#i planned to simply clear lines a bit on that wip i posted before but well | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

all1e23 · 4 years ago

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Bad Habit [Pt.1]

Pairings: Biker!Steve x Reader

Series warnings: Drug use. Violence. Smut so 18+ please and thank – No smut this chapter. Sorry to disappoint

A/N: Part 1! 800 years later. I’m doing my best to get my wips finished by the end of the year so fingers crossed I actually do so. Un-beta’d. So, uh, yeah. Be prepared for that.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

Two weeks it’s been since his mystery girl came into his life, and Steve hadn’t seen or heard from her since she bolted out of the clubhouse’s front door before the sun had cleared the trees. At the time, Steve was disappointed. He had plans. There was a burning need for waffles and bacon and syrup covered kisses, the exchange of numbers, or the very least names and a plan for next time. All those wants quickly evaporated along with the dust those tires kicked up during the hasty getaway. In hindsight, it was probably for the best that morning played out as it did. If Bucky had been there to witness a girl running from his room at first light, he would never hear the end of it. Before the day was out, Bucky would have the whole clubhouse believing he ran another girl off. Thankfully, the only person to catch the escape was Sam, and he was doing everything he could to convince Steve to forget about it. Sam told him nothing good came from chasing a girl that didn’t want to be chased, but Steve has this feeling in his gut, this time wasn’t like before.

Whoever you were, you were different.

Maybe you had him under some sorta spell, and that was why he couldn't forget you. It would explain a lot. You captivated him from the moment you stepped into the bar, and he still saw stars long after you ran out the front door and out of his life. He never really stood a chance if he was honest with himself; Steve knew he was in trouble from the first glance. Two things were apparent right off the bat, you were going to be a handful, and it would be hard, if not impossible, to earn your love. Still, Steve chased after you like a novice sailor following a siren’s melody. He had no problem admitting he was willing to follow you out to the middle of the ocean only to find himself unable to swim in the dark waters you lived in.

In the past, Steve had a bad habit of falling too fast, loving quick and fierce. You would be his last. He just had a feeling things would go his way this time--if he could find you.

As much as he wanted to see you again, he didn’t have any idea how to make that happen. He didn’t even know your name and had no idea where to start looking for you. Hell, he didn’t even know if you lived in Brooklyn. For all, he knew this could have been a stop on your way home where you already had someone waiting on you. All he had was the necklace you gave him, and that was a dead-end. It was just a one-night stand. He should toss the chain in a drawer and put that night behind him. Most men like him would. They would move on to the next girl and forget you existed. Steve, though, he’s stubborn (so says Bucky), and it’s a good thing he is because it’s always worked in his favor.

Steve ran his thumb over the gold pendant resting against his chest and grinned as he watched you move around behind the bar.

The one place he would have never thought to look.

"Well, I'll be damned,” Steve whispered to himself, still watching as you talked and laughed with customers.

Natasha mentioned she hired a new girl he hadn’t met yet a few nights ago, but without knowing his siren’s name, there was no way he could have connected the two. He had no idea that this Y/n was his Y/n. Now that he found you, he only had to get past the high walls you built up around your heart.

Steve parted the worn red leather stools to make room for him to lean against the polished wood, drumming his fingers impatiently along the bar top waiting for you to finish up with the man you were serving at the far end and finally notice him. You gave the stranger in dark brown leather a high squeaky laugh in return for the lousy pick-up line he threw at you. It wasn’t the same laugh, Steve knew. The laughter he memorized was light and airy, your whole body shook when it took hold of you, and it made your eyes sparkle in a way that could steal his breath like nothing else. Steve found that out early in the night when his beard tickled your inner thigh. The memory made him grin. He wanted to hate how fake you sounded right then, but it also meant you let him see a part of you you kept hidden from the rest of the world, and that was enough for hope.

You turned around and stopped short when you spotted Steve standing there, grinning at you, looking just as pretty as he did the last time you saw him. He trimmed his beard, but it was still thick only cleaned up a bit, and those pretty blond locks tucked behind his ears made him look like a young boy. The tattoos on his forearm peeking out from the rolled-up sleeves and the black leather kutte resting over the snug burgundy Henley reminded you he was no boy. He was trouble, and he was looking to drag you into his mischief. That wasn’t going to happen, no matter how pretty he looked. It took a second for your brain to remind your feet they needed to move. Steve slid around the bar as you made your way towards him.

"What are you doing here?" You asked quietly, refusing to look up from the IPA bottle you were cracking open.

"Came to see a friend of mine. His wife owns the place. I have to admit I thought it would be a lot harder to find you."

Shit. You stopped mid pour and set the glass down, half full of foam. That would need a re-pour.

No. This wasn't happening. Surely, he didn’t mean… No, no. No.

"Wait..." You needed to know before you said things you couldn’t take back. "Are you talking about Bucky?"

Steve tilted his head to the side. Now, that had his curiosity piqued. You could see him processing your question, and you knew exactly what he was thinking: Why did you know that Bucky was Bucky? It was rare that Bucky interfered in Natasha’s business at all. Everyone knew who her husband was and what he was, but it never went beyond James Barnes, Vice President of The Howlers. This sounded like you were… friends?

You should have kept your mouth shut and walked away the second you saw him.

"You know, Buck?"

Buck... Oh, god.

It suddenly all made so much sense, and you were such an idiot.

“Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? I’m a decent person, aren't I?” You asked, looking up at the ceiling as if someone from the heavens would answer you. “This is so bad. Why do you have to be you?”

You groaned and dropped your head to the bar top. Your one night stand was Bucky's best friend. Club president. Your Steve was Steve Rogers. The Howler’s MC President. The man who went on the road for three years and no one knew why, the one who went nomad and only returned home a few weeks ago. This was why you never let tequila make your decisions. You always end up doing something foolish, like charming bikers that will break your heart.

“I think this necklace of yours might be my good luck charm. Led me right to you, firecracker.”

“Good luck or a curse?” You grumbled against the slick wood top. Steve hummed, clearly amused by the light chuckle that followed. You slowly lifted your head to glare at him, and he simply grinned back.

“Definitely good luck, sweetheart,” Steve assured you with a wink.

You refused to smile, and you certainly weren’t going to be the one that looked away first. You won’t give in to whatever he’s playing at. Steve settled against the wood and stared right back; his bright blue eyes glittered with amusement and something else that made your skin tingle and your inside burn with want. You recognized a young blond man from a night or two spent at Bucky and Natasha’s place strolled by the bar, only slowing down long enough to pat Steve on the back, but Steve didn’t even blink at the distraction.

Nothing could pull him away from you.

“Hey, Nomad. You comin’?”

Nomad?

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute Clint. I’ve got some business out here first.”

You could hear Clint cackling as he walked down the long hallway that led to Natasha’s office. You wondered what the club wanted here and how often the club— and Steve— would be hanging around. Natasha said there wasn’t any overlap between the two. There was a moment of uncertainty and fear when she first offered you the job. You didn’t know if you could work for her if her business was mixed up in club business. That was until she assured you the club didn’t interfere in her affairs. That put some of your worries at ease, not all but enough to give you the courage to accept the job. Your last run-in with an MC was why you ended up south Brooklyn begging Natasha for a place to stay and a position. That was how you ended up working at Red Star and sharing a pathetically tiny apartment with your new friend Wanda.

There was no one else, no other friends to run to if things go south again. This was the only second chance you were getting, and you couldn’t blow it on someone like Steve Rogers.

“Thought your name was Steve?”

Steve grinned.

“That’s my given name. These idiots call me Nomad when they aren’t calling me Prez or Cap. Stevie on occasion. Everyone’s got a nickname ‘round here.”

You’ve heard plenty about their nicknames and all the things they’ve done to get them.

“I think I prefer Charming,” you mumbled, walking down a few stools to finally hand over a fresh, less foamy IPA to the grump at the far end of the bar.

Every time you moved, Steve followed you, dodging the bodies sitting and standing, and there were several times you had to tell your heart to shut up and keep the flutters to herself. It was becoming increasingly evident that Steve wasn’t going to give up easily. Seeing as how he would probably be around often, you needed to put an end to whatever storybook ending he was building up in his head.

"You can call me whatever you want."

You rolled your eyes and slipped the neck of two bottles between your fingers on each hand.

“Can I have your name now?”

“No.”

Steve laughed. He just laughed as if there was something funny about what you had said. He didn’t seem annoyed or upset by your callus tone. If anything, he enjoyed it. Once your hands were free, he reached for you and circled his long fingers around your wrist, loose enough you could easily slip free if you wanted to, but you made no move to lose his touch. You didn’t want to draw any more attention towards the two of you than you had already. That was absolutely the only reason you were letting him touch you. It had nothing to do with how much you liked the feel of his warm, calloused hands on your skin.

“I could keep calling you my firecracker.”

“I’m not your anything,” you were quick to correct him.

“No, you're not,” Steve said with a grin. “We haven't even gone on a date yet.”

Yet! As if there is a chance it would be happening. He was sadly mistaken if he thought there was going to be another page to your story. You raised a brow, and Steve hung his head in defeat, but the smile on his face hadn’t changed when he finally looked back up. Something about this man made you want to hide in the safety of his arms and stop running long enough to see if fairy-tales were real.

That was why things between you would never work.

“Why won’t you give me a chance, hm?”

Because you're just like all the rest, pretty and dangerous, the harsh voice in your head screamed. It was probably better he didn’t know you thought he was pretty. He seemed like the type to focus on the compliment and ignore the rest.

“Mmm, I’ve played with bikers before. The ride is dangerous, dirty, and short-lived. The risk is never worth the reward.”

That made Steve frown for the first time since he walked into the bar and your heart-clenched at the look of concern on his face. For a second, you thought about taking it back. Telling him he could be different and maybe he was a good guy with a half-decent heart—even if you didn’t believe it.

“Sounds Like you're playing with the wrong bikers. My rewards are always well worth the ride, babydoll."

On second thought, with lines like that, maybe you were right from the start. You weren’t about to fall for the same overplayed words he’s used on every other girl to catch his eye. It would take a lot more than a cheap shot to get you back in his bed. You leaned forward, ghosting your lips over his and slowly pulled back, grinning when he chased after you. You were starting to like this game, and that was begging for more trouble than your heart could handle.

“All you bikers are the same,” you whispered, leaning across the bar practically nose to nose. “Sweet talk to get into a girl's panties, and then you’re over it. You all claim it’s love at first sight, but it never is. It’s about the chase, the high. It’s never about the girl.”

Steve sighed. It didn’t sound annoyed, genuinely unsettled by your words, but he wasn’t irritated. More importantly, he wasn’t aggravated with you, but you were sure he felt sorry for you, which bothered you more. When you dropped your gaze, he gently nudged your chin up with his knuckle until you willingly looked up to meet his eyes.“One problem with your theory, firecracker. I’ve already been in those pretty panties of yours, and I’m still chasing you. Did you ever think that maybe I’m not playing with you? That I actually like you?”

The knot wedged in your throat made it impossible to answer. So you shrugged instead and let your silence speak for itself; no, you didn’t think that, and you didn’t trust him. None of what he said proved anything. It didn’t mean he was different. It just meant his rules were. The high would end once he won your heart, and you would be tossed to the side while he moved onto a newer, prettier skirt.

Steve would get bored once he finally earned your heart and your trust, and that made him worse than the others. You would know. You pulled your chin away from his hand but stayed close enough to feel the heat from his hand.

"Go to dinner with me."

"Steve--"

"Y/n," Steve sighed playfully, grinning at the shock on your face. He knew your name, but he still asked for it? He shrugged, reading the question that was burning in your eyes. Natasha. She must have mentioned the new girl she hired, and Steve was smart enough to put two and two together. You weren’t sure you liked him knowing your name. He was that much closer to knowing all your secrets, and you couldn’t let that happen.

"Go. To. Dinner. With me. Please."

You hated how adorable he looked begging and pleading for only a few hours of your time. He was so cute, and you nearly gave in. Your head overruled your heart and reminded you exactly why you weren’t dating men like him. It only led to heartbreak, and you would very much like to avoid spending your nights crying over another beautiful biker who rode off with your heart.

"I told you, I don't want anything serious. I’m not looking for more than what we had."

"It doesn't have to be more than dinner, and I swear if you really don’t want to go on a date with this will be the last time I ask you. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to, but I am dying to get you back on my bike. Next Saturday night, if you’re up for it. You can even pick the place if you want to. I promise it will be dinner only. No strings."

"No strings?" you questioned, eyeing him for any signs of deceit as you did. There was none. Just an excitable puppy staring back at you, ready to give you whatever you wanted if you’d let him.

"Yeah, why not? We can be friends with benefits or whatever the kids call it nowadays."

"Are we friends?"

"We are if you say yes, darling."

