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star-girl69 · 2 years ago

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I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: sometimes you just gotta write some smut tbh

warnings: smut, swearing, mentions of death, incest, tell me if i missed anything!!

Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Chapter Forty Two - Do You Live for Me?

—-

Otto Hightower was fighting a losing war.

Perhaps he had know this, perhaps he had always know this. But he knew the facts now- the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands were all declared for Rhaenyra. Otto could not even secure his homeland of the Reach. The majority of Houses supported Rhaenyra.

A new surge of anger swelled in him. Were the people of the realm so foolish? How could they want a weak woman to sit the throne? He knows his grandson is not perfect, but who even is? Aegon the Conqueror, for all his greatness, could not secure Dorne. King Jaehaerys had a blessed rule- but his children were all dead and gone by the time he passed as well.

Aegon is not perfect. He will not be the greatest king Westeros has ever had to pleasure of seeing. But he will be king.

But for now, Aegon is injured. Sunfyre could barely fly back to the keep, and his rider is left heavily sedated on milk of the poppy. His bones are broken. He is covered in bruises.

Aemond sits as regent now. He presides over all of them at this great council, and Otto is still Hand of the King. They will usher the realm into greatness for Aegon, and he will rule, he will rule, and it will be glorious.

But for now, Otto turns his attention back to the maester and the letter he reads.

“Finally, Princess Rhaenyra crowned Lady Y/N. Her crown was made of winding copper and gold, dragonglass and a large red ruby. The dragons all roared as one, but the Dragon of the Night was the loudest. Cannibal is still the threat we anticipated, but his rider is an unpredictable woman. They call her the Queen of the Night, now. Prince Daemon gave a speech, proclaiming dragons to be kingmakers, proclaiming that they will restore the realm.”

Aemond scowls from his place at the head of the table. The rest of the table is silent.

“We should have killed her when we had the chance. We still don’t even know how she escaped.”

Otto sighs. “Your mother-”

Aemond slams his fist onto the table. “I know what my mother wants!” He inhales, regains himself. “Well? We lost our opportunity once. Let us not lose it again. What should we do about the Night Queen whore?”

—-

“And then… I shouted ‘dracarys!’ and fire poured from Cannibals mouth- and onto the Green army.”

Daenys laughs at your wild hand gestures- cupping your palms around your mouth and exhaling as if you were breathing fire, and trickling your fingers down like falling ashes- while Aegon scrunches his nose at the mention of the Greens.

“I don’t like green,” he says, almost as if all the green from the world will vanish.

“Good.” Daemon chimes in from where he bounces Viserys in his arms. “Green is the color of usurpers-” Viserys’ laughs fill the room as Daemon squeezes his cheek, “the color of traitors. Your favorite should be black- the color of dragons.”

Aegon nods happily, excited to have his parents back after so long.

“Mama’s dragon?” Daenys asks, looking up at you from your lap. She touches your face, fingers trailing down your nose and your cheeks, while you rock in the chair.

“Yes, sweetling. Mama’s dragon is black. Cannibal,” you hiss playfully, and she laughs.

“Perhaps it is time we take them flying. Would you like to fly, my brave boy?” Viserys nods eagerly at Daemon’s words, and you look down towards Daenys.

Who are you to deny her the feeling of flying? Of being free?

—-

“Then, Your Graces, there is only one more matter to discuss.”

Rhaenyra sighs, meeting your eyes for a moment from across the table. You smile, reassuringly, hands itching to be useful. These council meetings are strenuous- going on for far often then they need to.

You suppose now they aren’t just council meetings. They are war councils.

But it is late, and you are tired, so you force yourself to straighten in your chair and listen to them. Although your mind remains elsewhere, you suppose it is the appearance that counts.

“Yes, Lord Bartimos?” Rhaenyra asks, hands digging into the edge of the Painted Table, clearly done with the day, even as she stands over the head of the table as Queen. Daemon stands to the other side of her, poorly hiding a yawn.

You sit on the other side, trapped to a chair. They insisted on it- you are still injured from the battle of Rook’s Rest, only occurring a few days prior- and the two insist in it. You feel slightly like a child, but you can’t condemn them for caring about you. They have realized now, that you are changing, they are changing, but some parts of them still stay.

Your eyes drift down to your bandaged arm- Daemon calls it a mark of war. You feel proud of it, in in a way. You have already been told what the common people are calling the battle- “The Night Queen’s Revenge”- and although you did not kill the two brothers, Aegon and Sunfyre are incapacitated and the Green forces at the battle are mostly dead, now.

You smile fondly, your mark of war, before looking up at Lord Bartimos.

“The matter of the children. Is it safe for them to remain here on Dragonstone? Perhaps we could arrange for them to be warded-”

You feel your heart rise to your throat. Does the council not believe the three of you can protect your children? And if you cannot protect the children, how can you protect the realm?

You see Daemon scowl out of the corner of your eye, and you cannot help but do the same.

“No.” Rhaenyra smiles as kindly as she can. “The children will stay here. This is the safest place for them, surrounded by dragons and warriors.”

“But-”

“You heard the Queen. Now, is that all?” Daemon asks, settling his palm on Dark Sister and standing behind your chair, fingertips touching your shoulders.

The memory of his hands in more pleasurable places makes a volt go up your spine.

