only boon in this situation. Margaery had asked to give birth in the comfort of her childhood home and his father had given them leave, though reluctantly. The midwife, the maester, all of the servants around them were the Tyrell's. They would put the blood of their liege before Robert Baratheons, especially as many still held some loyalty to the Targaryens--one of the reasons Jon had married the sole daughter of the Lord of the Reach to begin with.

His father--his supposed father--would not be running through the halls ready to murder the dragonspawn in their midst here.

"I will call for my family," Margaery said, finally, her voice the silk-wrapped steel he had grown to love. "Grandmother and Willas will be able to help us in this. If only it was the hair...we could have dyed the hair...."

But of course, when the rest of the Tyrells arrived, after Margaery cleaned up and the wetnurse fed their son, things got even worse for Jon. They wanted his son on the throne, their blood on the throne, and knew that King Robert would never allow it.

Rhaegar, though, could be persuaded. His eldest son was still his heir, but had only two daughters. The general mirth in the room made Jon feel sick.

Had his mother lied? he wondered as he blocked out his good-family's plotting. Had she known all along or simply hoped he was Robert's?

His parents had never gotten along well, but they had worked on it. Robert slept around, but was careful of bastards. Lyanna had hobbies that were frowned upon in a highborn woman, but with the king's full consent. They both loved Jon and mourned the fact she couldn't have anymore children.

Robert had no trueborn children. Only two bastards, as far as Jon knew. Stannis had a daughter. Renly had no children, would never have any children.

The Tyrells were right, this could be the end of Robert's reign.

Jon's stomach lurched and he stood, leaving the room without bothering with excuses. When Rhaegar found out...he could only imagine how much gloating there would be.

From the first moment they'd met, Rhaegar had treated him as though he were a rebellious child. Sometimes perhaps even a fool.

In the brief battles, when none of the Targaryen loyalists would lay a finger on Jon except...except his brother, he supposed, now, feeling sicker still. His older brother, who enjoyed knocking him around but never seriously injuring him. Who would sometimes go so far as to lecture Jon on his footwork or grip right there in the battlefield. Who had always believed their father about Jon's identity.

In the attempts at negotiation, Rhaegar would insist Jon be acknowledged as a Targaryen and given to his 'rightul' family. It would never happen, no negotiator Robert sent, and certainly not Jon Arryn when he attended, would ever agree to such nonsense. Jon was Robert's heir, his only son, and even if he'd had a dozen more Robert would never make such a concession to Rhaegar.

There were books in Essos that called Jon "Aemon Targaryen" and listed him as Rhaegar's youngest son, legitimized by the rightful king, and called Robert his step-father. He'd seen some of them in his travels, full of morbid curiosity that Uncle Stannis or Uncle Benjen could not dissuade him from. The maesters would be so upset that those were the correct ones.

"Jon?"

He turned, realizing he'd made it to a garden and halfway through its small maze without even noticing. And there was Uncle Renly, looking at him in concern.

"Did something happen? Is the babe...?"

Jon stared. He had no idea what the Tyrells had decided on, if they were going to pretend his son had not lived in order to hide him. And Renly...what side would he fall on? He resented both his brothers and had always been good to Jon, and was so close to Loras, but family, blood, would surely come first.

"I...it's...I don't know," he finally decided on. "They're seeing to him now."

Watching Renly's face crumple at the thought his child could be dying, Jon desperately wished he could trust him. Maybe he'd find out soon. Maybe he'd find out he hadn't lost everyone.

"Can I...can I ask you a question?"

Renly put on one of his calm masks, the sort he war at court, and nodded, motioning Jon to come closer. "Of course you can."

He licked his lips, sitting down on the bench beside Renly and cataloging, despite himself, all the differences between them. If he'd looked just a bit less like his mother no one would have ever believed he was Robert's, surely, he was nothing like Renly and the brothers were so alike.

"Have you...heard anything new about the Targaryens?"

At that, Renly's eyes narrowed. "If you're worried that they might try something, if you have an heir--"

"I, yes, and...other things. I just wanted to know. After the last time I went to Essos, father hasn't told me anything."

The last time, a routine trip to speak with the Iron Bank, and a not-so-routine kidnapping attempt. He'd been ready for something, but not for the Sword of the Morning to try to make off with him. Robert had been spitting mad when he'd returned home and told him.

Margaery had just found out she was pregnant and had made him promise to stay put until the baby came, playing the part of dutiful wife.

Renly frowned, thinking. He was on the Small Council, but he rarely bothered attending. Most of what he knew came from going on hunts with the King or gossiping with courtiers.

"Just the usual. They're still slowly conquering Essos from their so-called Valyria and claiming Westeros as theirs. Stannis is worried they'll be making an attempt on the Stepstones soon and we all know Dorne would welcome them with open arms if they did."

Jon nodded. Valyria...the city they'd founded. Restored. If he had to run with his son, if the Tyrells couldn't protect him...he'd go to Dorne and then from there onward to Valyria.

He hated knowing how smug Rhaegar would look when Jon showed up with a purple-eyed babe of his own.

"Thank you, uncle. I should...go check again."

"I'll go with you, Jon."

Renly's arm around his shoulder gave Jon strength, it was all he could do not to fold into his hold, but he managed to pull away. "No, thank you. I...Margaery doesn't like to be seen when she's not at her best."

The appeal to vanity was enough to convince Renly and Jon was stalking back in the direction he came, heart hammering in his chest.

Margaery was still meeting with her family, but their son had been placed in their rooms. He was a tiny thing, with a few strands of dark hair and those horrible eyes.

"What should we call you?" he muttered to the boy, who could only stare up towards him.

They'd been planning on Steffon for a boy, but Jon could hardly do that, now. Rickard, perhaps, would not be a claim to a family he did not have, but...but if the boy were to be a Targaryen king....

He could be like Jon, he supposed, with a name from both sides of the family. But even now that he knew it wasn't a mad lie, he still didn't like that idea for himself, let alone his son. He did not want another child to feel like he was feeling now, so torn over...everything.

"Rickard for now," he muttered, finally. "Or perhaps it should be Torrhen?"

Margaery's mirthless laugh let him know she had entered.

"We're to pretend like he's sickly, that no one can see him."

"It will give us an excuse not to return when we normally would have," Jon agreed, shoulders slumping at the thought of the Red Keep, of home.

"...Willas has a way to send word to King Rhaegar."

"You're always so careful not to call him 'King' at court. Was that just for show?"

"Jon. Have I ever done anything to make you think I'm disloyal to you?"

He looked up, eyes narrowing, searching her words for the Tyrell doublespeak she was so good at. "Have you suspected all along? That you were marrying a dragon, not a stag?"

She hesitated just long enough for him to have his answer, and she knew it. "You wouldn't believe me if I had told you. And what would you have done, if it were some other woman who gave birth to a Targaryen babe? If it was someone like Sansa or Myrcella?"

That, he knew, could have been a disaster.

"Was this just your grandmother's plan or was it Rhaegar's?"

Again, she hesitated, and he felt sick. As crown prince, he was used to people trying to use him, to manipulate him, but he had never suspected it would go this far.

"You are the mother of my child," he said, finally, "but do not think I will forgive you for this."

There were tears in her eyes to match the tears in his, but he could not care. His entire life had been a lie and it seemed like almost everyone around him had known.