You could feel yourself giving in, and you already hated yourself for it because Steve was grinning victoriously, eyes bright, and pleading with you to say yes. You held up one finger ready with your conditions, and Steve quickly grabbed your hand, pressing a kiss to the back, lost in the excitement of what he already knew was about to leave your lips.

“One dinner, and I’m not promising any benefits.”

Steve lowered your hand and tilted his chin an inch, so his lips were brushing yours when he whispered, “Good. I prefer to earn every one of those sweet whimpers.”

Someone behind you cleared their throat, and you quickly yanked your arm back, bumping into the wall of bottles behind you, causing the glass to rattle against each other. Bucky’s eyes flicked back and forth between you, and it didn’t take long for him to put it together. A slow grin stretched on Bucky’s face, quickly turning smug. He knew about your one-night stand, not in any detail but that you liked your mystery man far more than you should, and you assumed Steve shared his thoughts on that evening. You narrowed your eyes at the brunet when he opened his mouth, and it quickly snapped shut—grabbing the empty crates at your feet needing something, anything to use as an excuse to get as far away from both of them as you could. The fridge in the basement was the furthest you could get at the moment, and that was precisely where you were headed.

“Don’t even say it,” you hissed as you pushed past Bucky.

Bucky watched as Steve’s eyes followed you until you were out of sight, disappearing down the stairs behind the bar. He looked drunk, maybe a little high, and definitely a little lovesick.

“Gettin’ into trouble again, Stevie?”

“You could say that, Buck,” Steve sighed helplessly. “I’m getting into something. Not sure what just yet.”

Prologue // next

#biker!steve rogers #Biker!Steve Rogers x reader #Steve rogers x reader #Steve Rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #Steve x you #Steve x reader #modern au #alternate universe #MC!AU #MC!Steve Rogers

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craniumhurricane · 4 years ago

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call me, baby, if you need a friend

Cleaning up some old WIPs. This has been in my drafts since end of season 2/around season 3.

Basically 4 times Clarke calls Bellamy and 1 time that Bellamy calls Clarke.

Thank you @casleyislove and @sushigirlali for always reading things before I post them!

[ On AO3! ]

___

(i)

It's a quiet night in at the Blake apartment. Or, at least, for Bellamy it is. He's having a nice Friday night by himself after surviving a truly grueling week of finals. Octavia tried to convince him to go out and celebrate the end of the semester the "right way," but he turned her down… he's still not quite sure how he managed to do that.

His feet are currently propped up on the coffee table with a large bowl of store brand cocoa puffs in his lap. Bellamy may be an adult but damn if he isn’t going to celebrate the end of the term with sugary cereal… nevermind that he didn’t actually make time to grocery shop this week. The TV was queued and ready for the marathon of Ancient Aliens episodes he’d missed due to studying, and he was just about to press play when he hears a short but insistent buzzing sound.

Glancing around, his eyes land on Octavia’s phone sitting on the corner of the coffee table. She must have left it in her hurry to leave since she was running late to meet up with her boyfriend.

Bellamy keeps his eyes on it for a second before deciding to ignore it, and once again his finger hovers over the play button on the remote. Then the phone lights up again, this time with a phone call; a picture of Octavia and a curly haired blonde that he recognizes, the name CLARKE THE GRIFFIN flashing across the screen. He considers ignoring it for a second time but... if she’s resorting to actually calling instead of texting again then something could be seriously wrong.

Bellamy swipes his thumb across the screen to answer and brings the phone to his ear but before he can even say anything a voice on the other side interjects immediately.

“Men are dicks,” the woman says without preamble. “No! Worse than that. They're weird tumors that grow on dicks," she pauses, seems to think about it, and then adds, "Preferably life threatening.”

Bellamy blinks a few times before he answers, “I'm sure you're right, but don't you think that's a bit harsh?”

The line is quiet. He can hear her shifting the phone, no doubt checking the screen to make sure she called the right person.

“Octavia?”

“Bellamy.”

Clarke huffs. “Where's Octavia?” she snaps. He can hear the annoyance seeping into her tone, which in turn just makes him feel his own frustrations start to rise.

He tamps it down though. “On a date,” he answers.

She deflates at that, “Oh right. One month anniversary with Lincoln.”

He hums a confirmation and then they’re silent for a few minutes. So long that it’s Bellamy’s turn to look at the phone and make sure she’s still there. “Did you need something?” he asks once he sees that the call is still, in fact, in progress.

She takes a deep breath before answering, “I ended things with Finn tonight.”

Bellamy had only met Finn Collins a handful of times; the guy was fine except for a little cocky… and he always seemed to want to show off in front of pretty girls. His hair was too long and always styled like he was some kind of frat boy that came from big money even though Bellamy's 100% sure he never so much as pledged.

And then there was that one time he flirted with Octavia.

Ok, so Bellamy didn’t like the guy. But a break up is still a shitty thing to go through which is why he says, “I’m sorry,” and finds that he means it.

“Not your fault,” Clarke says immediately, “But I was kind of looking for someone to watch me binge drink and listen to me vent.”

He understands that, having gone through the same thing when he broke up with Roma at the start of the term. If you could really call them “hooking up occasionally” the same thing as dating, but still, getting drunk with Miller had been essential in the whole moving on process.

“You want to come over here anyway?” he offers carefully, casually. He doesn’t mind Clarke. She’s younger than him, around Octavia’s age. They aren’t exactly friends, but he would consider them a little more than acquaintances. Enough that it shouldn’t be too weird for him to invite her over even without his sister present. Plus, her getting drunk here is a better alternative than her getting drunk by herself in some bar.

“You don’t mind?” she asks and he thinks he hears relief in her voice, “I was kind of already on my way over to your guy’s place... I don’t really feel like going out and I really don't feel like being depressed and alone in my dorm right now.”

“Nah,” he says and then tries a joke to brighten her spirits, “Sounds like something fun to watch. I’ll order food.”

“Chinese would be great,” and he swears he can hear a smile in her voice so he’ll count his dumb joke as a victory. “Thanks, Bellamy, see you soon.”

He's not even a little bit mad about dumping out his now soggy cereal.

(ii)

“So, you’ve been in school for basically forever. Is it normal for a person to experience this amount of stress?”

Bellamy’s lips twitch as he holds his phone to his ear. After Clarke crashed his Friday night in, and spilled on the whole cheating Finn debacle while they did shots, Bellamy figured he should give her his own cell phone number. As much as he hated to admit it, and honestly he never will, his sister and her boyfriend were getting serious, so who knows how much Octavia would be available for late night bitchfests about significant others, fellow students, and the human population in general. Which were just a few of the topics they discussed that night. Hanging out with Clarke ended up being kind of fun, a better night than he originally planned. She even let him watch a little of his marathon and offered her own commentary. Bellamy would do it again… which is something else he would never admit.

It's not like they suddenly talk every day, but it’s a near thing. They would send each other the occasional text when one of them sees something that the other absolutely has to know about. Mostly, he gets pictures of old dogs she sees at the park, asking if this will be him in 20 years. Bellamy responds in kind with memes about college life and rubbing it in her face that they no longer apply to him since he graduated last semester.

But sometimes she reaches out to him if there is something particularly bothering her. Such as dealing with egotistical dickwads that consider themselves professors and shutting down female students in a male dominated class.

Clarke’s probably the only person that ever calls him and can never start the conversation with a simple ‘Hello’. Actually, she’s probably the only person that actually still calls him.

“I just got a job teaching so that insult isn't going to work anymore since I literally will be in a school as part of my job,” is his first response before he turns to one of concern, “Midterms got ya down?”

“It’s just,” she gives an exasperated sigh before continuing, “I want to do something that helps people, I know I want to help people… But maybe I don't want to help people the way my mom wants me to help people...ya know?”

“You’re going to have to give me more to go on here, Princess-”

“I’m thinking about switching my major,” she says abruptly, like she’s ripping off a band aid.

He’s silent, waiting to see if she’s going to say anything else. When it becomes clear she’s waiting for him to say something he responds honestly, “If being a doctor isn’t something you want to do, then you shouldn’t do it.”

“But-”

“What your mom wants you to do shouldn’t overrule what you want to do, Clarke,” he interrupts her. Due to the increasing amount of time he’s been spending with Clarke, he’s learned that the Griffins have always had a capital “P” Plan and he knows that Clarke has a hard time knowing when she can push the boundaries of said Plan.

She’s silent again and Bellamy’s starting to think he’s going to have to prod her a second time. He’s got the beginnings of his big speech all prepared when finally she speaks up. “I’m thinking about going into Art Therapy,” She says thoughtfully, “Or maybe teaching? Helping out underprivileged kids...or hell, even underprivileged adults. Or maybe something for the community?”

His lips twitch on another smile at hearing the beginnings of a hint of passion in her voice. “Teaching can be very rewarding,” he says magnanimously.

She snorts and it turns into a full laugh, “You haven't even started yet! It could be the worst thing you’ve ever done and a total waste of your degree.”

“Your confidence in me really is touching,” he deadpans and then adds simply, “You’re an amazing artist, Clarke. I think doing something with that could be something you'd enjoy and be really really good at.”

She’s quiet when she asks, “You think I’m amazing? You’ve never told me that.” And Bellamy swears he can hear that smile in her voice again. The one he always looks forward to. The one he tries to coax out of her without realizing he’s doing it.

He feels his cheeks start to heat up and even though she can't see him, he feels the need to brush it off. “Yeah, well, I generally try to be as dickish as possible so…”

She snorts again and damn if he didn’t feel a slight flutter in his chest.

“For the record, I think you’re going to be an amazing teacher,” she says it so matter-of-factly but he’ll have to dwell on it later because she sobers and then asks softly, “So, you think I should do it?”

It’s not hard for him to build her up. She spends so much time being there for the rest of their slowly merging friend groups that she rarely takes time to see the greatness in herself. He doesn’t mind helping.

“I think you should do whatever the hell you want.”

(iii)

“Women are worse than men.”

Bellamy rubs the sleep from his eyes and glances at the clock; it was almost 3 in the morning. “I thought men were tumors?” he asks around a yawn.

“Yeah, well, women can be tumors too,” Clarke huffs, but she just sounds tired, “Comparing people to tumors is equal opportunity. Strides in feminism are being made, didn’t you know?”

Bellamy pushes himself into a sitting position, suddenly more alert as he picks up the trace of tears in her voice. “You ok?” he asks.

Clarke is silent at first, but he waits her out, he knows that she’ll tell him. “Lexa broke up with me,” she says quietly and then adds in confusion, “Or we broke up with each other? I’m a little unsure. We spent the whole night arguing and then suddenly she was packing up her stuff.” She pauses before taking a shaky breath, “It’s over. We’re over.”

“I’m so sorry, Clarke.”

“She was leaving anyway,” she continues, bitterly, “Some new job. She was leaving in a few weeks and didn’t even bother to tell me. I told her we could make it work long distance, I was willing to try and make it work. That’s when the arguing started. Not just about that but about-,” Clarke abruptly cuts herself off and hesitates, “about... other things. Things I didn’t even know were an issue.” She’s quiet again before she adds, “She didn’t say it but I think she was disappointed that I never suggested going with her...”

The thought makes a quick flash of irritation run through him. “She wanted you to uproot your entire life and go with her,” he summarizes as he tries to adjust the pillows on his bed by beating them, maybe a little too roughly at the thought of her doing just that, before leaning back against them.

“Which is completely crazy, I know,” she hurries to say, “but I wish we could have talked about it.”

“I am sorry, Clarke,” he says again, “I know Lexa seemed like she was it for you.”

“But maybe she wasn’t?” Clarke counters as if trying to reason with herself. “I don’t know. We were both committed to each other, but maybe this was a sign that we weren’t going to be able to make it work long term?” She pauses and Bellamy can hear the gears in her head turning as she processes a way for her to handle this, too explain it to herself. “When we were together,” she hesitates before continuing, and he can imagine her biting her lip, “I was happy... but I felt like a separate version of myself, ya know? Still me, but not completely me?”

Bellamy chews on the words he wants to say and goes with, “Sometimes the person you're with can change you; it's not always a bad thing.” He gets quiet as he adds thoughtfully, “I like to think Gina made me a better person...and she probably did,” he pauses, this time unsure if he should keep going, but Clarke hasn't said anything, so she must be waiting for him to continue, “We tried, tried really hard, to make it work, but eventually you just realize that maybe the relationship isn't going anywhere and what’s best for everyone is just to call it.”

“Wait, you and Gina broke up?” Clarke asks in surprise, “When did that happen!?”

“That's what you got from that?” He rubs a hand over his face as he thinks about it, “About two weeks ago?”

“Shit,” she says and is quiet before asking in a small voice, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Honestly, I haven't seen a whole lot of you these last few months,” he hears what he said and corrects himself, “We haven’t seen a whole lot of you.” He’s surprised at his ability to keep the bite out of his voice; because the truth was this last year has sucked since Clarke started dating Lexa.

They met at one of Clarke's art gigs. Lexa was cool; fun when she wanted to be, but also a little hard to be around. Most of the time, she seemed to prefer doing things without any of Clarke’s friends.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says.

“It’s fine,” he answers her and means it. “Gina and I are still good friends.”

“I wasn’t talking about you and Gina,” she says, voice soft.

He realizes what she’s actually apologizing for and he doesn’t know what to say. Because of course he forgives her, he will always forgive her.

The silence lasts too long so he clears his throat and prompts, “Want to come over and get drunk?”

Her laugh through the phone breaks the tension, “It’s like 3 o'clock in the morning.”

“My bar is always open.”

She chuckles. “I really want to hit something,” she says with a determined edge to her voice, “Then maybe get drunk.”

“How about this, we get a few more hours of sleep, wake up at a normal time, and go hit something,” he offers and then adds as if it's an afterthought, “And then get drunk, of course.”

She laughs again, “Oh, of course.” There’s that smile. “I forgot what being single with you was like.”

Bellamy sobers at the thought. It has been awhile since the two of them were single at the same time. “Always here to help, Princess.”

(iv)

“Why did I agree to this trip again?”

He’s packing up the essays that are scattered across his desk when she calls, 4 o’clock on the dot. Bellamy tries to suppress a laugh but he’s pretty sure she can at least hear the teasing smile in his voice.

“Just getting back to the hotel?” he asks in lieu of his own greeting.

“Yes!” she exclaims in exasperation. “And if it were up to Josephine, we probably would have walked all of damn Paris tonight,” her voice gets muffled at the end and he can only assume she’s thrown herself face first onto the nearest bed. “I cannot wait for a shower- No! A bath, definitely taking a long, hot bath.”

And now the image of Clarke Griffin in the bath, with just enough bubbles to cover up to her chest, has entered his mind. He shoves it away before anymore thoughts can accompany it.

This used to never be a problem. Sure, he’s always known that Clarke is attractive, but he has never been attracted to her. But ever since he broke up with Gina and she broke up with Lexa, Bellamy has been exceedingly aware of the fact that they have both remained single.

The last time this happened was right after Finn.

Bellamy shakes his head for good measure before responding. “You’re going to fall asleep in the tub and your roommate will find your prune-y, wrinkled body in the morning.” He cringes. Apparently he wasn’t able to get the image of her completely out of his head.

Clarke scoffs, but he can tell that it’s in an exasperated but fond kind of way. “How is it that you manage to be a buzzkill from over 4,000 miles away?” she asks drily and then pauses before adding, “Actually, Josie would probably just leave me in there for the entire trip and never let on that something was up.”

He turns the key to lock his office behind him and heads for the staff lot. “Don’t worry, if you don’t call to check in, I’ll call the National Guard,” he teases.

“I know you would,” she says simply, like it’s a known fact.

Things have been a little weird after he became aware that they were both single. Mostly because, he’s pretty sure that Clarke has also come to realize it. When he turns to look at her, he often finds her already looking. Their innocent touches are now more frequent and linger just a bit longer.

Bellamy has come to realize that he doesn’t want to be single and the reason he doesn’t want to be single is because he wants his best friend to not be single with him.

There’s just never a right time to tell her.

“So, what did you do today?” he asks.

Despite the exhaustion and jetlag that’s surly setting in, Clarke jumps into an animated retelling of the flight and arriving at their hotel room just in time to change clothes and head back out to walk the streets of Paris to get their bearings before their tours officially start tomorrow.

“I’m a little disappointed that we’re doing the Louvre first thing tomorrow. I was hoping to be a little more alert for that.”

“Your coffee addiction hasn’t stopped just because you’re in another country,” he points out as he gets in his car.

She laughs, “Jeez, you are such an ass.”

He starts the car but doesn’t leave just yet; afraid the long distance call will drop out.

“What are you doing now?” he asks into the comfortable silence.

“Admiring the view,” she admits softly. “It really is gorgeous all lit up. Makes me want to dig out my sketchbook.”

“You have a week, Princess,” he chuckles. “Don’t screw up your jetlag even more by losing track of time in your drawings on the first night.”

She’s quiet again before confessing softer somehow, “It also makes me wish you were here.”

His heart clenches in his chest and he wills himself to sound normal. “Maybe next time,” he tries for teasing but it comes out almost wistful.

“Next time, hmmm?” Clarke hums. “You’d come to Paris with me?” And he’s sure she’s flirting with him.

“Well, maybe not for our first date,” he says, “But maybe, like, our fifth or something.”

Clarke’s quiet for a long time and he’s afraid he’s overstepped, misread the room. He’s about to take it back, play it off as a joke when she finally speaks.

“And what would a first date look like?” she asks with what he thinks is hope in her voice.

He swallows a couple of times. “Well,” he starts, “Since you’re already getting some of the best museum experiences, I’d probably settle for dinner and a movie. Something cheesy that’s playing at the dollar theater; where we’re the only ones there and can yell at the screen.”

She chuckles and his heart flutters, “We already do that, Bell. Quite frequently, actually.”

“Yeah, but if it’s a date then I’d get to kiss you at the end of it.”

“What? No making out during the movie?” she asks and he can picture how cute her face gets when she pouts.

A grin spreads across his face and he’s grateful no one can see how goofy he must look.

“We’ll have to make sure it’s a really bad movie.”

(+i)

Clarke rubs some moisturizer on her face before capping the tube and tossing it into her bag on the bed. After ensuring that everything she’s going to need for tomorrow is packed, she zips it up and grabs one of Bellamy’s hoodies to slip on over her clothes.

Ever since he picked her up from the airport when she got back from her trip to Paris, and she ran directly into his arms, giving the other people waiting quite a show, there always seems to be one laying around, waiting for her to find it. She assumes that he gets as much of a thrill out of her wearing them as she does.

She heads down the stairs of their townhouse, passing various pictures and artwork, and shoots Raven one more text not to forget to bring her dress to the venue tomorrow. She’s supposed to help her get ready in the morning along with her mother. In the meantime, Abby has sent a car to pick her up and take her to the hotel. Easier to get ready if she’s already there for the stylist… something else her mother insisted on paying for. No matter how many times Clarke told her she didn’t care what her hair looked like because she was marrying the love of her life.

Clarke locks up the house and greets the driver, slipping into the backseat. She intends to spend the ride lost in thought, going through the checklists that were running through her head.

Their engagement had been on the short side but she didn’t mind. They were both ready to get on with this next chapter in their lives.

Her phone is resting loosely in her hand, face down on her knee, when it starts to vibrate with an incoming call. She holds her breath for a second, praying it isn’t the florist or the caterers. But when she sees the photo of her and Bellamy from New Year’s flash on the screen, she can’t help but smile.

She taps the button and greets him with a sultry, “Hi, handsome.”

“Hey,” he says and she can tell he has a soft smile on his face, the one just for her. “You just leave the house?”

“Yep. On my way to the hotel now, so hopefully you haven’t forgotten anything because it’s too late now.”

“The most important thing is already on its way,” he responds with a teasing lilt.

Clarke can’t help the sharp laugh that escapes her lips, “Oh my god! You are such a sap!”

“I was referring to the ring, obviously, Princess.”

“Oh, obviously,” she says, mock serious.

They chuckle to themselves for a few minutes and she honestly can’t tell if the driver is rolling his eyes or thinks they’re being cute from hearing one side of the conversation.

Bellamy sobers up first only to let out a groan. “I hate whose ever idea this is,” he whines.

“Aren’t you the history professor? Shouldn’t you know where common traditions and such come from?”

He scoffs, “No, I mean I hate whichever of our friends is making us do this.”

The two of them haven’t seen each other since yesterday morning, him having been spirited off by his groomsmen while she was left to spend last night alone in their bed. And now they’re meant to go one more night without seeing each other.

To Bellamy’s point, Clarke isn’t altogether sure why this is a tradition anymore, nor why they are choosing to follow this particular one. She and Bellamy aren’t even that superstitious! And yet somehow they were talked into spending the days leading up to their wedding apart.

“Ah,” she answers him now, “That would be Raven and Miller. Although, I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with marriage traditions and has everything to do with getting back at us for making out in front of them so much.”

Bellamy scoffs again, “Well, jokes on them, because after tomorrow, I don’t ever have to stop kissing you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, “We’ll have to come up to eat at some point.”

The driver pulls up under the awning of the hotel and Clarke gets out and grabs her bag before he’s able to get out and grab it for her. She gives him a wave and a simple thank you before heading through the sliding doors.

“How’s your room?” she asks into the phone as she bypasses the check in desk, her mother having already checked her in and given her the key card to her room this morning when they were getting their nails done.

He heaves a deep sigh. “Lonely,” he answers as she steps into the elevator. From what Clarke knows from his texts, Miller dropped him off here last night and left him to his own devices. Apparently, the best man gets to sleep next to his husband but Bellamy wasn’t allowed to sleep next to his soon-to-be wife.

She makes a split second decision and presses a different button, jolting the elevator to stop sooner than intended. When she steps off she casually offers, “I could help with that.”

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles. “You going to describe for me what you’re wearing?”

“Hmm,” she hums as if she’s considering it. “I could do that… but I was more thinking that I could show you.”

Clarke stops in front of a door and gives it a nice rhythmic knock.

She doesn’t have to wait long before it’s opening and Bellamy is standing in front of her with his phone against his ear and a huge grin on his face.

She lowers her own phone from her ear, pressing the end button without looking.

“Hi, handsome,” she manages before he’s pulling her into his room.

#no one cares ashleigh #bellarke fanfiction #bellamy blake x clarke griffin #my fanfiction #i'm going to post this and run away because omg #i feel like this is long and i rambled #and i had some unresolved issues regarding clarke's relationships #anyway #enjoy!

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dreadnought-dear-captain · 4 years ago

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You Asked, I Told

I had a cluster of messages still in my inbox, so rather than responding to them piecemeal as I originally was thinking of doing, I’m going to consolidate them here. Especially since so many of them contain Baghdad Waltz spoilers.

For those interested, my new fic (so close to having a title!) is going to be posting probably next weekend, so stay tuned for that. See this spoiler-free post for more information, if you missed it.

WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING OF BW

Ah yeah, it’s only still open because I need to add a list of works consulted, which will be another chapter in the timeline I think. But there won’t be any more actual story content. I’m sorry!

I would really like to think that Steve stays in touch with Winnie. I imagine that when he and Bucky broke up before he went to West Point, he drifted away from her and went all lone wolf. But I think that spreading his mother’s ashes is the beginning of his healing process with his maternal attachment issues, so I want to imagine a future where he values his relationship with Winnie and takes steps to keep himself and Ethan in her life. He knows what Ethan means to her, and Steve has been as good as one of her own children for a large part of his life. I imagine Winnie making a promise to Sarah to watch over Steve after she died, and I believe she would take that responsibility very seriously. I deeply enjoy my fantasies about Winnie and Ethan having a relationship, just as I sincerely want her and Steve to retain a sense of family together - even if it might be a bit complicated.

As for Bucky (or Steve) potentially dating other people, yes, this could be a bit awkward for everyone! I imagine there would be a bit of distance right after the breakup. But I also really believe in my heart of hopeful hearts that Bucky and Steve will remain friends, regardless of whether or not they ever get back together - possibly even best friends. They worked well in this configuration before, better in some ways than when their relationship became romantic. And if they were to move on to other people (I have given myself permission to see multiple ultimate endings for them), I like to imagine that they would be happy for each other, perhaps bittersweetly, but sincerely.

Those are just my thoughts.

I have, of course, wondered about where their lives have led them. I’ve pleasantly imagined them getting back together in a few years, after they’ve done substantial work on themselves, and living a happy, relatively stable life together. I’ve also fondly imagined them doing this same work and then going on to meet other people while remaining in each other’s lives as friends (my beta and I have had many long conversations over the kinds of people they might end up with, in this case). I care most about them as individuals, if that’s not abundantly clear, but I see so much potential for them to remain close in whatever way they do. I’m sorry if that’s not a satisfying answer, but I feel content knowing that they are both on the path to being the best people they can be; whatever that means for their relationship is kind of secondary to me.

Thank you so much for the kind words! I’m very glad that you enjoyed it so much, and thank you for sticking with it so long!

I am hoping that they were actually being honest when they said that they wanted to still be there for each other and that they would continue to love each other. It was never intended to close the door on them immediately or in the future. But I do imagine that they would probably take some time to cool off (Steve moving, Bucky reconfiguring his daily routine without Steve in it) and then later resume more regular communication. Whatever happens after that is completely up to the imagination, I suppose!