Notes: I imagine this as Rhaegar surviving the Trident but it still being a brutal defeat for the Targs. He returns to the Red Keep and just basically ignores his father and takes the rest of his family to Dragonstone. Then after King's Landing falls they go on to Essos. Since he's an adult and a proven leader/warrior, and has like half of Westeros wanting him back as king, he gets much easier support than Viserys and Daenerys did.

Kinda like with the Blackfyre Rebellions there's wars and battles on and off throughout the kingdoms, but Robert doesn't have a firm enough hold to punish the loyalists the way he'd like. Meanwhile part of gaining enough power and leverage to take back his throne is Rhaegar re-founding Valyria and conquering parts of Essos from it, recreating the freehold, basically.

For the Baratheon stuff: the timeline was different, like when and in what order, and Jon wasn't conceived until maybe a month before Robert came to "free" Lyanna. So she basically had 'celebratory sex' with him in order to make sure if she had conceived with Rhaegar that no one could know and...it worked. Jon was "premature," but it was a really hard pregnancy on Lyanna and she almost dies, so no one really thinks anything of it. Jon has dark hair, so he's not as obviously not-Baratheon as Cersei's kids and also Robert tried to cut back on bastards (I imagine he mostly sleeps with professionals) for Lyanna's sake.

#character: jon snow #character: margaery tyrell #ship: margaery/jon #verse: survived the rebellion #character: renly baratheon #verse: jon baratheon #theme: parentage reveal #genre: angst #ship: renly & jon

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katlyn1948 · 5 years ago

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An Unexpected Journey: Part 10

Now before you read, I just want all of you to know that I appreciate your likes and reblogs of this series! I love you guys! And also, not to be the bearer of bad news, but we only have 3 more parts before I finish it! Anyway, I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

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

Chapter 10: The Liege Lords of the Stormlands

Arya was the first to enter the Round Hall of Storm’s End. The liege lords were all neatly seated at a long table facing the dais that a throne was perched upon. Beside the throne was a smaller throne like chair that Arya gladly took her place on. The looks from several of the liege lords were a mixture of confusion or disbelief. How could anyone, even the Night King Slayer, be so bold to take their place beside the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands? Yet, not one of the liege lords questioned her. They were either too afraid for too unaware to speak up.

Gendry entered shortly after Arya. The once playful smile that was on his face was now one of concentration and dread. He truly hated these weekly meetings with the high lords. They were necessary, he will admit, but that did not mean that he truly despised hearing the complaints that each lord had from the week prior.

This week would be no different. In fact, it would probably be worse, considering they were talking about the rents and taxes that were due this quarter. Since the destruction of King’s Landing, taxes around the seven kingdoms had to be raised to help repair some of the damages. The people of the Stormlands were struggling to even pay half of what was due. Gendry had been a lenient these past months and a few of the high lords were beginning to take notice.

“Welcome Lords. We have some things to discuss about this month’s recent rents. As you all know, I took a week to travel around the Stormlands to see what is happening with our people. It is not looking good. There have been more rains than normal this year, rendering a lot of the crops overwatered and useless. The people are struggling while we sit here in our castles not caring. I can no longer do that.” Gendry was assertive and this took Arya by surprise. She had no doubt that Gendry would succeed as Lord Paramount, but she had never heard him take charge like the way he just did. It made her proud; to see him up on the dais showing his house words with pride: Ours is The Fury.

“And do you suppose we fix this situation?” A young man had spoken. He couldn’t have been more than 20 name days. He had pale blonde hair and dark blue eyes that could appear purple in the slightest change of lighting.

“Thank you for asking, Lord Dayne. Well, I supposed that we, as high lords, can make sure that we cut the cost of some of the rents to our people.” There were a few grumbles that came from some of the lords. Arya could see that Gendry was beginning to struggle, so she quickly took charge.

Rising from her seat, she made her way to stand in front of the high lords table.

“My Lords, perhaps we can see which parts of the Stormlands that need the most help. From what I’ve gathered from my time in King’s Landing, the Island of Tarth is still prospering.”

“Aye, it is. There is no shortage of food and the people are prospering.” Lord Tarth announced. There was no denying that he was Ser Brienne’s father. Although significantly shorter than his daughter, Lord Tarth and Ser Brienne looked much the same. Their hair was the same coloring and their features were strikingly similar.

“I purpose we have the prospering houses pay slightly higher taxes, giving the poorer people of the Stormlands the chance to recover as well as lowering the cost of some of the rents.” She suggested.

Gendry turned to Ser Davos, who was seated at the table with the other high lords.

“Will this work?”

Ser Davos shrugged, “I suppose it could. I would have to run some of the numbers. But it could work.”

A throat cleared and all heads turned to Lord Swann, “I do not mean to be brash, but Lady Arya, you have been here for no more than a day. How do you know what is good for the Stormlands? Aren’t you a northerner yourself? How could a northerner presume to know anything on how the south works?”

His words were like venom. He was trying to get a ruse out of Arya; to see how she would react to his harsh words.

Arya took a steady sigh, “Lord Swann, is it? I may be of the north, however, I was a Lord’s daughter. I remember my father facing a similar situation when I was younger and this was his solution. It had worked. As for knowing how the south works, well it really isn’t that different from anywhere else in the world. And believe me when I say, I would know.”

Her voice was calm. She did not raise her voice or even try to be curt with the man; she had simply stated facts and that seemed to irritate the man even more.

“Who do you think you are, parading around here giving orders like you are the Lady of Storm’s End? You are no more than a traveling wench who forgets her place!” His face turned red with anger.

Gendry stepped towards the old lord looked him square in the face.

“I suggest you apologize to your future lady! You do not wish to make an enemy of her, Lord Swann. For any enemies of hers are enemies of mine.” Gendry said in a low voice. Arya could see his fist clench and his jaw tighten. He was trying his hardest not to knock this ignorant lord on his arse.

“Future lady!? You expect her to help you rule the Stormlands!? We are truly doomed.” Lord Swann huffed. He rose from his chair and exited the Round Hall.

“I want every remaining lord to listen!” Gendry was now furious. “If any one of have a problem with Arya Stark becoming my wife, then I suggest you keep it to yourself. For any loose lipped lord will have his titles stripped and his lands dispersed.”

With that Gendry stormed out of the Round Hall. The remaining lords began to whisper before they realized that Arya was still in the room. The whispers hushed and the lords began to disperse, heading to do whatever lords did.

Arya walked up to Ser Davos, who was conversing with Edric Dayne. She had heard of Lord Dayne before he had been a lord. If she recalled correctly, he was the young Squire to Beric Dondarrion before he joined the Brotherhood Without Banners. It seems he had made a name for himself in the years since.

“Ser Davos, if I could interrupt.” She cautiously asked.

“Of course, my dear.” He turned to Lord Dayne, “Please excuse me, Ned.”

“It is no bother, Ser Davos. And it will be a pleasure for you to be our new Lady Paramount, Lady Arya.” Lord Dayne bowed and turned to talk to another nearby lord.

“How can I be of assist, Lady Arya?” Ser Davos asked.

“Are all liege lord meetings that eventful?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Sometimes, it can be worse. The boy has done good these last five years, but he still is learning.” He admitted.

“How so?” She asked.

“Well, he’s gotten better at reading, and that’s with me teachin’ him. He managed to somehow use a fork properly and the people love him.”

“But…?”

Ser Davos sighed, “But, there are some Lords who think someone can do better.”

“Lord Swann.” Arya stated.

“Aye, that fat pig and his son are trying to take it from him. I have managed to keep most of the lords at bay, but the Swanns are an old and powerful house with support. I’ll keep my eye on them, if I were you.”

Arya nodded, “Do not worry about that, Ser Davos. I always keep my enemies close.”

“Oh, I also suppose a congratulations are in order. Betrothed? Finally, I thought he would never marry again. And look at ya! You are already playing the part. Never thought I’d see Arya Stark in a dress.” He teased.

“Don’t get used to it. As soon as my things arrive, I will be in the same old trousers you’ve seen me in before. Dresses are torture devices made to hinder women’s abilities to move. I truly cannot wait to take it off.” She answered him truthfully.

Ser Davos let out a laugh, “Still the same, you are. And your things arrived early this morning. Sent my men out to your boat as soon as the morning bells rang.”

Arya sighed in relief. She would finally be able to rid herself of this dress and be comfortable.

“Thank you, Ser Davos. I will change and look for Gendry.” She said as she turned on her heel to leave the Round Hall.

Ser Davos quickly said to the young lass, “He’ll be in the-“

“I know where he’ll be.” And with that she left the Round Hall and the remaining lords to their devices.

*****

Gendry had made his way to the forge. It was the only place he could truly think like his old self. The feel of metal beneath his hands was a warm familiar feeling that he could savor forever. The other smiths knew that when Lord Baratheon enters the forge, that they need to scurry like mice and avoid him at all cost.

He was hammering a piece of steel into a perfectly shaped sword. With every swing his anger would dwindle; calming the bull within. Nearly every week he would make some type of new weapon fashioned from his frustrations. Every time he would meet with the liege lords it would always end up with Gendry in forge until the wee hours of the night. He wouldn’t sleep, eat, or interact with anyone. Tonight would be no different; except it was. He now had a woman waiting for him in his chambers. His betrothed. The very same woman that Lord Swann had disrespected.

Gendry’s anger bubble all over again and he took another swing and the searing hot steel. The sound of metal against metal did little to quench his angry, but the small shadow that had appeared in the arch way of the forge had.

“How did you find me?” He asked her.

Arya arched her brow and walked to stand beside him.

“Because you’re still the same. I know you, Gendry. That means I know where you would go to blow off steam.”

He looked at her and gave her a small smile. He noticed that she was no longer in the dress from this morning, but rather her familiar tunic and breeches.

“I see your things have finally arrived. Couldn’t wait to get out of that dress, could you?”

Arya chuckled and gave him a small peck on the lips. “You know me, too.”

Gendry smiled and began hammering the anvil once more.

“Once you’re finished, come find me before supper. There are things we have to discuss.”

Gendry was now the one that lifted his brow. “Should I be worried?”

All Arya did was smile and she turned out of the forge, walking towards the courtyard.

Gendry shook his head and returned to his work. He didn’t know how she did it, but she could tame the wild bull within him with just one look.

It was strange that even after all this time apart, they still managed to find a way back to one another. Sure, there were things that were different, but most everything that was there remained the same. His feeling sure didn’t falter, not even after five years and it seemed like Arya was becoming her old self once more.

It reminded him of their earlier days on the king’s road. He would tease her for being a girl and she would pout saying that she wasn’t a lady. It was nothing but light hearted fun back then and it was beginning to feel like that again.

Gendry clanged the steel for what was hours. He hadn’t realized the time until the bells rang and it was near supper time. He cleaned up his area and headed to his solar. He was covered in soot and needed to get cleaned before he took his evening meal. There was no celebration tonight and he didn’t feel up to dining with his liege lords. All he wanted was a simple family meal with the two women he loved most in this world.

He entered his solar and dumped his belongings onto the table by the fireplace. A tub of clean water had been drawn for him and he quickly soaked his aching bones. The water felt nice and he couldn’t wait to clean off the forge from his body.

When he was nothing more than a smiths apprentice in Flea Bottom, he was lucky if he got a bath once a week. Being the Lord of Storm’s End, he got a bath nearly everyday. It was a luxury he didn’t know he needed until it became common. Now, he wouldn’t know what to do if he didn’t have his daily bath.

He had finally finished bathing and dressing when a soft knock came from his chamber door.

“Enter.” He stated as he finished fastening his belt to his waist.

A mop of brown curls came running towards him and little Lyra nearly tackled him to the floor. Fits of giggles escaped the young girls mouth and Gendry couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you doing here?” He asked her as he picked her to place her on the bed.

“Arry saved me from Septa Joanna.”

“Did she now? I bet you were excited.”

The little lady nodded her head fiercely, sending her curls in all directions.

Gendry turned to look at Arya. She had a smile present on her face that he hadn’t seen before. It was different kind of smile from the ones she had given him. This smile showed something more than just happiness. It showed overwhelming love. Because that’s what it was, love. Arya was in love with this child and Gendry could tell.

“What’s going on?” He asked her.

Arya pulled her gaze from the child on the bed. “Well, she wanted to do something with the three of us, so I brought her here and informed the maids that we would be taking supper in your chambers tonight. I’ve had enough of Lords and Ladies for one day, and I had a feeling your would be too.”

He pulled her into his arms, “So this is what you wanted to discuss?”

“No, what I wanted to discuss can wait until after we dine with Lyra.” She said as she placed her arms around his neck. She reached up and gave him a long sweet kiss, completely unaware of the child staring at them from the bed.

“Does that mean my papa is your friend-boy?” Lyra suddenly asked.

Gendry and Arya pulled apart and gave her a questioning look.

“Lyra, what is a friend-boy? You had said it earlier today, but your Septa stole you before I could ask.” She asked the little lady.

“Septa Joanna said that Lady Rena couldn’t be my new mama because she already had a friend-boy, Lord Archie, and papa couldn’t be hers.” Lyra had said matter of factly.

Arya hadn’t meant to laugh, but the innocence the child was portraying was truly delightful. Lyra looked at Arya with confusion. What had she said that was so funny? Even her father was trying to hide a laugh.

“Why are you teasing me?” She asked the adults on the other side of the room. Her eyes began to fill with tears and her lips began to quiver.

“Oh, no we are not teasing you, Lyra.” Arya quickly rushed to the child and sat beside her on the bed.

“But you were laughing at me.” She accused.

“No, sweet girl. We were not laughing at you, just at the thing you said.” Gendry cut in.

Lyra looked even more confused.

“What your father is trying to say is that,” Arya paused, trying to find the right words to say. “Yes, your papa is my friend-boy.”

Lyra’s eyes lit up with excitement. She jumped onto Arya, tackling her into the bed, giving her a giant hug.

“Does this mean that you will be my mama?” Lyra asked as they sat up.

Arya was taken aback by the question. She never really thought of it, but she was going to be Lyra’s mother when she married Gendry. The thought scared her. She didn’t know what it meant to be a mother and wasn’t sure she would be any good at it. For so long she had to only think of herself and not have to worry about the well being of another human. Let alone a child. But the more she thought, the more she realized that parting from Lyra would be more painful than parting from Gendry. Perhaps she could be a mother after all.

“I suppose it does, if that’s okay with you?” She asked the little lady.

Lyra gave Arya a toothy smile and gave her another hug. “Don’t tell Lady Rena, but I think I want you to be my mama.”

Arya chuckled, “Your secret is safe with me.”