I have a couple points to make about this:

I’m willing to bet that most Stucky fanfiction involving traumatized or otherwise severely struggling characters gives them a happy ending together. This is just the nature of the Stuckyverse. I think that’s why an ending like this one is such an oddity. This ending was not written for the purpose of making it an outlier; I just came to realize that this is the only end I could have written for these characters without doing an “xx years later…” epilogue like so many fics do. And I didn’t want an epilogue, because I honestly don’t know for sure what lives they might choose when they are in better places individually. I wanted to imagine a vaster world of possibilities for them rather than just landing them back at their home airport safely and calling it a day. But because the expectation in the fandom is “End of the Line” (and, to be fair, because of expectations I laid for readers in earlier days when I thought this was going to go differently), I think this ending feels even more jarring that it might have otherwise been for some folks. Honestly, I’m happy to be able to provide something alternative to lend more variety to a fandom that can sometimes feel a bit over-saturated.

As for hope, I’m not sure if I could offer a more hopeful proposition than to grant these characters the chance to heal from their trauma and loss and to give them the freedom to live in accordance with what they value most. Of their own volition to boot, not because they were forced by external circumstance. Bucky needs to deeply heal from his abuse, Steve needs to really grieve for his mother and connect with the most important person in his life - Ethan. And these goals are simply not compatible with the nature of their current relationship, which I think could easily be labeled as highly loving but also very unhealthfully codependent, if not toxic. I also deliberately left the door open for a future for them as a couple, if readers want to give them that.

So, I’m sorry this ending felt like such a disappointment to you. Although this story doesn’t follow the EOTL recipe, it’s still my hope that a majority of readers can find something valuable and meaningful in this story as told. But I cannot please everyone and have kind of given up trying.

I’m so pleased to know that these characters felt so real to you and that the story has left an impact on you. I honestly did plan for this to be a pretty typical Stucky story at the start, but it really became much more of a Bucky and Steve story (to the chagrin of some). I’ve spent so much time thinking about them, building their backstories, understanding their psychologies, and it’s been so rewarding to write them taking this journey, unplanned as much of it was. This has been a WIP in every sense of the word for me, taking me to places I never meant to go but was excited to visit once we got there.

Thanks again for the feedback! This is great to know.

--------

For those who have given me feedback about wanting the ending specifically tagged to better prepare future readers (a step I really want to avoid for spoilers’ sake): I hear you, I do. I have just revised the pre-fic notes to more specifically shape expectations for what this story is going to be like - including the ending. I really do appreciate people sharing their concerns about this, and I hope you find the compromise to be a reasonable middle ground. (EDIT: I’ve also decided that the tag “bittersweet ending,” which I just added, is reflective of the overall nature of the ending without being specifically spoiler-y.)

Thank you to everyone for all of the great asks and the support! I’ve started working on responding to comments in Ao3, so if you sent me something there, hopefully you will be hearing from me soon!

#YOU ASKED I TOLD #asks #send me asks

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theshipsfirstmate · 5 years ago

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Game of Thrones Fic: Please Speak Well of Me (part 2/2)

Post-finale jonsa angst/feelings, with some gendrya in the background. (Honestly, I just want them all to be happy.)

“I've heard the speech,” Sansa tells him. “But you and I both know it’s different when there’s a crown on your head.”

“I never wore a crown,” Jon answers, needlessly.

“I know,” she nods, wringing her hands nervously, but unable to look away -- or stop herself from admitting, “That’s why there are two wolves on mine.”

A/N: I know this follow-up is like, a year late, but I’m trying to clear out my WIPs and this one was mostly done and I’m pretty pleased with it. Anybody still around?

Please Speak Well of Me (PART 1)

Part 2: You Recognize Love After the Fact (AO3 - wc: 10121)

Jon says her name, standing in front of her in his old chambers, and she thinks it might be the first thing she’s really heard in over a year.

“Sansa.” It’s like seeing in color after months of nothing but white and grey.

Part of her thought the world would be louder, ruling in the ashen aftermath of the Mad Queen. She thought the crown on her head would bring with it a diplomatic din, a ceaseless chorus of concerns calling to her to be handled.

And it's true, there are voices that reach out from all sides throughout her day, and a few from the past that come to her in her empty chambers at night. There are survivors whose lives she has been tasked with rebuilding, and lost generations to whom she is desperate to construct proper monuments. But the noise so far has been muted, and manageable, as if the veil she dropped over her countenance the moment she took her seat on the North’s wooden throne was also designed to muffle the sounds of the outside world.

It’s lonely, too. The silence has been her penance, she thinks, for growing spoiled once again by having her siblings close by. Their time at Winterfell before the war was fleeting and fraught with paranoia and planning, but it was enough to remind her what it was like to have a family once again. It was enough to know what she was missing when she returned home from King's Landing alone -- without Arya, without Bran, without Brienne or Podrick or Sandor. Without Jon.

Her people have accepted her, are grateful for her role in freeing the North and establishing independence, but it's never left her mind for a moment that she was the ruler they were left with, not the one they chose -- the last remaining Stark at Winterfell.

Perhaps fittingly, she has become something of a lone wolf. She keeps to herself as much as possible, taking her meals alone -- or, since their return, with Arya and Gendry -- and politely shunning any advisors who attempt to cross the line into something friendly or more familiar. And the quieter she becomes, the more she hears how they speak of her. Granite, they say. Stone and ice and steel. But at least those things are strong.

She is the only one now who can know the truth of how weak she is, Sansa knows that much for certain. A queen isn’t supposed to mourn her family, scattered across the map -- not when her kingdom has so recently been winnowed by the army of the dead. A queen isn’t supposed to pass through empty chambers in her keep, hoping to catch the scent of someone who used to sleep there.

A queen isn’t supposed to cry. So she’s learned to turn her tears to frost before they ever reach her cheeks.

“Sansa,” Jon says to her, and the ice within shifts, weakens. Brackish water begins to leak through the cracks.

She can barely remember how to speak, and it doesn’t come as much of a comfort that he seems to be fumbling as well.

Over the foolish moons, Sansa had imagined that, if the time came that Jon ever returned, the mere sight of him would unwind the tangles of conflict inside of her. There would be something in his eyes, something she had forgotten about his face, something that would remind her what was real and what was not between the two of them.

She understands now that this was all wishful thinking. The knot in her chest only twisted tighter when he stepped before her in the Great Hall, wrapping more inextricably around what's left of her heart, and she’s not sure it’s something she’ll ever be able to untangle.

“It’s just very good to see you,” he says finally, on a breath, and there’s a flash of something in his gaze that makes her wonder if he’s just as conflicted as she. His face is thinner now, and the shadows under his eyes are darker still than after his stay in the Red Keep. But there's something else about seeing him before her, something that tugs at the corners of her lips. It takes her far too long to recognize it as joy.

He keeps himself so still, hands balled into fists at his sides, waiting for her to reach for him. Mercifully, the second she moves, Jon does too, arms banding around her as she sucks in a breath that leaves her lightheaded.

“I'm so glad you're home,” Sansa whispers when she trusts her voice not to break, speaking the words into the worn furs at his collarbone.

When she pulls back, reluctant to even let him slip a few inches away, his eyes are sad but sparkling still, and he brings a careful hand up to cup her face.

“Sansa.” Again, just her name. But it sounds like something more.

It’s why she had fumbled over their introduction in the Great Hall, why she recoiled when he addressed her as queen. This is the only thing she ever wants him to call her.

She spends so much time replaying it in her head, it takes her a long moment to notice that he doesn’t say anything more. He’s just looking at her. All of her at once, it seems. His eyes dart from her face to her cloak, around the room and back again. But his mouth seems to stick on anything but syllables of her name.

“What is it?”

“It’s just…” The sentence comes in fits and starts, and part of her wants to plead with him to simply say what he means. And then he does. “I’ve spent so much time wondering if I’d ever see anything good come of all that’s happened. But that crown on your head…”

She ducks her eyes to his boots, unwilling to let him see the tears or anything else that might spring to her eyes. Jon pulls his hand back to his side and she misses it instantly.

“Gendry made it for me,” she tells him. “I wanted something for Robb. And Father. And the rest...”

“It’s perfect,” he answers with a nod and a near-whisper. His eyes go soft and she imagines he must be thinking of their fallen family. “It’s beautiful. You’re-- You make a beautiful queen.”

His breath catches in the space between them, and Sansa goes a bit light-headed herself. It's so much, to have him here. It's been so long since she made a wish that had even the smallest chance of coming true.

“I should-- They'll be looking for me.” She nods to the door, and Jon responds with a tiny, terse flash of a smile. It’s just his lips, pressed together in a line, but she tries to memorize it. “I’ll send for you at supper?”

He doesn’t answer right away, so she assures, “Nothing formal. Arya and Gendry usually eat with me in my solar.”

Jon looks so relieved she can't help but smile at him again. Her cheeks, out of practice, are starting to ache.

“Just family,” she adds, and then the look is more than relief. Joy, she remembers again. That's what it's called.

__________________________________

“I've decided to take Gendry’s name after all.”

Sansa knows Arya will be annoyed at her sigh, but she can’t help the consolation she feels at checking one minor battle off of her ever-growing list. “Oh?”

Wedding planning with her sister has been about as easy as she expected, which is to say, very near agony. Arya is a specific mix of practical and desperate to buck tradition that has called into question nearly every detail of a traditional Northern wedding celebration. And besides that, she’s marrying a Southern lord.

“The tradition is demeaning, but times are slow to change,” Arya tells them of her latest decision. “I'll take his name to protect our family, but I will always be a Stark.”

Sansa grins at the flash of her sister’s Tully blood, still running cool beneath a face that undeniably belongs to their father. Gendry smiles as well.

“No one who looks upon you would doubt that,” he assures his bride-to-be, even though it earns him a swat to the arm. “And if they did, you would be quick to set them straight, my lady.”

“I'm not your lady yet,” Arya warns.

“Aye, but soon enough,” her betrothed fires back. “You'll be my lady and my family.”

Sansa expects another blow to Gendry’s side, but instead her sister goes soft, eyes widening with the most sentimental look she's ever seen shape the practical angles of her face.

It's some happy moment, something from their past, she understands. Arya’s told her some of their stories and more than anything, Sansa finds herself grateful that they had each other for a time, grateful that her sister can hold her life's memories up to the light and catch the gleam of happiness off of some of them.

She knows something of the depths of Arya's affection for Gendry, but this may be the first time she’s ever truly seen her sister as a woman in love. It pulls at Sansa’s heartstrings and something in a darker part of her as well, something that feels too much like jealousy to dwell on for very long.

She looks away, aiming to afford the couple a semi-private moment, but this leaves her eyes to find Jon’s, which soften at the corners, like they're sharing a secret too. She can’t linger there either, so she racks her brain for a distraction -- and settles on a weak one.

“You're sure about the godswood?” she asks, focusing on what's left of her stew.

“Seven hells, Sansa, yes.” Arya manages to project her annoyance while keeping her eyes fixed on Gendry for a moment. When she turns back, her whole face narrows suspiciously in her sister’s direction. “Why do you keep asking?”

“It's just--” Sansa chooses her words carefully. “It's very traditional.”

“I think it'll make it feel like father's there,” her sister explains, casually, like it doesn't rip the breath from her chest. “Mother, as well. It's what they would have wanted.”

Sansa can feel herself freezing over, despite the fire that roars in the hearth of her solar. And when did you decide to care what they wanted for Winterfell? She doesn't let the ugly voice in the back of her mind ask its question aloud, but she can't find anything else to say.

“Aye, it is,” Jon finally fills in, and Arya smiles gratefully at him.

“Besides,” she continues, either oblivious to Sansa’s reaction or pretending to be, “Bran will be more comfortable there.”

“Bran’s coming?” Jon's worry is what finally thaws Sansa enough to find her voice.

“Not to worry,” she says, clearing her throat. “I'll speak to him -- as a queen to a king, and as a sister to a brother. ”

“I don't want to cause any trouble.” A quick flash of panic passes between them, and Sansa imagines an empty chair at the dining table tomorrow, like he was never here at all.

“You won't,” she says resolutely, and thankfully, Arya echoes the same. It seems to be enough to pacify Jon for the moment.

They finish their meal in peaceful silence, but all three of Sansa’s guests take note when she does her best to stifle a yawn.

“Would you two mind giving us the room?” Four eyes turn towards her with the same question. “I'd like a word with my sister.”

Gendry’s already standing to take his leave, ever courteous. “Goodnight, Your Grace,” he says with a smile. Arya rolls her eyes, but Sansa gives him her warmest blessing.

“Goodnight, my lord.” She’ll insist on first names after the wedding, she’s already decided. “I must thank you again for bringing more of my family back to me.”

He's a good man, her sister’s betrothed, solid and sure. He balances Arya in a way that Sansa counts as a blessing, even as she doesn’t fully understand it. And best of all, he’s kind.