She gave a glance at Gendry and notice that his eyes were welling with tears. Great, I’ve made the stupid bull cry, she thought, not realizing that her own tears were streaming down her face.

#gendrya #arya stark #got #jon snow #gendry waters #jonerys #daenerys targaryen #gotspoilers #d&d #arya x gendry

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ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult · 6 years ago

Text

An Arrangement-Game of Thrones Imagine

Requested: Yes

Warnings: heavy sensuality, long, and mentions of violence

When my parents arranged my marriage to the Red Viper, I only had a fraction of an idea of what I was getting into. Though House Y/H/N was one of the most formidable houses in the South and one of House Martell’s oldest allies, whispers of Oberyn’s liberal view on relationships were the only hints I gathered to what he was like. Despite the regular visits to Dorne during my childhood and the parties we all attended, I never interacted much with Oberyn. Perhaps it was due to my immaturity and that I preferred the company of my girl friends and future ladies in waiting-----all of whom were practically frothing at the mouth at the chance to dance with Oberyn. He would cast a few flirtatious looks our way, making my friends swoon and heat rush to my face, but he was more enteratained by Dara, my older sister. She was always much more forward than I was and made her attraction to Oberyn----and any other man she found interesting-----blatant. The only person more shocked than her at my betrothal was me. While I knew that I was not an unattractive woman, I was comforted by the tradition that the eldest sibling had to be married off first. I liked being alone and learning proper etiquette, horseback riding, and reading. So, when Dara’s match was made, I knew it was only time before I met a similar fate.

“You are so fortunate! The gods are smiling upon you right now!” Tema, one of my oldest friends and ladies in waiting, gushed as she braided my hair.

She was wearing a tangerine linen dress that glided along the floor and her ash brown hair was twirled up into an updo out of her face. Tema was always a good looking girl, but she looked especially good on my wedding day, much like the rest of the ladies.

“I do not know if I feel the same way.”

I gulped as I looked in the mirror. My y/e/c eyes looked more terrified rather than joyful as they should look on one of the happier days of my life. For the past couple of days, I had barely been able to eat more than a few pieces of bread and fruit. Mother and the maester chalked it up to wedding jitters, but it was much more than that. In accordance to Dornish tradition, the betrothal period was less than a moon, giving me only a little time to get better acquainted with Oberyn. One necessary part of getting closer to Oberyn was officially meeting his paramour, Ellaria. I had always heard of the woman but never seen her and she was as beautiful as they said. She was tall, slim but had full hips, and had the tan skin that Dornish people are known for. Her dark brown curls fell to the base of her spine and she moved as though she had all the time in the world. As soon as she laid eyes on me, her dark eyes filled with a contempt that I did not know humans were capable of.

“Y/N, this is my paramour, Ellaria.” Oberyn grinned as he wrapped his arm around Ellaria’s waist and pulled her closer. “Ellie, this is Y/N of Y/H/N, my betrothed.”

In spite of the dirty look she gave me, I extended my hand towards her in the delicate manner all Southern ladies did. “It is nice to finally make your acquaintance.”

She looked down at my hand as though it were a sodden napkin. “Y/N,” she said.

“Ellie,” Oberyn warned in a teasing tone.

Ellaria gripped my fingers quickly and released them. “I have heard much about the Y/H/N women, but I thought it was impossible for so many women to have such small chests.”

I sucked in my cheeks in embarrassment and gritted my teeth. I was much more used to other Southern girls’ covert insults but Ellaria was a different kind of woman.

“Ellie,” Oberyn scolded.

“No, it’s quite alright, Oberyn, I am well aware of the trend in my family.”

For weeks, Ellaria would make small jabs about my appearance and my house. Whenever Oberyn and I had to do something as a couple, she would get upset and some of my ladies would report to me what her ladies told them. It was awful, but I could not mention anything to anyone for the sake of marriage. While Y/H/N and House Martell have been allies, breaking a betrothal could set us as enemies and though Y/H/N had decent soldiers, the Dornish were infamous for theirs. Plus, it was not as though I could say anything to Oberyn, he obviously cared for Ellaria if he had children with her and stayed with her for so many years. I would just have to deal with it for the time being.

“This heat is dreadful, I feel as though I am in the seven hells,” Willow, another one of my best friends and ladies in waiting, sighed as she fanned herself.

Her words brought me out of the memories of what I had dealt with for the past few weeks. Willow’s platinum blonde hair rolled past her shoulders in small curls and she wore a gauzy silver dress. I always envied her stunning looks and effortless charm around men. She would definitely marry as soon as she decided she was ready.

“Well, you better get used to it,” Tema said without looking up from the top of my head, “we will be living here for a long time.”

“How do they get anything done?” Willow asked. “I walk ten paces and I feel as though I am going to faint.”

“I am sure any of the Dornish guards would be happy to catch you,” Tema said. “And what do you mean that you do not feel blessed? A handsome, honorable, experienced man will be your husband in almost an hour. The Dornes already adore your house and you, you are practically set for life!”

“It’s Ellaria,” Willow said.

I snapped my attention to her. “Willow!”

Tema’s expression fell a little.

“Well, it’s true,” Willow said, pausing for only a second from her fanning. “That woman has been staring at you as though you are a mouse and she is ready to sink her cat claws into you.” Willow continued her fanning. “And her Sand Snakes are simply frightening.”

“Do not speak so loud, the walls have ears,” I hissed.

“She is simply jealous, Y/N, do not worry about her.” Tema rest her hands on my shoulders. “The only thing you need to worry about is the bedding ceremony.”

I groaned. “Please, can we at least finish my hair before we even think about that?”

Tema laughed as she finished braiding my hair.

“Oh gods, the bedding ceremony!” Willow exclaimed. “And with the Prince of Dorne, all of Westeros is weeping with jealousy!”

“Stop it, Willow,” I said, trying to keep the smile off of my lips.

Though the bedding ceremony was usually a point of anxiety for most ladies, myself included, the fact that it was with a more experienced man made me a little calmer. I supposed the silent and not-so silent threat of Ellaria and the Sand Snakes helped distract me from that.

The next hour, I was walking down the aisle in the beautiful gardens behind the Dornish palace, escorted by my father. He was a stoic man and one of the most respected battle strategists in Westeros, but that day, I thought I saw tears brimming in his eye. Much of south Westeros was in attendance, including the Lannisters and Baratheons. Despite the history between their houses, Doran insisted on inviting them to demonstrate some civility. Oberyn, however, wanted to kill them all as soon as he set eyes on them.

At the end of the aisle, I saw all my ladies standing on one side and Oberyn and Doran on the other. Oberyn looked so handsome in his formal robes that were adorned in the yellow and scarlet of House Martell. His eyes seemed genuinely happy and when my father gave me away to him, I felt comforted by him.

The ceremony itself was a blur, but I felt piericng eyes on me the whole time. Sometimes, it was Ellaria and other times, it was her daughters. They sat at the head table with Oberyn, me, and our families. Her daughters were fairly well-behaved as was Ellaria, but her looks never went unnoticed by me. Fortunately, the wine and Oberyn’s sweet words helped distract me from it all. When the bedding ceremony came, I barely acknowledged the onlookers since Oberyn commanded all of my attention.

“I am glad that you are not shy in front of an audience,” Oberyn whispered when we were left alone.

The sounds of the reception strained against the walls of the bedroom. I snuggled closer to Oberyn, finding the heat radiating from his body intoxicating despite the heavy Dornish heat.

“And why is that? Do you plan on having five people watch us every time?” I teased.

“No, Ellaria hates timidity in lovers, so this will not be a point of contemption with her.”

My throat closed up the way it always did when I was nervous. Oberyn had to know that Ellaria’s issues with me did not have to do with whether or not I was timid. There was so much more to her deep disdain for me. Oberyn seemed to notice my apprehension and brushed some y/h/c hair out of my face.

“What is wrong? You do know that she will be joining us more often than not.”

“Yes, but will she want to?”

Oberyn smiled. “Of course. This will take some getting used to but Ellaria is just like me, she likes to share her love.”

“I hope so.”

Being Oberyn’s wife was surreal. He insisted on taking me horseback riding every day and teaching me how to fight.

“You are of Dorne, now, you must learn to fight like one,” he’d once said.

In all honesty, I was definitely not the best at it; Oberyn constantly had to change my posture and remind me of how to hold a weapon. The Sand Snakes and Ellaria enjoyed watching me get frustrated with fighting.

“Perhaps she should stick to walking in the gardens and drinking teas with her ladies!” Tyana, the eldest Sand Snake, called once.

Kym and Obara laughed and Ellaria hushed them, but she had a smirk on her face. Training days were one of the worst days of the week. Other than that, Oberyn would take me on his travels with him and was insistent on taking me to bed every night possible. For the first month, it was mostly just the two of us and he would occasionally slip away to see Ellaria. At first, it hurt, but I reminded myself that she was with him longer than I was. In the fourth month, she slowly eased her way into our bedroom. Many times, she would watch us like a hawk and I would indulge in wine much more when I knew she would be joining us in order to relax.

Her comments and glares continued, but they were much worse when Oberyn was not around. When I would walk in the gardens with my ladies, she would conveniently be in the gardens with the Snakes, who always happened to be brandishing their weapons. She would find me the halls of the Palace and hiss things under her breath at me. My ladies would beg me to tell Oberyn about it, but it was futile. Our marriage had to last in order to maintain our Houses’ alliance.

However, everything came to a head a year later. It was one of the hottest days I had ever experienced in Dorne. My body felt like it was melting and I was drinking as much wine as possible to stay cool. Servants fanned me constantly, but I felt bad since they were obviously suffering as well. When I tried to make them stop, they did not listen since they were much more accustomed to the weather than I was.

“Why don’t we go down to the lake? It’s much cooler there,” Scarlet, one of my ladies, suggested.

“Anything to escape this heat, I feel as though my skin is going to burn,” Willow moaned.

“You feel that way every day,” Tema teased.

“Let us go by the lake, then. We should have some fruits as well.”

“Right away, My Princess,” one of the servants fanning me said and hurried off.

Willow, Tema, and Scarlet helped me to my feet and we slowly made our way out to the lake. There was a sitting area near it but the only issue was Tyana, Obara, and Kym were already in the lake, splashing each other.

“I will never get used to how free they are about clothes,” Tema whispered to me.

“They have the right idea, it is much too hot for this,” Willow gestured to her lightweight dress.

“Do not even think about, you are a lady,” I said.

“And we are in Dorne, why should we not be like them?”

“They are warriors, Willow, we are ladies, the rules are different.”

We sat down at the lounging area and for a few blissful seconds, the Snakes did not acknowledge us. It was relaxing, but then Obara broke the silence.

“Oh, the princess is here!” Obara called. She bowed dramatically. “Excuse our lack of clothing but it is too hot!”

Kym and Tyana snickered behind her.

“It is fine, I understand,” I said in a clipped tone.

I grabbed some grapes from a bowl and chewed some to avoid saying some the worse words brimming on the tip of my tongue. Willow, Tema, and Scarlet tried to carry on conversation in between bites of fruit.

“Come in, Princess, the water’s delightful!” Kym said.

“Thank you, but I am fine here.”

It was so hot that the only thing I could manage to do was close my eyes and nod absentmindedly at the gossip Scarlet, Tema, and Willow were whispering. All of a sudden, I was yanked from my seat and my eyes flew open. The Snakes’ laughter filled my ears and all I could see was the bright sun as I seemingly flew threw the air before landing in the lake. I gasped as I flailed for a moment and stood up. “Princess Y/N!” Willow, Tema, and Scarlet exclaimed.

“Calm down, she’s fine, she need to cool off anyway,” Tyana said.

The cool water probably would have felt wonderful if I was not so upset. I could have screamed at them for throwing me into the lake and every other rude instance I had experienced since I married their father. My body shook with rage as I stared down the Snakes. Before I could speak, Ellaria interrupted me. In her light orange dress, she practically blended into the scenery.

“Girls, what is going on here?” she asked.

“We were just helping the princess cool off, Mother, it is dreadfully hot today and she seemed uncomfortable in the heat,” Kym said with a mischievous grin.

Ellaria looked at me and I stared back. She grabbed a towel from Scarlet and walked towards me. I took a half step back since I had no idea what she might try to do to me. Ellaria did not hesitate to wrap the towel around me and help me back up to the lounge area. My ladies immediately surrounded me, brushing hair out of my face and checking ot make sure I was fine.

“I am just shocked is all,” I muttered.

Ellaria walked closer to the edge of the lake.

“Mother----” Obara started

“Do not speak. We will speak further about this later.”

Then, Ellaria walked over to my ladies and me. “Come, Princess.”

I could not help but be tense as let her walk me back to my quarters in the palace. Scarlet, Tema, and Willow followed closely behind, equally as confused as I was. When we got to my quarters, Ellaria faced my ladies.

“Leave us.”

They glanced at me for reassurance.

“Thank you, but I will send for you,” I said.

All three of them curtsied and left. For the first time since I married Oberyn, I felt comfortable being alone with Ellaria. The tension between us had grown enough and I was confident enough to end it. So, when we stepped into my quarters and the door was closed behind us, I pulled away from her grip and spun to face her.

“Out with it,” I seethed.

“Out with what?” Ellaria stepped closer to me and I took a step back.

“YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I MEAN! Every day for a year now, you and your daughters have been torturing me! All the comments about my body, my hair, my accent, and my fighting! I get it, I am not a Dornishman and I should not be with Oberyn, but that gives you no right to belittle and comment on every little thing I do!” I shouted. “And you probably love that I am not with child! Maybe he will kill me because I am barren and you and your daughters could have a front row seat! Admit it! Admit that is what you want! That is what you DREAM about!”

Ellaria frowned. “Princess----”

“I have tried to be polite and behave as well as I can but I cannot do this anymore!” Then, the tears came out and I could not get them to stop. Sobbing quickly followed and I turned away from Ellaria, knowing full well that she was probably giddy to tell her daughters that she broke me.

She grabbed my arm and turned me to face her. Swiftly, her hands grabbed the sides of my face and she kissed me, making me freeze. I had never kissed a girl before and she was soft and smelled like perfume. A second later, she kissed my tears and wiped a few more away before kissing me again, running her hands through my hair. Tentatively, I kissed her back and pulled away, noting how lustful her brown eyes were.

“What...what was that?”

“A kiss, Princess, you are familiar with those,” she said with a sigh.

“But why...?”

“I have wanted to do that practically since I saw you.” She started walking us backwards further into the room. “And much more if Oberyn let me.”

“What?” I muttered.