“We two were never meant to head our houses, but we’ll do our best, won’t we?” It’s their private joke, however morbid, forged over the last year as they found themselves in similar chaos. Sansa does her best not to watch Jon from the corner of her eye as she nods.

“Our families have been friends and allies for generations,” she tells him. “It’s an honor to have you join us, officially.”

Gendry departs with a sheepish grin, and then she’s forced to turn her attention back to her remaining guests. Perhaps foolishly, she chooses Jon, who's watching her like he’s seeing something different as the embers in the hearth begin to dwindle.

Sansa’s stomach twists, not with discomfort, she realizes, but worry. She fears letting him out of her sight for the evening will give him permission to disappear, to prove himself the hopeful apparition part of her still believes him to be.

He must sense her concern, or see it on her face, because he doesn't move to follow Gendry out the door. “All right, Sansa?”

Perhaps, she thinks. If you’re still here when the sun rises tomorrow, I might be. “Yes, thank you,” she forces out instead, with a smile she hopes is stronger than it feels. “Goodnight, Jon.”

He doesn't say anything more, just nods and takes his leave. When Sansa turns back from the closing door, Arya’s already opening her mouth, ready to spar. She assumes it'll be more wedding details, but then her sister’s face changes and her eyes narrow slightly.

“You're already different.”

“Different?”

“Now that he's back,” Arya says, like it’s simple. Like it’s an answer.

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

Sansa sighs, for what feels like the hundredth time today. Fine. “Perhaps I am,” she allows, though the forced innocence in her tone is heavy with a thousand possible implications. “Is it so wrong, that I should be happy to see my family returned to me?”

“Of course not.” Her sister gives her a knowing smile that makes her feel small, and seen, and she nearly dismisses her outright, but in a moment of weakness -- or strength, it’s hard to be certain -- remembers her initial intention.

“I don’t want to quarrel,” Sansa says softly, eyes drifting back to the door Jon walked though just moments ago. “I just wanted to thank you. I know he’s here for you -- for your wedding -- but once again, you did what I could not.”

She’s not sure what reaction she expected from her sister, but it’s not the one she delivers.

“Mine was the easy task, compared to yours,” Arya answers low, looking almost nervous.

“And what is it that I must do?”

“Convince him to stay.”

Sansa imagines the look she gives her sister could be called skeptical at best. Incredulous is probably closer. “He will if you ask,” Arya insists.

“I have.” Sansa ducks her head from her sister’s gaze as she answers too quickly, remembering the hastily scribbled missive at the bottom of one of his pardons, a few moons back. “I have asked.”

Please come home.

She regretted it as soon as the raven took off. Were she a better archer, she would have tried to down the bird as it flew over the battlements. It was desperate, and unbecoming of a queen, but she found that she couldn’t help herself as she signed that month’s decree. Something deep in her gut had flushed her cheeks and moved her hand and still, it wasn’t enough.

But her sister is the stubborn sort, always has been. “Ask him again.”

“I sent him a dozen pardons, Arya.” And then, childishly, because this particular spat feels like pressing a thumb down on an already-purpled bruise. “I’ve asked him a dozen times, more than. You ask him.”

“No, it can’t be me.” She remains cryptic as always, and Sansa is weary of so much of it. “It has to be you.”

Her regal composure has held for so long today, but the last of it snaps as she considers what feels like an impossible task. It’s not as if she hadn’t thought of it. It had been her first dreadful question amid the joy of realizing Jon had really returned: When will he leave again?

“What do you imagine I can do, Arya? The weakest of the wolves — what powers do you expect I have here?”

Her sister doesn’t answer right away, hanging on something Sansa hadn’t intended to say. “You don't really believe that.”

She does. Not only that, she knows it to be true. The weakest of the wolves. She’s heard it in murmurs, most of them in her own head. Every day, there are moments when she wishes she were her brother, with the ability to see through to the meaning of things, or her sister, with the power to glean motives as easily as faces. Or Jon, with his strong shoulders to carry the weight of the world, and a head made for a crown.

He returned to Winterfell all those years ago with a bastard’s name, a broken oath and blood that had already once run cold, and still, they raised their swords to him. Sansa’s been queen for longer than he was king, yet there is not one day she hasn’t felt like an imposter.

“I'm just one person, Arya, with one life and one face and wits that I’m learning far too often are not enough.” Her voice sounds small to her own ears, muffled by thoughts of ledgers and lords and all the tedious things that seem to undermine the grand title she's had bestowed upon her.

“I couldn’t even make him come home,” she whispers, as an unspoken refrain echoes in her mind. It’s something she’s told her sister once before, as they stood atop the snowy battlements of their home. You did that. I couldn’t. You did.

“You're not just a person,” Arya says, in a tone Sansa is growing more resentful of by the second. “You're a queen.”

“And I have pardoned him, and I have asked him, and I have-” Sansa cuts herself off and takes a deep breath before going so far as to admit that she’s spent most of her nights bargaining with the old gods and the new, and restless hours dreaming of Jon's safe return. “Why is it that you suddenly think I'll be able to change his mind now?”

“Faces don't lie.”

Usually, Sansa feels out of her depth when Arya mentions her mysterious game. But tonight, she just scoffs at a truth she’s more certain of than anything.

“Faces lie all the time. You know that better than anyone.”

“Not yours,” her sister says knowingly, and Sansa can hear her own heart thud in her chest over the scrape of Arya’s chair as she stands to take her leave. “And not his.”

__________________________________

She’s left so unsettled that it takes her a moment to notice Arya has left the door ajar. When Sansa sighs, and moves to close it, however, a flash of red catches her eyes in the corridor.

“Ghost.” And behind him, to her immediate relief, “Jon.”

She wishes, in that moment, that she could read faces like her sister. There’s always been something in the way that Jon looked at her, ever since their time at Castle Black, but it feels different now. More, a voice in her head whispers, and she tries to stifle it.

Ultimately, though, it’s his words that stop her breath.

“The godswood,” he says, almost at a whisper. She steps back to let him reenter the room without another word.

They haven't laid eyes on each other in more than a year and still he can see right through her. She stays quiet long enough that it serves as an answer.

“Hells, Sansa, why not just tell her?” She nearly laughs, but the thought is too bitter.

“Arya wants what she wants. She has so many good memories of this place, I won't give her any of my bad ones.” Her sister knows too much already about her years as a victim, and besides, it wouldn’t become a queen to talk of such horrors.

“She would understand,” he insists. “You know she would.”

But Sansa’s tired of this fight. She’s waged it silently within herself too many times. Seeing Jon’s pitying eyes doesn’t do anything to make it better.

“I will be fine, Jon. I have grown accustomed to ignoring unhappy thoughts. I will not stand in front of my lord father’s people and their gods and think of my own miserable wedding day, or Theon’s death, or a promise that I couldn’t keep.”

His eyes go wide at that -- she knows he had only been thinking of Ramsey. “Sansa...”

“I won't apologize for it. But I know you haven't forgiven me.” She had sworn to him, in front of what was left of her family, on their most sacred ground. And even as she said the words, she was preparing the plan in her head to betray them. It haunts her still, but it’s a ghost she can manage. It saved them all, as best it could.

“I--”

Nothing becomes of the sentence, and Jon’s silence confirms her suspicions. He might never forgive her, and that’s something else to live with. It only feels sharper now because he’s here. That’s what she tells herself.

“I'm grateful that you came for Arya, but I won't--”

“I didn’t come for her,” he interrupts, finding his words and seeming startled by their force. Now it’s Sansa’s turn to be speechless.

“Not only for her,” he fumbles over the correction as she takes in a sharp breath. “Though she does seem fairly determined these days about a person’s right to get what they want.”

And what do you want? Sansa doesn't ask it, but she almost does -- and that's dangerous enough.

“I've heard the speech,” she says instead. “But you and I both know it’s different when there’s a crown on your head.”

“I never wore a crown.”

“I know,” she nods, wringing her hands nervously, but unable to look away -- or stop herself from admitting, “That’s why there are two wolves on mine.”

His eyes flash at the admission, something hot and mournful and dangerous.

She wonders if it’s wrong, to stand here with him like this. It feels like it might be, even more so than it did earlier. The keep is quieting around them, leaving a stillness she rarely gets to enjoy. And when Jon’s eyes reflect the fiery glints from the flickering hearth, it feels very much like something that could sweep her away, if she gave it permission. Perhaps even if she didn't.

It's not a question of whether or not she loves him, Sansa realizes then. It's a question of whether or not she always has -- and what it means.

Ice and stone, they say. Suddenly she doesn’t feel so solid.

__________________________________

Perhaps Sansa should be surprised at how easily Jon fits back into life at Winterfell, given everything that’s happened. But deep down, she knows that she's not.

She sees him sparring with Arya in the yard, as dozens of green boys and hopeful squires look on in awe. She notices the bond he forms with Gendry, the way the two men jest with each other -- lighthearted familiarity that can only come in peacetime. She watches him as he walks the battlements and dines in the Great Hall and sits in with her small council meeting, and sometimes she nearly cries with the relief of it all.

This is where he belongs. The longer he stays, the more the rightness sinks into her bones. It’s a dangerous feeling, but she loses the will to fight it when he catches her looking and flashes a crooked grin. It’s almost as if he always knows just where she’ll be.

Then one day, as they enjoy a quiet lunch together in her solar -- her head spinning with unspoken thoughts, but somehow also comfortable in the peace -- Jon asks to see the crypts.

Sansa swallows an empty bite, takes a deep breath and nods.

She cancels her afternoon and they descend the steps together, torches in hand. Despite her layers of fur, she still has to fight back the shiver.

The work is admirable, it’s impossible to say otherwise. She owes a great debt to the masons and laborers who put in countless hours of tiring work to erase the evidence of that horrific night and rebuild her family's historic monuments.

“I avoided it for a few moons, because I couldn't stop having nightmares,” she tells Jon, nearly at a whisper, when they reach the bottom of the staircase. “But the more it was rebuilt, the more I was able to sleep.”

He doesn’t speak until they reach her father’s statue, the starting point of a new family bloc. “They'd be so proud of you, Sansa. All of them.”

Are you? The list of questions she won’t let herself ask him only continues to grow.

They pass by her mother -- whom Sansa still has trouble looking at directly -- and come to a stop in front of two of the new busts, likenesses Jon hasn’t seen in years. The eldest Stark son and the youngest, resting too early under stone.

She hears a choked kind of sound next to her, and wonders if he's picturing a wolf pup next to Robb, as she often does.

But when she turns to look, his focus is on Rickon, and his eyes are filled with tears that spill over when he speaks. “I nearly had him, Sansa. I nearly--”

It’s hard for her to pick that awful day out from the rest, but she knows it must be so vivid for him, who came so close. She grasps his hand in her own free one, and brings it down between them. He turns to her with a question in his eyes -- she wonders if he even realizes he was reaching out.

“There was a moment I thought I might have them build him older,” Sansa recalls. “But there were no sculptors who had seen him since he was so small, and I couldn't...It’s not--”

She loses the word “fair” in her tears and Jon squeezes her hand as they fall. She doesn’t let go to wipe them away.

It’s quiet for a long moment, and then he asks, “Do you think he would have looked like Robb?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I dream of him sometimes, but I can’t picture him as a man.” There’s something so much more profound in that loss.

“Nor Robb,” Jon adds. “I once thought of him as a man grown, when we all left, but he was younger than I am now.”

“Me as well,” she answers.

There are four spaces left in the plot. Sansa wonders if Jon counts them off as they walk deeper into the tomb, setting their torches to rest in the wall sconces. The last of the Starks. This is where they too will lie one day.

She knows it’s foolish to have a plan. Arya’s likely to die on some remote corner of the map, her body consecrating a life lived on the point of a needle.

Bran may never return either. Is a king permitted to come home when he reigns no longer? Is a Three-Eyed Raven ever laid to rest?

Jon, as it turns out, is ready to answer for himself. He drops her hand when they reach the final marker and she closes it to a fist, digging her fingernails into her palm when his voice comes low and mournful.

“I don't belong down here, Sansa. Just like I never belonged up there.” He says it as if it's a fact. “I may deserve the grave, again, but I don’t deserve to rest among the Starks. Not as I am.”

“As you are?” She wills her voice to strengthen as she speaks. “You are a Stark. You are our family, just as much as any of the rest. You belong at Winterfell.”

“But I’m not.” Sansa feels her cheeks redden as his stubbornness draws from her more anger than sorrow. “I’m not a Stark, and I never was.”

Behind him, the statue of her father shows her the falsehood in Jon’s claim, in the slope of his nose, the set of his chin. But he can't see what she sees.

“I'm a Targaryen, and a kinslayer at that.” He sounds as if the words are sour on his tongue. “There is madness in my bones and blood on my hands, and I don't deserve--”

“I know you loved her,” Sansa tells him with a jaw she wills not to clench, “but you didn't have a choice, Jon.”