“He can be selfish sometimes, he thought he was helping you ease into our ways.” She kissed my cheek and then my neck.

“Are you trying to tell me that you have been jealous this whole time?”

“A bit, but not of your marriage.” She played with the ends of my hair for a moment. “I took my anger towards him out on you and I am sorry. I am also sorry for bringing my daughters into this, they will never bother you again.”

It was my turn to frown. Ellaria wanted to be with me that entire time? Every time she joined Oberyn and I, they were the two that messed around while I drank more wine. Then, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how much she would stare at me when Oberyn would hold us both against him as we slept. The way she behaved was like a petulant little boy who did not know how to handle his feelings for a little girl. The entire idea made me laugh a little.

Ellaria glared at me. “Why are you laughing?”

“You being mean to me did not help your chances of being with me at all! I was so afraid of you and your daughters,I thought you would kill me in my sleep,” I said between laughs.

“Stop it,” Ellaria said.

I couldn’t and I fell on the bed laughing and Ellaria was on top of me almost immediately. She smiled as she pinned my hands next to my head and leaned down and kissed me again. That time, I kissed back quicker and felt her push the towel away from me. She released her grip on my wrists and trailed her hands further down my body, feeling every bump and crevice.

“You are an incredibly beautiful woman with an even more beautiful body,” she whispered before kissing me hotly again. “And you are not barren, it would be a sin for you to have this body and not be able to carry children.”

I moaned into the next kiss and she grinned into it, tangling her fingers in my hair as I did the same to hers. I had no idea how much time had past, all I knew was that Ellaria was especially talented in this arena----no wonder Oberyn visited her so often.

“What is this?” Oberyn asked.

I immediately pulled away and saw him standing at the foot of the bed. Ellaria rolled her eyes and stood to greet him.

“You would not let me have fun with her so I took matters into my own hands.” She kissed him passionately and I sat up, wrapping the towel back around me.

They pulled away and Oberyn looked at me. “You enjoyed it?”

“Yes,” I said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Oberyn laughed, that light airy laugh that emphasized how carefree he was, and came closer to me. “You should not be ashamed of enjoying pleasure.” His hand cupped the side of my face and he kissed me deeply. “Why are you wearing a towel?”

“I went for an impromptu swim; I should change before dinner.”

Ellaria walked up behind Oberyn and placed her hands on his shoulders. “The princess has expressed some dismay over not being with child yet, my love. Perhaps we should help change that?”

Oberyn grinned. “Perhaps we should, you would like that, Princess?”

“Now? But what about---”

“It can wait,” Oberyn whispered against my lips before kissing me and pulling the towel away from my body.

The next three years were some of the best of my life. There were a few unfortunate hiccups but, other than that, my life was decent. The Sand Snakes took to helping Oberyn train me in fighting; Ellaria joined my ladies and I on our walks; and I got to horseback ride along the beach. Unfortunately, everything seemed to crash down the moment Oberyn agreed to attend Joffrey’s wedding in King’s Landing.

“I do not have a good feeling about going to King’s Landing, Oberyn,” I said over breakfast the day we were set to leave.

“I do not either; the city is briming with filth and even moreso with politics, but you and Doran are always asking for me to be more diplomatic. Therefore, I am attempting to look past the issues between our houses to enjoy the wedding.”

“This is something you would never look past.”

“Do not concern yourself, Princess, our Prince will not stir too much trouble,” Doran said. “It is required.”

“Even if he did, he would not be wrong for it,” Ellaria said, smiling at Oberyn.

“We should not even think of these things. If the Lannisters even get a whiff of suspicion, it could be all of our heads on a spike,” I said.

“Do you not believe in me, Y/N?” Oberyn asked.

“Of course I believe in you, but I am also well aware of Cersei’s games.”

When we arrived in King’s Landing the next morning, Oberyn and Ellaria insisted on visiting the local brothel. I, on the other hand, knew that it was proper to greet the envoy sent to escort us to the palace and sent both of them off with my love. Lord Tyrion and his guards seemed quite surprised when only I stepped out of the carriage to greet them.

“Princess Y/N, it is lovely to see you again,” Tyrion said as he and his men bowed.

“And you as well, Lord Tyrion, I see you have your own knight now,” I commented, gesturing to the tall, dark-haired man standing next to him.

“This is Bronn, one of my personal guards,” Tyrion said.

Bronn nodded at me. “Pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

“And you as well, Ser.”

“And this Poddrick, my squire” Tyrion gestured to the portly young man standing next to him, who looked at me with wide eyes.

“Princess,” Poddrick nodded at me.

“It is nice to meet you, Poddrick.”

“Princess Y/N, may I ask where Prince Oberyn is?”

“He wanted to do some sightseeing before he greeted the rest of the royal family, he always liked exploring, you know.”

“Oh, but we should fetch for him later,” Tyrion said.

“That would be lovely.”

Oberyn was correct about King’s Landing being disgusting, but I had to behave as though everything was nice. The palace itself was lovely with the vines weaving on the sides of its walls and the rest of the native flora. Since we arrived the day before the wedding, the palace was teeming with high houses.

As soon as I was settled in my quarters, Margaery and Sansa Stark entered them.

“I apologize, Princess Y/N, but your ladies said that you were open to receive guests,” Margaery said in a patronizing tone.

“Oh, we both know you would have burst in here even if both Oberyn and Ellaria were here,” I said as I hugged the soon-to-be queen.

Margaery Tyrell was like another sister to me since I spent so much of my childhood at Highgarden. Many of ours days were passed playing hide and seek outside and making Loras twirl us around when we wanted to play ball.

“I can’t believe I am getting married tomorrow!” Margaery exclaimed. “I am so happy that you are here as well. It feel as though Oberyn held you captive in Dorne as soon as you wed, not as though it is a bad thing.”

“Stop it!” I said, swatting her shoulder. “You must be Sansa.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Y/N,” Sansa said with a curtsy.

“Please, we are in private, you may call me Y/N. Please, sit,” I instructed, gesturing to the seats in the room. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I wanted to personally invite you to the dinner tonight. Everyone will be there but you, Oberyn, and Ellaria will be sitting right next to the Royal table!” Margaery exclaimed.

“That is lovely and I honestly appreciate it,” I said. “Oberyn, Ellaria, and I will be more than happy to attend.”

“Wonderful!”

“Scarlet, please fetch us some tea,” I called.

Scarlet nodded and left the room.

“What is it like having a paramour?” Margaery whispered.

“Margaery, surely we should not be asking Prin-Y/N such intimate questions,” Sansa chided with a gasp.

“It’s alright, Sansa, Y/N and I have known each other since we were children.”

“It is quite alright. To be honest, it is one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had. She is always around but never in an encroaching way, but because she wants to be. Oberyn never abandons one of us over the other.”

“And what happens when he must travel alone to some far away house?”

“Margaery!” Sansa gasped.

“What do you think?” I teased.

Margaery covered her mouth with her hand in faux surprise while all the blood seemed to rush to Sansa’s face. Scarlet had perfect timing in her return with tea and cakes so we had something else to focus on.

“I am a little jealous that you got to marry the Red Viper,” Margaery said.

“But you are about to be queen, it is all you could talk about when we were smaller,” I countered.

“Yes, and I am happy with the arrangement and I am not jealous that you have to endure that hellish heat. However, having that lovely wine at the tips of your fingers at all time and the Red Viper’s heart in your hands, it must be nice.”

“It is.”