“Loved her?” he scoffs. She takes a breath to steady herself. This is not how she had imagined this particular conversation, or where.

“I know you feel you should suffer for what you've done-”

“Look what becomes of the people that love me,” he interrupts, waving an outstretched hand, voice darker than the tomb around them. Sansa thinks it sounds like an accusation. “She trusted me with her heart and I put a dagger through it.”

“And my only regret -- as should be yours -- is that you didn't do it sooner.” She can’t find it in her to care if the words come out spiteful. She doesn't want to speak of Daenerys. Not ever, but certainly not here.

Jon’s eyes narrow in the dim firelight. For the first time since his return, he looks at her with something close to anger. “You’re so sure that it was right?” he asks, voice grating against the questions she knows he’s repeated in every quiet moment for the better part of the last year. “That there wasn’t something else that could have been done? That it wasn’t-”

“Yes.” It’s her turn to interrupt. “And I always have been.”

He shakes his head, looking anywhere but at her, and admitting, “I don’t know if I ever will.”

“Then I will be sure for the both of us.” She’s so certain she understands what he’s telling her, so ready to refute his best efforts at self-immolation. “Jon, you saved so many…”

“And what if I did it to save one?” he spits out, and then she’s not certain of anything anymore.

Jon takes a step back like the revelation comes with a physical blow. He’s not wrong, the way she feels it in her chest.

“It was the last arrow Tyrion had in his quiver -- and he knew it would hit its mark,” he recalls. “Arya too, she warned me where Daenerys would go next. All they had to do was tell me--”

“Am I to feel guilty for that?” Sansa breathes through her shock. “I don't think that I will.”

“Gods, Sansa.” He’s practically hissing now, sucking cold air through his teeth in frustration. It draws her eyes to his mouth and she realizes he's stepping closer again.

“Why are you so stubborn? What is it that you hope to see in the truth of this? What is it that you hope to prove?”

“I don't--” Just moments ago, she had known her footing in this conversation, but it's shifting beneath her now and leaving her stumbling.

“Why won’t you see me for what I am? Why did you want me to come home?”

It won’t be until much later that she realizes he had called Winterfell “home.” At present, it’s the anger in his demands -- the way it assures the darkest parts of her mind that he’d rather be anywhere but here -- that finally pushes the tears onto her cheeks.

“I know who you are,” she reminds him, with a watery waver. “I have shielded you from the Lords of the North and the King in the South. I have rallied troops in your name.”

They have killed for each other, several times over, and the aftermath has turned her to ice and left him full of fiery resentment. The horrifying possibility dawns on her that there may be nothing here left to salvage. Despite her best efforts, despite the deepest truths of her heart -- and whatever lies within his own -- this could all end in ruin. But still, she’s determined to try.

“I have sent a flock of humiliating ravens, and gods, Jon, if you don't know by now?” Sansa starts to tremble, and that’s when his countenance shifts. His eyes flash wide and then soften, and he reaches out for her hands, as if to steady her. It only throws her further off balance.

“I have defended you to any and all that raise their concerns, and I will continue to do so, but I do not have the strength to defend you to yourself. Please, I just--”

“Sansa,” Jon whispers, taking a step closer and letting their foreheads fall together when her voice catches on a swallowed sob. “I'm sorry.”

They stand there for a long moment, until her frantic heartbeat slows to sync up with his. She can feel his breath when he exhales, it brushes against her lips, and she wonders if it feels anything like it would to kiss him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time she's entirely not sure what he's apologizing for.

And she knows it’s impossible, but she tells him anyway. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to stay.”

With that, she gives his hands one final squeeze and gathers her torch to leave quickly, before she can hear him say he won’t.

__________________________________

Bran arrives a few days later, with a smaller contingent than she expected. She’s almost relieved to see he still wears the strange, distant countenance of the Three-Eyed Raven. In a way, it suits him even better as king.

Sansa asks to meet with him the very first night, after their welcoming feast, eager to clear the air as quickly as possible.

“I suppose you know of our visitor.” Jon has kept himself scarce since their conversation in the crypts. It’s been easy enough to tell herself that it was because of the king’s impending arrival.

Bran nods solemnly, betraying nothing of his feelings about his exiled cousin’s return from beyond the Wall.

“I am the Queen in the North,” Sansa recites, though it sounds as if she’s reminding herself, “and I've issued a pardon in his name.”

“His name,” Bran echoes, with that far-away voice she’s still not entirely used to. “A name he longed to be rid of all his life. And now, under the weight of so many others, he longs for it back.”

Sansa realizes she had never considered writing any other on the desperate scraps of paper she sent north every moon.

“I don’t pretend to have any idea of what he longs for,” she fires back, almost without meaning to. She might imagine it, but she swears Bran’s eyes sharpen in her direction for just a second. Steeling herself again, she speaks before he has a chance.

“I don't want to fight to keep him here, but you should know that I will, if it comes to that.”

Her brother’s eyebrows knit together at the promise -- which, she realizes, wouldn’t take much to read as a threat -- and then the corners of his mouth quirk up slightly, like she's made a joke. She meets his eyes, not sure what to expect. A challenge? A reprimand? The milky white pupils that mean he’s seeing something else altogether?

But instead they just seem clear, in the strangest way. After a breath, Sansa realizes it’s the closest she’s seen to the little brother she remembers, the bold and brave Brandon Stark who dreamed of glory and titles and castles big enough for climbing.

“Sansa,” he says, “you have marched an army towards your nightmares and stood as the lone defender of our home. You married a monster in the godswood, exposed our family's most dangerous traitor, and faced Winterfell’s risen dead in the crypts -- and you laid them all to rest. There isn't a soul alive, sister, who would question the fierceness of the red wolf.”

Sansa presses her lips together at the moniker, but a cowardly part of her worries her brother is not yet finished.

“But?” she asks. Bran just looks at her placidly. “Father always said--”

But her brother just shakes his head. There will be no more. “The pack survives.”

Could it possibly be that easy? She almost believes it, coming from the mouth of a man who can see through time.

“Thank you, Bran.” She reaches out to clasp his hand, and when he squeezes back, she loses her carefully held control over the tears in the corners of her eyes.

“It's been a long and terrible journey, Sansa. But you’ve made it back home.”

When she first left Winterfell -- a naive girl of just three and ten who still believed in fairy tales -- she had four brothers. Today, there is just Bran. And even he will leave her again soon. “Alone,” she adds absently.

Four spaces left.

“Not alone,” her brother counters. “Not forever.”

As usual, she’s left scrambling to piece together his meaning, but before she can ask anything more, he’s waving to the door.

“I’m going to retire for the evening,” he says as Podrick wheels him away. “If you have another moment, I believe Brienne would like a word.”

Sansa just nods. “Of course. Goodnight, Bran.”

__________________________________

Brienne bows as she enters, but Sansa is already on her feet, ready to wrap her old friend and protector in a warm embrace. How little it’s taken to warm her spirits over this last week. Or rather, how much.

“Your Grace.”

“Please,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, “just Sansa is fine in private.”

“Of course,” the knight demurs, though she looks almost nervous. “It's good to see you.”

Sansa motions to one of the empty chairs, but Brienne makes no move to sit. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, very well, thank you.” Brienne looks towards the door, and then shakes her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “I just, uh… There's someone I'd very much like for you to meet.”

Sansa freezes for a moment, but when a maid enters, carrying a bundle wrapped in blankets, her heart swoops in an entirely different direction.

Brienne takes the baby with a familiarity that tells Sansa almost everything she needs to know, and moving closer to get a better look at the child answers the remaining questions, though it does little to ease the surprise.

There’s a shock of white-blond hair, so similar to his mother's, but when he opens his eyes, Sansa sees a green that, for just a moment, makes her blood run cold -- until she glances up to see Brienne gazing at the babe with a kind of maternal tenderness that the Lannister family hasn't known for generations now.

“Queen Sansa, it is my honor to present Lord Selmy of House Tarth.”

“Selmy,” Sansa echoes, unable to think of anything else to say at the moment. “For Ser Barristan?”

“A worthy namesake,” Brienne answers, “and a believable one, as well. But privately, I must confess, the name is a blending of my father’s and his own. Selwyn and...Jaime.”

The confession hangs in the air, though it's less of a revelation than little Selmy himself, who lets out a pleased coo, as if he knows he’s being talked about.

Sansa can’t help but smile. “A fitting name for a handsome young lord.”

Brienne beams. “Would you like to hold him?”

She nods and settles back into her chair to receive the babe, who grins up at her instantly as she takes him in her arms.

“How…?” she begins, before stopping herself. “Forgive me, it’s none of my--”

“The night before we went to war,” Brienne answers. Sansa doesn’t need to ask which one. She remembers that night, remembers the way it felt like time stood still at Winterfell for just a few hours. She remembers the calm before the storm, and Theon’s smile in the firelight.

“I--” She pauses again, still gazing at the little lord in wonder, even as her heart aches a little. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you find motherhood?”

A look of confusion passed over Brienne’s face, before it settles on a wary grin, and Sansa wonders if the question has been asked of her yet. Bran’s council is made up of many wise men, but they are just that, and she doubts if Brienne has much in the way of female companionship.

“I think it is the most frightened I have ever been,” she admits. “I am uncertain of what I'm doing, almost every moment of every day.”

“I'm sure that's not uncommon,” Sansa assures. “But Brienne, you have pledged so much of your life to protecting those who could not protect themselves. Isn't that the root of parenthood, after all?”

When the knight looks back at her, she notices the glint of tears in her eyes. “Well said, Your Grace. Sansa. And not untrue. I hope to serve my son as well as any other pledge. Better, even, if I allow myself to be selfish.”

“I only hope he hasn't caused you too much trouble,” Sansa notes, frowning briefly. The nobility of Kings Landing had been deeply shaken by the Dragon Queen’s vengeance, of course, but she knows all too well that they can always find the time to cast aspersions.

“Only while fitting my armor in the last few months,” Brienne says with a smile, though they both know that's not what she meant. “Your brother did me the honor of legitimizing him the day after he was born.”

The gesture doesn’t come as a surprise, but tugs at Sansa’s heart all the same.

“Bran’s a good man. A good king,” she notes, though admittedly, it's still strange to think of her little brother in either of those terms.

“I can't help but see it as a personal indulgence, and undeserved at that, but the king rationalized that he was already with me when I took my vow,” Brienne recalls. “Ser Podrick is fond of joking that makes Selmy a Kingsguard as well.”

“Well, and technically you haven't fathered any children,” Sansa observes, making an indulgent face as Selmy reaches out to grasp her finger in his tiny hand.

“King Bran said the same.” the knight admits with a chuckle. “Westeros is lucky indeed to have two wise rulers.”

“And what does Tyrion think of him?”

“I imagine he will have more interest once he's old enough for mischief and drinking,” Brienne jokes, though Sansa knows that young Selmy will undoubtedly be raised with his mother's honor. “Neither of us seems terribly unhappy to allow Tyrion to remain as the last of his Lannister line, and one day, when he’s old enough to understand, we’ll tell my son of his father.”

A blessing, Sansa thinks, even as she sees how it’s something Brienne is still coming to terms with. Young Selmy deserves a happier chapter in the new history books.

They all do, don’t they? She thinks of Jon's return, of Arya's unconventional nuptials, of the young lord nestled in her arms and his mother, who rescued her from her darkest days and kept her safe until they could find a world where these lives might be possible.

“It seems we’re all finding ways to bend the old rules, aren't we?”

Brienne nods, with a faint smile, before narrowing to a slightly more serious look. “There's more than one way to break a wheel, Sansa.”

“Yes, I suppose there is,” Sansa answers, a bit in awe, until Selmy interrupts the moment with an insistent gurgle.

She's thought of this, she admits to herself. Of a babe in her arms. As a queen, and as a woman, there's more than one reason to have imagined it.

Mercifully, no one has dared broach the subject with her yet, save for Arya, and even her warrior sister had been as gentle as Sansa can remember when she had asked. It was perhaps more worrisome than if she’d been brusque.

“Are you sure you could?” she had asked one night, after too much wine. “Are you sure you want to?”

“It’s what’s expected.” It wasn’t an answer, and they both knew it.

“If we had-- Bran could legitimize one of ours…”

“I won't do that to Gendry,” Sansa had already thought of that, too. “He only just got his family name, and if he's to be a father, he’ll want to be a proper one.”

Arya’s eyes had gone soft and grateful, yet still she looked ready to argue. Ever prepared, Sansa had a less-sentimental point at the ready.

“And besides, I don't think the northern lords will look kindly on the appearance that the King in the South had a hand in choosing our successor.”

“Probably true.”

“It must be mine,” she said, resolute and unsurprised. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Sansa—”

“I must,” she repeated, and it was enough for Arya to drop it. “So I will.”

“I should get him back to his maid,” Brienne says, breaking her from her reverie as she stands to attention. “I don't want to take up any more of your time.”

“Nonsense.” Sansa finds she’s almost reluctant to have the babe taken from her arms. “I hope to visit with you both as much as possible during your stay.”

The knight nods happily. “It's very good to see you, Sansa,” she adds, “and to see you so well.”

“I owe my life to you, Ser Brienne.” Sansa stands as well, brushing out her skirts as she struggles to keep a rein on her sudden sentimentality. “My family, and my kingdom, owe you a great debt. And my pledge to you will stand in the North as a promise to House Tarth for generations to come.”

“We shall remain as grateful as we are loyal,” Brienne says with another small bow, minding the child on her shoulder as she turns for the door.

But something makes Sansa call out again.

“Brienne--” The knight turns back, and her son lets out a tiny sound of protest.

“Forgive me,” Sansa’s had the question just behind her teeth since seeing the reminder in young Selmy’s eyes, but still she stumbles, “but do you find it difficult… When you look at him, do you remember--”

As she asks the question, or struggles to, Sansa’s mind conjures an image, unbidden -- a boy with a mop of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes and a girl with dark braids, her grey eyes flecked with violet.

Brienne cannot see the picture, but nods solemnly, understanding all the same.

When it comes, her answer sharpens the focus on something in the back of Sansa’s mind. “It's not as if I'd forget, otherwise.”

Sansa nods at that, true enough. “And what a beautiful reminder.”

Brienne smiles again like the sun, and it leaves Sansa with a variety of hope that feels almost entirely new. Both of them possess hearts that deserved better than they got. But in this remade world, perhaps things are possible that never were before.

Not alone, Bran's words return to her. Not forever.

There is so much joy in her heart, it's almost impossible to understand why it is that she cries herself to sleep that night. Almost.

__________________________________

It snows lightly for the next few days, and then, at dusk, it is time.

Sansa busies herself as best she can in the hours leading up to the ceremony, aiding in last-minute preparations and tending to Arya -- who, unsurprisingly, needs far less help than she’s prepared to offer.

So she spends the extra time pacing her own chambers and aimlessly readying her appearance -- brushing her hair and re-polishing her crown and feeling like a cowardly child as she repeats to herself that this is to be a happy day.

Mercifully, only Jon calls on her and still, when he knocks, she nearly jumps out of her skin before remembering that it won’t be Theon, come to collect her.

“Come in.” She wonders if he can hear it in her voice, or if it’s written across her face. Or if he just knows, the way he knows to remind her of her always-forgotten gloves before they walk the battlements or knows to pass her an extra glass of mead when the cooks have over-salted the stew at supper.

“All right?” Jon asks the question carefully, and Sansa realizes that, despite her best efforts, she’s grown spoiled by his presence once again. He’s found his way back into her bones, or worse, revealed himself to have always been there, and she resents the implication that she’s weaker than she thought herself to be.

“I’ll be fine, Jon.” The ire worms into her words, and she snaps at him undeservedly. “I told you, I can hold myself together.”

“I don’t doubt that, Sansa,” he replies softly, ignoring the harsh tone. “You’re the strongest person I know. I only asked if you’ll be alright.”

She sighs, and lets the shame color her cheeks before the chilly night air can do the same. “Yes.” She is a fool, but it seems there’s nothing to be done about it. And there are more important matters at hand. “Thank you.”

He smiles, and she tries not to notice the way it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looks handsome, in Stark colors, with his hair freshly washed and curling around his face. She notices that, too. “I would escort you down myself, but--”

He can’t, and they both know it. She and Bran must be in position at the heart tree before the ceremony begins, and Jon will follow to present Arya, per the bride-to-be’s most ardent wishes.

“It’s fine,” Sansa assures him. “I’ll walk out with Pod and Brienne and Selmy.”

Jon grins again at the mention of the little lord, who has become a fast favorite with all of Winterfell, and the way it makes her stomach flip is enough to distract Sansa for a few good moments.

A happy day, she repeats to herself once more, willing it so.

The walk to the godswood feels like it takes ages, her feet treading heavy through the freshly fallen snow, but finally, Sansa takes her place beside her brother, setting her shoulders proudly at the crowns that top both of their heads. When her lungs start to feel like lead, and the lantern lights begin swimming in her periphery, she does her best to conjure the same icy visage she wore when she found herself alone at her own coronation.

It works well enough, until Bran -- the only person Arya had agreed to let perform the ceremony -- asks the question: “Who gives her?”

Sansa’s vision blurs, and she reaches her right hand out instinctively, mercifully finding Ghost at her side.

“Jon Snow, nephew of Ned Stark.” The conversation over Jon’s titles had been a short one. While there were no arguments about letting his Targaryen name go unmentioned, he had surprisingly balked at the notion of calling himself Arya’s brother.

“I won’t lie in front of the old gods,” he had said, not knowing how his words would send a burn of shame and something else entirely through Sansa’s veins.

It’s not jealousy she feels now, she’s sure of that. It’s more like agony. It’s the memory of hearing Ramsey declare himself the heir of her family home. The memory of having no one to stand beside her except for Theon, whom she couldn’t even look at without seeing Grey Wind’s head stitched to Robb’s lifeless body.

It’s the memory of the stupid, small hope she had that night, the flickering warmth of coming home, snuffed out so quickly by a bloodthirsty beast -- and the realization that Winterfell without Starks was no home at all.

She fists her hand in Ghost’s fur, perhaps too tight, but the wolf simply shuffles his paws in the snow beside her. He leans against her leg, giving her some of his weight to balance herself against, and she presses her eyes shut with gratitude. He is Jon in every way he can be, keeping her on her feet, loyal and true.

She doesn’t hear the beginning of the vows, doesn’t see her sister’s lovestruck face when her groom smiles down at her, doesn’t realize that Jon himself has come to stand beside her until she feels his hand cover her own on his wolf’s back, fingers tangling in the spaces where tufts of white fur poke through her grip.

After a moment, she releases Ghost and turns her hand upward, letting Jon take it properly, threading their gloved fingers together. It’s snowing harder, but it’s the warmest she’s felt all day. It may not be proper, with the Northern elite looking on, but she can’t find it within herself to care.

Things come back into focus as Gendry wraps his cloak around Arya, and Sansa allows a small, private smile at the gesture. It’s another compromise between the pair -- the luxurious fur appears black to an unknowing eye, but Arya had insisted that it actually be dark grey, a shade between both of their houses. And the clasp, handmade by the groom himself, is a Stark wolf’s head that fits neatly into the decorative antlers of the Baratheon stag.

There’s more than one way to break a wheel, Sansa thinks, tightening her fingers around Jon’s almost unconsciously. He squeezes back as the happy couple kisses, and her heart thuds in her chest, so hard she knows it won’t take much to break itself.

Suddenly, the ceremony is over, and the Northerners file out towards the Great Hall with joyous whoops and raucous good cheer. It’s nothing like her wedding day after all, and Sansa allows a deep, icy breath to fill her relieved lungs.

Arya and Gendry share a few words with Bran before making their way over to Sansa and Jon. It’s hard not to mirror their blissful, beaming faces, and the rest of Sansa’s dread blows away in the frosty air.

“Congratulations,” she says with a genuine smile, not missing the way Arya’s eyes flick down to her and Jon’s still-clasped hands.

“Thank you, Sansa,” her sister answers simply, and she understands it’s for more than her well wishes.

Podrick wheels Bran out behind the newlyweds, and then it’s just the two of them and the old gods, left with a glance back from her brother the king that she can’t even begin to decipher.

“Thank you, for that,” she says to the empty godswood, to the path he walked her sister down. Still clutching at his hand, she knows Jon will be able to follow her. “For being here, for…”

For holding me together, she finishes silently.

“It looked like you were hoping maybe the snow would sweep you away,” he says just as softly. That's exactly what it was -- the rightness floods her vision as she ducks her head in a nod.

“I’ve grown familiar with the feeling,” Jon admits and only when Sansa allows herself to picture him back beyond the Wall, alone again, do her traitorous tears begin to fall.

“Sansa...”

“It’s just been so lovely having everyone here,” she sobs, feeling childish in her misery, especially on such a happy day. “And soon you’re all going to leave again.”

Winterfell without Starks is no home at all.

Jon tugs at their entwined fingers, spinning her to face him, and lifts his free hand to brush away the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“I'll stay.”

They’re the words she’s been longing to hear, but Sansa doesn’t trust them. Not now, not after everything that’s happened today. It’s sentimentality that’s shaping his offer, she worries, not true emotion.

“Don't do that,” she says, with a shake of her head that makes his hands drop away. “Don't do it just for me.”

“Why not?” he asks. “You're my queen. You're my family. What better reason could I ask for?”

“You know there’s a better one,” she says bitterly. “I won't order you. I just wish you… I wish you wanted to.”

“You think I don't…?” His brow furrows in disbelief. “Gods, Sansa, that's not any of it.”

She waits, because to guess would mean exposing the last piece of herself that’s left to break. She can’t risk it, not even for Jon. She needs to hear him say it.

“You know I’d give you anything you wanted,” he tells her, low and sincere. “But the way I feel, here with you, with our family, it’s bliss and it’s agony at the same time. Because I know I don't deserve it.”

“The world is a cruel place, Jon,” Sansa answers, crossing her arms as protection against the cold and her own insecurities. “So few actually get what they deserve. And I've seen too many smiles on the faces of evil men. I’m not sure I actually believe that the gods care if we suffer or revel in the time we've been given.”

He looks at her, for a long moment, and then he nods.

“Aye, maybe you’re right.” They’re so close. If he can let himself take one more step, perhaps they can move forward together. But still, Sansa is afraid to hope.

“I think Arya’s right about taking what we want,” she offers, channeling her brave little sister, who found the love she wanted, and fought to keep it. “We survived. We’re alive, for however long the seven allow.”

“You’re right about that, too.” Nobody knows that better than him.

Jon raises his hands to her face again, but this time he’s removed his gloves. She nearly swoons at the warmth of his palms against her cheeks, the way the pads of his fingers trace at her earlobes and her neck. Their eyes meet, and it’s almost enough to make her believe.

“So, what do you want, Jon?” Tell me, her heart whispers. Please just say it.

“I want you to be happy.” He presses his forehead to hers as the snow falls harder around them, and when her traitorous eyelids slip shut for just a blissful second, she feels him lean up to drop a kiss on each one, then her nose and cheeks in succession. “You deserve it, Sansa, all the joy the world has to offer.”

“You can give it to me, Jon,” she pleads, opening her eyes once more to show him everything she has left to offer, everything she has to lose. “Please. We can have it together.”

The moment that follows feels agonizingly slow, but finally, he nods, eyes brimming with the emotion she’d been too afraid to hope for. Sansa gasps when she sees it, and he catches the sound as he presses his lips to her own.

She’s never known a kiss like this one. It’s ice and fire together where they touch, bliss and heat and home and...

Joy. Days ago, she hadn't even been able to remember what the feeling was called, but it finds her now, wrapped in his arms. It finds them as he whispers that he loves her, before taking her lips once again.

It finds them in Great Hall, as they join the feast to celebrate her sister and her new brother-in-law. It finds them in front of the heart tree again, not many moons later. It finds them in her chambers and then in her birthing bed; it finds them as the rooms of the Great Keep are filled once again with the sounds of family.

It finds them in the glass gardens, when Queen Sansa is dragged away by her husband for a much-needed respite from the day’s duties, and in the library, as a new generation of maesters do their best to school a new generation of unruly Starks, and in the sparring yard, as Jon proudly leads young swordsmen (and women) in their first practice parries.

It finds them in smiles and sighs, in snow and storms and spring and summer. Joy finds Winterfell once again, and mercifully, it stays.

#first mate fic #jonsa #jonsa fic #game of thrones #jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #sansa stark fic

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bisexualgendryas · 5 years ago

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gendrya + jonsa au: bastard lords and hidden ladies (part 1)

so, this is very much not the whoooole concept as I practically just switch from Cat!Arya to Alayne!Sansa (this post is basically just Gendrya + Alayne!Sansa, sorry, not even written Jonsa, but I promise the full concept includes happy married!Jonsa (two versions, too, lol)), but I am tired af whilst simultaneously being really pumped that ppl wanted to see this idea so here’s (much of) the longass outline of the thing I posted about earlier:

au wip, a legitimized-boys, secret-identity-sisters canon divergence piece, where: Stannis becomes king (and keeps Gendry alive), Arya accepts Jaqen’s offer to work for a courtesan and Gendry finds her while on business for the Crown, Jon gets legitimized after taking Ramsay down, and Baelish makes a betrothal for Alayne to Gendry that she later basically manipulates Stannis into changing into one with Jon after Gendry and his true love ditched the whole ass crownlands. It’s got a lot of book plot overlap too but I have no true concept of the timeline in terms of when different canon events happened. If you want more of this or have ideas or anything, feel free to share them!