“When will you have heirs?” Margaery asked.

I sipped some more tea and set it on the table. “We have tried in years past, but it has not worked out.”

“Oh, Y/N, I am so sorry.”

“Do not be, the Dornish are not as strict with the customs as King’s Landing, which I am sure will not be a problem for you.” I glanced at Sansa. “Either of you.”

“I am sure of it.”

“My ears are burning, that can only mean my dearest wife is speaking about me,” Oberyn said as he walked into the room.

He pulled me out of my seat, swept me into his arms, and kissed me with as much passion as he could muster. Perhaps he had had a decent time at the brothel. As soon as I remembered our company, I pulled away and grinned at him.

“Oberyn, we have company.”

He set me down and I realized that Ellaria was standing at the door, regarding Margaery and Sansa with a playful gleam in her eye.

“There is no need to be shy now,” he breathed into my ear.

“It is not about shyness,” I mused. “Oberyn, this is Margaery of House Tyrell, the future queen of Westeros, and Lady Sansa of House Stark.”

“Ladies,” Oberyn said with a bow.

“It is a pleasure to meet both of you,” Sansa greeted.

“And what about me?” Ellaria teased as she walked over to me.

“I am sorry. Margaery, Sansa, this is Ellaria.”

“The paramour,” Ellaria purred, gripping my waist from the other side.

“How lovely,” Margaery chirped.

“Margaery has been so kind to personally invite all three of us to the dinner tonight,” I revealed

“Everyone will be there,” Margaery said.

“Including Cersei?” Oberyn asked.

“Yes.”

I ran my hand over his shoulder, feeling him relax slowly underneath my touch. He needed to remain level-headed as much as possible during our time in King’s Landing.

“It will be nice to make her acquaintance again,” I interrupted.

“Of course,” Sansa agreed.

Margaery set her cup of tea down and stood. “Well, it was lovely meeting both of you but Sansa and I must get ready.” Margaery gestured to Sansa and she mirrored Margaery’s actions.

“Very well, we will see you at dinner.”

Margaery nodded and Sansa curtsied before they exited. As soon as the door closed, Ellaria kissed me and pulled me to the bed while Oberyn sat in a chair.

“May I assume that you enjoyed yourselves at the brothel?” I questioned.

“It is the only redeeming quality of this place,” Ellaria said.

“Could you two try to be on your best behaviors at this dinner tonight?”

“I am always on my best behavior,” Ellaria jested.

I pushed my nose against hers. “Please, this is important to me and Margaery.”

“I do not understand how that girl could marry Joffrey, the little prick.”

“Oberyn!” I hissed.

“It is the truth and we all know it.” Oberyn poured himself some wine. “But I will do my best, the best revenge is the least expected, after all.”

“Fine, you two can plot your revenge while I get out of these clothes and get ready for the dinner.”

Ellaria groaned as I crawled away from her grasp and started walking towards the bath.

“Perhaps you need help getting out of your clothes,” Oberyn murmured. “You seem pretty exhausted from the journey.”

The dinner was as nice as a dinner in King’s Landing could be. There were lights every where and everyone was dressed in some of their nicest clothes. Margaery was smiling kindly to everyone who gave her well wishes while Joffrey did as much as he could to torment his servants. Oberyn divided his time between drinking wine and muttering into mine or Ellaria’s ears. Ellaria was more involved with him than I was. My eyes followed Cersei’s movments as discretely as possible. She mostly sat at the head table and accepted the guests coming up to her and congratulate her on her eldest’s marriage. Cersei was gracious, but most people knew that she was stewing about Margaery since Margaery was the opposite of Cersei in every way. The people loved Margaery for her philanthropy and selflessness while they loathed Cersei’s cruelty.

“Oberyn, we must greet Cersei,” I said.

“Of course.”

Oberyn gestured for Ellaria to join us and we walked together to see Cersei. Cersei was more than pleased to greet Oberyn, knowing that he could not rip her apart the way he wanted to ever since the Mountain killed Elia and her children.

“Your Grace,” I said as I curtsied.

Oberyn and Ellaria echoed my words and nodded at her.

“Prince Oberyn and Princess Y/N, what a lovely sight,” she said in her saccharine voice. “We are so glad you made the trip all the way from Dorne for this occasion.”

“Yes, the wedding is a lovely occasion to celebrate,” I said.

“And you brought the paramour,” Cersei decreed as she looked at Ellaria.

“Yes, her name is Ellaria, Your Grace, ” Oberyn said.

“I admire the Dornish loose views on love,” Cersei admitted.

“Of course, what is not to be admired...Your Grace?” Ellaria questioned.

Cersei nodded. “I hope you enjoy your time here in King’s Landing.”

“We will, Your Grace,” Oberyn said with a challenge in his eyes.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” I said with a curtsy.

When we left, I let out a sigh of relief. It could have gone much worse and I was proud that both Ellaria and Oberyn were able to be diplomatic. Towards the end of the dinner, I found myself mingling with more guests. As I was talking to a particularly boring lord, Jaime Lannister approached.

“The rumors are true, the princess of Dorne has come to grace us with her presence,” Jaime said.

I turned to the handsome blonde knightsguard and smiled. “The infamous Kingslayer, my how time has past.”

He kissed my knuckles and smiled down at me. “I do believe that the last I saw you, you were getting married. When I came back, all the men in King’s Landing were weeping.”

“Stop it, Jaime,” I chimed. “I barely visited King’s Landing.”

“But when you did, it was a little more bearable.”

“You are still a charmer.”

“I try to be.”

“Are you pleased with the wedding?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Margaery is a lovely girl and Joffrey seems...satisfied with her.”

“I cannot help but be concerned for my friend is all.”

Jaime huffed and glanced around. “Would you mind taking a walk with me?”

I glanced at my table and noted that Oberyn and Ellaria were chatting with Loras and Renly. They seemed to be enjoying themselves enough. “That is fine with me, but what about Cersei?”

“Let me worry about my sister.” Jaime led the way out of the hall and we walked down a couple of corridors. When he was sure were safe, Jaime stopped and looked at me.

“What is this all about, Jaime?” I asked.

“I wanted to talk without wandering ears and eyes.”

“You know as well as I that every time we step foot in a palace, that is all we encounter.”

“Well, it is better to be out here than in there.” Jaime’s gloved thumb grazed my chin. “You truly are beautiful.”

“Thank you, Jaime, but this is not why you asked me step out of the hall.”

Jaime sighed and pulled away from me. “You and I have a decent rapport, do we not?”

“Yes.”

“So, you would inform me if your husband had any plans?”

I groaned. “Jaime----”

“Oberyn would tell you if he had anything planned, would he not? I have to be well informed to protect my family as much as possible.”

“Oberyn plans on being nothing but civil and has been since we arrived, Jaime, and if he had anything planned, he would have every right to exectute it.”

Jaime’s expression faltered because he knew I was correct. He loved Cersei but was not so blind that he could not see the immorality of her behavior towards the Martells.

“Y/N, be careful of what you say.”

“Will the Kingslayer add me to his list if I am not careful? Or will he feed me to his queen? Do not think that I have not learned more than just how to drink wine and experience pleasure during my time in Dorne.”

“I would never do anything to you,” Jaime swore.

“Unless our queen commands you.”

“Stop it!” Jaime grabbed my shoulders and gently pressed me against the wall. “Listen, I am trying to protect you as best as I can, but I cannot do it if you are not careful with your words nor if you do not tell me everything you know.”