Instead of Gendry having to escape from Stannis, Shireen finds out that her father’s found a cousin of hers - a true one, not one of Cersei’s bastards but one of her uncle’s - and especially with pressure from both her and Davos, Stannis ultimately decides he’ll keep Gendry alive, have him taught to behave properly, how to manage lordly duties, and so on.

Jaqen realizes that Arya may not be perfectly cut out for being Faceless, and makes her an offer - that he could find her employment of a different sort. As he’s noted, she’s taken by the allure of the courtesans, whose jobs include far more than just the sexual duties shared by those who work in brothels.

At first, Arya insists she can get better, but then Mercy!Arya ends up becoming friends with a girl who works on one courtesan’s ship, and after hearing many stories about how the women play instruments and tell stories and sing songs, she decides that perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing to try out. She talks to Jaqen, tucks Needle in a belt, and makes friends with Mercy’s friend with her own face, as Cat, and then the friend convinces the courtesan that Cat’s a charming young woman who should come work with them.

Stannis first loses at the Blackwater, but then with assistance from the Iron Bank and much of Westeros, as well as some more magic, he later manages to topple Tommen and take the Throne.

Needing to be sure of where the Crown stood with their Essosi allies, Stannis sends Gendry and Davos to Braavos to speak with the Iron Bank. As the Starks were always so keen to remind everyone, winter was coming.

And, ahem, the men sent with Gendry and Davos certainly intend to as well. And, only naturally, after a couple nights of well-enjoyed brothel trips, some of them decide they all ought to take advantage of their being in Essos and seek out some renowned courtesan as well - they had Westerosi lords and knights, after all, one of whom was in line for the bloody Iron Throne! Surely someone would love to host them!

Spoiler: yes, someone absolutely would. (Especially considering that Robert had quite the reputation - not as a particularly fun partner, but definitely as a man who’d finance the purchasing of a week’s worth of alcohol in two nights and come back to bed every pretty girl an establishment had afterwards.) How many Braavosi courtesans or whores can say they were bedded or courted in any manner by the son of a Westerosi king? Not many.

Contrary to expectations, Cat ends up being one of them, though not so much while they’re in Braavos. And as sweet and reassuring as it is that her friends, her companions in training, are certain that this lord immediately realizes how pretty she is, she knows the moment that Lord Baratheon meets her eyes he can see Arya, buried deep beneath Cat, and when she speaks in response to the courtesan he and his men are visiting, he hears her as well, though she’s glad to see he’s smart enough not to have his shock blatantly on display.

After a couple visits, his men return to the brothels, the enchantment of listening to old songs more lost on them than the enjoyment of fucking - but Gendry keeps coming to the barge, even though it’s only him and his uncle’s Hand at that point, and after a couple nights of only them, trading stories with the women and listening to songs in languages that have barely been heard since Westeros’ common became, well, common, he actually asks to have time with only Cat.

And of course, the parts of them that are closest to the Arya and Gendry they once were have an awkward but heartfelt reunion - but the parts of them that have grown up are acutely aware of how different they are, how different their places are. Still, he’s not surprised she became an assassin, and she’s not surprised he doesn’t enjoy the vast majority of what’s involved in being at court. They don’t share everything, but they share quite a bit, almost falling back into the sort of friendship they’d thrived off having. On following nights they talk more about things - about Shireen, about the Hound, about the Red Woman, even a bit about King’s Landing girls and Braavosi dockworkers.

It takes a couple more nights, but after a while she decides to remind him that, while it’s not something guaranteed simply by seeking out a courtesan, he is allowed to bed her. (With permission from her employer, of course, as payment and whatnot would be arranged, but…it’s him, her friend, grown and handsome, so Arya doesn’t mind giving the suggestion.)

He asks, though, what would be the cost just to kiss her. For all the time she’s spent learning people, especially men, it’s embarrassing to be caught off guard as she is, but she manages to gather herself and say that it would depend on who he intends to be telling. She doesn’t really let him consider that, though, not the first night, because she simply does kiss him.

They don’t explicitly tell people they’ve started kissing, but they’re terrible enough at hiding their affections that they’re quickly the talk of their respective social groups. Everyone among them, and probably others who view the barge consistently, knows that he keeps coming back, after all…until their few weeks in Braavos are coming to an end, at least, Iron Bank negotiations and all other necessary business of the Crown having been handled.

But then, before Arya’s really made to think about the fact that he found her on the other side of the world and inched closer and closer to becoming a lover only to have to leave her again, Gendry asks her to leave with him. He can’t give her back her home or her family, but if nothing else they can live safely, together - and more than that, he simply wants not to leave her, ever. From what he’s said of his own family, she doesn’t imagine she’ll get a warm welcome, but she can’t stand the idea of him leaving her either, so she packs up what few belongings Cat has and says farewell to her friends, and to Braavos.

Other than the scandal of her coming with, none of the men seem to think much of her taking a place in his cabin. It’s there that he ultimately decides he’s free enough to bed her for the first time. They’ve not yet made it to King’s Landing by the time he realizes he’s completely and irrevocably in love with her.

Arya’s mainly right to think she won’t get a warm welcome; both Stannis and Selyse almost immediately denigrate Gendry for following his father’s path, the path of foolish men, for what kind of lord openly brought a whore to their castle? She’s not actually a whore, he cares to remind them, even though it stokes the fire of the fury. He has his own to match Stannis, though, and it’s clear and it’s spectacular in its own way. So, too, does Shireen - lovely, kind Shireen who’s so happy for the prospect of a friend that she again begs her father on Gendry’s behalf, and reluctantly, Stannis allows Cat to remain, with some strict guidelines, many of which Arya has no complaints about meeting.

Up North, though, Jon has heard about Arya’s marriage to Ramsay, and decides to reach out to Stannis for help on the matter, help of some sort, any sort. It’s not immediately granted, especially as Jon is already asking for Other help, but ultimately, Stannis starts to consider it. Ramsay was only ruling in the North because of a series of betrayals against those who would rightfully rule it - if the last known living child of Ned Stark, a man who died for speaking the truth of Stannis’ claim and denouncing Cersei’s bastards, was asking for help, to save his family, was it not Stannis’ duty to give it?

He does decide that having Jon as an ally is his best move, and begrudgingly he sends some troops North with Davos and Melisandre, to assist Jon’s wildlings in taking back Winterfell. The Night’s Watch doesn’t all take kindly to the Lord Commander’s priorities, but by the time mutiny drags down Jon Snow, Melisandre is in residence at Castle Black and she brings him back, having seen him at battle at Winterfell in her flames, knowing it needs to follow.

He takes Stannis’ sent men and his wildlings and begins to march south, only for a broken Theon to bring to him Sansa’s friend Jeyne, whose identity Theon had hid so that she could be believed to be Arya. The battle is hard-won, but they win it still, and Stannis gives him his father’s name for the victory, but it’s hollow.

Hollow, too, is the love promised to sweet Alayne, whose false father seeks out his best excuses to wed her to the highest bidder, a title claimed all too soon by the king and queen, part of their plan to change the behavior of the king’s nephew and part of Petyr’s plan to return to power in King’s Landing. A bastard lord for a bastard lady - to Stannis that’s like to sound fair, but to Sansa, it’s everything but. She’s learned to pay attention to whispers and rumors, and with this…Petyr intends to mold her into Cersei, it nearly seems. A Baratheon with a temper and a love, and he’d have Alayne marry him, if only to return to seeking the power of the crown. She knows he’d been speaking with Lord Bolton, which still boils her blood even now that she knows it wasn’t her sister who had been made to be his poor wife - she’d doubted it always, especially with the recollection of how Arya had once raised her own sword even to Joffrey - but he still will drag her back to residence in King’s Landing rather than let her go home…unless she can work something out with her betrothed, and perhaps she can.

Not that he intends to give her the chance, though - the moment that Stannis informs him of the betrothal is a bigger, louder fight than they’ve ever had. Stannis might be king, but he owns Gendry no more than he ever could his brothers, and Cat even less, and he won’t be allowed to forget it. There’s a ship bound for Braavos in the bay, and soldiers intended to take her to it, soldiers who are meant to grab her from Gendry’s chambers while she’s alone there and escort her so that he doesn’t get a say.

Stannis, though, doesn’t know that only some parts of any woman are soft, and Gendry’s the only man with rights to ask for any of her softness. Even without real context she knows the soldiers are only obeying their king, so Arya focuses on injury and little more, rushing down underneath the castle, down where she’d ran when Syrio had told her to do so. And, as if by magic - perhaps, actually, by magic, for she wouldn’t know - Ser Davos finds her. He takes her to a dusty corner, hands her a wine skin and one of Cat’s other dresses, and tells her to wait for him to come back…and so she does.

She waits until the entire area is getting dark, only the trail of the sun and no lanterns or sconces to show her the possible way out, and holds tight to Needle until after the sun is set and he scurries back to her, Gendry at his side, rushing to her like never before. Davos has given him clothes that once had belonged to a son of his, and grabbed them some food.

They make it out of the city on a ship manned by one of Davos’ other sons, a trade ship headed for the Riverlands - straight for Hot Pie, as far as they’re concerned. Arya might cry, in part from feeling terribly anxious and in better part because he’s so terribly kind.

Alayne and her father arrive in their carriage a few days later, to a very apologetic royal party, and Alayne spends much of her first days back in the city thinking how horribly fed up she is with men for all their machinations. Princess Shireen, though, is very clear that while it’s a pity someone was hurt by it, her cousin is deeply in love, and in their private company she calls her father foolish for thinking he could ever sway him. It’s so very Sansa of her, that Sansa herself is easily swayed to their side, though she knows Petyr is having much more difficulty accepting the rejection.

It’s all very much a lovely love story to Sansa, though, as it is to Shireen, and Alayne bonds with the princess easily. She even enjoys Shireen’s stories about this woman Cat, and finds herself wanting to know more and more, especially as she realizes that in a way she has taken the other woman’s place, just in Shireen’s life as a friend as opposed to in her cousin’s. Stannis and Selyse, though, really do stew in their displeasure. Petyr does a better job of hiding his, but she knows that’s only because his intentions are about power and not family, let alone love.

Then, one day, about a fortnight after their arrival, Stannis mentions a part of the plan she’d been unaware of, one she might be able to use.

He wanted to secure the Vale support so that he could support Jon - Jon Stark, now, newly legitimized Lord Stark, warden of the north, the man who had beaten down House Bolton but needed more of his king’s support to fight a larger, more pressing battle, one against the dead, one for the living. As Petyr says, the details make it sound like madman’s words, but King Stannis has magic on his council and more importantly, this was Jon, and Jon was…Jon. Surely if he declared that the dead could be raised by some unnatural force and made to fight the living, he was speaking the truth of it.

She confronts Petyr in private - had the Vale not already been sworn to House Stark? He disagrees, cautiously - House Arryn had been truly bound by House Tully, and Jon had no Tully to speak of.

“Jon Arryn, my uncle, fostered my father, Jon’s father. He called his banners against House Targaryen in defense of Rickard Stark and his children, and Jon is as much Ned Stark’s son as Robb or Bran or Rickon, no matter where your loyalties lie.”

“Your cousin -”

“My cousin trusts his beloved stepfather not to mislead him,” she finishes, proud that she can see in his eyes how the remark wounds him, and then she takes a walk to the godswood to get her head around her situation.

She wounds Petyr again the next day, by bringing to court a proposal of a marriage between her and Jon - she prefaces by saying that she and her father had spoken of it, just gently enough that no one would doubt her, for Lord Baelish keeps his expression so very static, his surprise just barely visible to even an educated viewer. It’s a good offer, to Stannis, and on the surface it’s good for Petyr as well, though no one would say it’s better than putting his future grandchild in the line of succession for the Iron Throne.

Stannis, though, is perhaps realizing he’s glad to have removed a contender from his line, and he’s quick enough to agree to write to Lord Stark with little more than Petyr’s confirmation that the Vale would give its strength in this war of Jon’s.

Petyr makes his displeasure known, but Sansa is sure enough that Jon will side with her that he agrees not to raise a fuss. She knows she’s made the potential error of keeping either of them from an heir, but if it allowed her to go home with her brother, she’d manage what she had to manage.

Jon, too, agrees, surprised for an offer but happy for it all the same, writing back to Stannis days before he’s actually set to leave for Dragonstone to mine dragonglass on the island, another part of their deal. Jon would remain the ever-vigilant guard of the realm, and Stannis would provide him what he needed to hold such a position well - that was how Ser Davos had said it.

They could figure out heritage when this great war was won.

#house baratheon #house stark #gendrya #jonsa #shireen baratheon #i think there's still a tag limit for what shows up in tags which stinks but oh well #game of thrones #things by charley #fanfic #ish #whatever

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