“I am careful, Jaime, and I know nothing of what Oberyn has planned.” I placed my hand on one of his. “And I know you care for my wellbeing, but I also care for Ellaria and Oberyn. I wish you could look after them as well, but that would be foolish of me.” “It is not foolish to hope for the best, Princess.”

“Is it bad that I am still not accustomed to that title?”

“No, but you have always been a little princess to me,” he said with a kind smile. “Oberyn is a lucky man.”

“Thank you, but do not act for one moment as though you wanted my hand,” I joked.

“Perhaps I did, did you ever ask your parents about it?” he teased.

“Y/N!” Oberyn called.

I froze and Jaime moved away from me. Oberyn was standing a few yards away from us with Ellaria at his side. “Oberyn, dearest, I was only speaking with Jaime.”

“It is good that you were in safe hands,” Oberyn’s dark eyes never left Jaime as he spoke, “we were getting worried about you.”

“There was no need, I apologize for worrying you,” I said.

Oberyn pulled me closer to him and Ellaria stepped closer to Jaime. I could not make out what she was saying, but her words dripped with venom and Jaime’s eyes widened.

“Ellaria, this is not necessary,” I interrupted. “We will see you tomorrow, Jaime?”

“Yes, Princess.”

Ellaria slowly moved away from Jaime and joined Oberyn and me as we walked down the hall. When we got back to our quarters, it was obvious that the two of them were upset.

“What did he say to you?” Oberyn asked.

“Nothing, we were simply catching up.”

“He would not have asked you to leave the hall if you were catching up.”

“Nothing happened, Oberyn.”

“That is not what it looked like,” Ellaria asserted.

“And you should not be threatening him,” I argued. “He wanted to make sure that there would not be any problems tomorrow.”

“And that is all?” Oberyn asked.

“Yes! Why---” I hesitated and leaned away from him, “you could not think...no, Jaime...Jaime and I...we have only ever been friends, if that!” “He does not look at you like a friend,” Oberyn commented.

“But I look at him as one.” I walked over to Oberyn and grabbed his hands. “I would never do anything more than have a conversation with him. I would never hurt you or Ellaria like that. Do you...?”

Oberyn shook his head. “No, of course not! I cannot help but be jealous sometimes.”

I sighed and sat in his lap. “Would you allow me to make it up to you?” I glanced at Ellaria. “Both of you?”

Ellaria kissed the top of my head and Oberyn kissed me. When he stood, I wrapped my legs around him.

“I am quite hurt, it might take all night for me to forgive you,” he murmured.

“I feel the same,” Ellaria said as she laid down on the bed.

I laughed into Oberyn’s kiss as he pulled off my dress and Ellaria nibbled at every spot Oberyn was ignoring.

“You are bringing her into my house!” Ellaria cried.

It was only a moon since Oberyn was murdered. I could still see the light leave his eyes when I closed my own and it still haunted me. However, the maester was able to give me something to sleep. Doran, Ellaria, the council, and I were sitting outside near the garden when Doran broke the news gently to Ellaria that Tristane and Myrcella were meant to be married and that she would be staying in Dorne.

“Ellaria----”

“How could you do this to me? To Oberyn?” Ellaria hissed, interrupting Doran. “You were always too spineless and weak against them, you will not seek vengeance!”

“That is enough, Ellaria, I do not have to allow you to stay here, I could let you and your Snakes wander for the time being,” Doran griped.

“Ellaria, please relax and sit, we need to discuss this,” I said calmly.

Ellaria turned to me. “There is no need for discussion, she is already on her way, is she not?”

“We need to discuss how this will be handled,” I said, pulling her down to sit.

She huffed as she plopped down in the seat next to mine, gently pulling at the linen peach dress I wore. Ellaria cut her hair shortly after we returned to Dorne with Oberyn’s corpse to show her morning. The Sand Snakes swore vengeance on the Lannisters and the Mountain immediately, and they would get it, but taking it out on a child was not the right way.

“She will be treated as any other esteemed guest. She will be apart of this family soon,” Doran continued.

“She is not a part of this family,” Ellaria spat.

Doran shot her a warning look and I turned to Ellaria.

“I am not a part of this family either, technically, does that mean I deserve to die as well.”

“You are in this family and you know very well that this is different.” “No, Oberyn would want us to treat her as kindly as we would anyone else who was promisted to Tristane. The only difference is her family.”

“Would you spit on his grave as well?”

“This is not about that, this is about making the transition smooth. If anything happens to Myrcella, any chance at reconciling with the Lannisters dies and we go to war. We do not need war right now, we need peace and allies,” I argued.

“I do not want to reconcile and neither did Oberyn.”

“Oberyn is not here now,” Doran murmured.

“If he was, he would be ashamed at how much of a coward you are!”

“Ellaria, stop it! If Oberyn were here, he would make Myrcella feel welcome and show her around. You do not need to do any of that, all you need to do is be cordial, please?”

Ellaria sighed and looked at Doran. “I will not do anything to the Lannister girl but mark my words, I will take revenge for Oberyn.”

“Fine.”

Ellaria kissed me before exiting the room. I turned to Doran and noted his disappointed expression.

“I do not understand why you insisted on keeping her here,” Doran said.

“Because I care for her and she needs me.”

“When Myrcella gets here----”

“Ellaria will not do anything to her, I will make sure of it,” I promised.

“I have always admired your strength, Princess. No matter what, you treated people with dignity and kindness.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I have been raised to be that way. May I be excused?”

Doran nodded and I walked over to my quarters. Ellaria was pacing in the room like a lionness preparing to strike.

“El, you must relax.”

“How can I relax? The Lannister girl is about to contaminate our house! How could you not care? I thought you loved Oberyn?”

“Of course I do. Do you not remember the days I spent trying to convince him not to fight the Mountain? He was always so stubborn and single-minded in his quest for revenge. It was not necessary and as honorable as it is that he wanted to avenge Elia, look where it got him! He might still be here if he listened to me!”

“Do not be a coward like Doran,” Ellaria seethed.

“Do not be a killer like Cersei,” I challenged. “Cersei would not hesitate to poison one of your daughters or me if something like this happened to Jaime. All hell would break loose if something happened to Myrcella. You are better than them, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then, you must play a different game to get your revenge.”

“What do you have in mind?” Ellaria asked stubbornly.

“We play the game of thrones. We are a part of one of the main houses in Westeros and we have as much right to the throne as anyone.” I stepped closer to Ellaria. “We could get a Dornishman on the Iron Throne.”

“Tristane? That would be interesting and certainly achievable,” Ellaria said.

“That would be interesting, but it would kill Cersei if it was one of Oberyn’s sons.” I pressed my hands to my stomach and Ellaria’s eyes began twinkling.

“You mean...when did you learn of this?” Ellaria asked.

“When I went to the Maester and asked for something to help me sleep, he discovered that I am a little over a moon with child.”

“Y/N,” Ellaria kissed me and hugged me gently, “I am so happy for you!”

I smiled. “I just wish Oberyn were here, after I lost the other two...”

“Shh,” Ellaria pulled me close. “You know he never blamed you for it, any of it, and I am sure is elated, watching us.”

“Yes, at least I have you.” “Always.”

And from that moment on, we began our plan to take the Iron Throne.

#oberyn martell imagine #game of thrones imagine #got imagine #requested

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