You could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea of your children leaving, something you were sure he would yell about later. (Somehow blaming it on Otto Hightower- your husbands hate for that man runs thick.)

The lord nodded, so Daemon’s hand trailed down your arm to grab your hand.

“Daemon.” You whispered, but he only smiled, knowing what he was doing to you.

Rhaenyra looked slightly confused, but amused, as she locked her arm with yours and the three of you continued down the hall.

You were half surprised that Daemon didn’t start yelling and pacing as soon as the three of you entered your shared chambers.

Instead, he let go of your hand and fell back onto the bed. When you sat on the edge, he opened one eye, smiling to himself before closing it.

“Well? If you are going to yell and scream, please do it.” He ignored you, but Rhaenyra hummed in agreement from her vanity.

“If you are going to yell and scream, why don’t you get under me and do it.”

You ignored the desire in your stomach. “You’re avoiding the question.”

He sat up, suddenly, grabbing your hand in his own and pressing a chaste kiss to your pulse point. He looks up at you and smirks.

“Does your heart beat for me, my love?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Then, as quick as lightening, as quick as fire, he tugs you onto the bed and shoves himself between your legs. He only seems amused at your surprised yelp.

He stares into your eyes as he carasses your thighs, nails almost scratching, wrapping them up and around his waist.

“Does your stomach twist for me? Flame in desire?”

“Daemon.” If he is deterred by the gentle hand you place on his face, he does not show it.

He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead that lingers.

“Rhaenyra!” You shout, noticing her absence, her silence. “Please get this rogue off of me!”

“I’m not feeling too well, sweetling. Looks like you will just have to suffer.” You cannot see her, but you know if you could, she would be barely containing her laugh. Instead, she is probably watching the two of you in the mirror, taking down her braids, getting some sick amusement out of it.

“Nyra,” you groan, but Daemon shushes you with a barely there press of his lips.

“Do your lips ache for mine, as mine do for yours?”

You scowl, but he only smiles, adjusting himself, pressing that part of him so close to where you always need him.

“Do you live for me, nuha daria?”

You bite your lip to keep an embarrassing sound from escaping, and his triumphant smile finally falls. He gives a swift cant of his hips. You bite harder, refuse to give him what he wants, even as it grows impossible for you.

“Fine.” He huffs, a petulant child, setting his hips into a steady pace as his lips touch the corner of yours.

You cannot speak, too afraid the sounds he draws from you will spill out like a jar of honey.

“The council members wish to send our children away, yes? I think they’re fucking fools, insulting us. Do they not think we are capable of protecting them? Do they not think I am capable of protecting them?” He scowls, his hip movements growing sloppy and more distracted, harsher as his anger leaks through.

You find it in yourself to speak.

“I- I am sure… sure they do not mean it that- that way.”

“Still. I’m the most seasoned warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. If they do not think me capable of protecting my own blood, how do they think I can protect the realm?”

“I know you can.”

His eyes meet yours, and he sighs, and you faintly feel the bed dipping with Rhaenyra’s weight. But she doesn’t make any move to join the two of you- perhaps she really is not feeling well.

You are just about to ask her when Daemon let’s put a pleases sigh.

“You were right. I do feel better.”

“Listen to your wives, Daemon.” Rhaenyra chimes in. “Every once in a while, we have a good thought or two.” He laughs, and you smile. When you look over at Rhaenyra, she seems completely engrossed in the scene in front of her.

“You do not want to join?” You ask, almost frowning.

“Of course I do.” You wait for her to make a move, but she is still.

“Nyra-?”

“Shh,” she shushes, placing a messy hand forward and pushing two fingers into your mouth. “You are ruining my show,” she all but croons, and Daemon grins like the rogue, like the demon he is.

“I think you deserve a reward,” Daemon says, voice low and rough with desire.

So, he lowers his face to your neck, and you give yourself, all of you, to them. That, you think, is better then any word you could speak.

Distractions are nice, you know, but you hope your dragons realize that they can hide and run all they want, but it will always be there waiting for them.

—-

taglist:

@wondergal2001 @akiraquote @a-lil-bit-nuts @anginoguera @thatkinkylesgirl1 @stitchattacks @honeypillowsblog @kaloafd @blackhoodlea @softtina @wallace02sblog @tetgod @hotd-fanfic @rxscpctals @iramagnus

#daemon x rhaenyra #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x reader

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dwellordream · 4 years ago

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do you have any headcanon for lyarra stark and minisa whent? i've always felt that from what little we know about them and their family relations leaving them as blank boards was a bit of a wasted chance by grrm. any toughts?

For Lyarra I have a headcanon that she was actually a little older than Rickard and that contrary to expectations, Brandon and Lyanna’s more ‘wild’ ways were actually inherited from their father, not their mother haha. By that I mean I like to think that Rickard was more of an impulsive hothead as a younger man, before he became Lord of Winterfell and when he was still a teenager, whereas I think of Lyarra as being the more reserved and stoic one who was sort of an uh... calming influence on him. I think they knew each other well enough growing up and had been betrothed from a young age so the marriage was not this shocking big deal for either of them, and that as betrothed teens they got along well enough, even if they weren’t super into each other. I think it shifted into a loving marriage over time as they matured and had children together, and that Lyarra became quite attached to Rickard over the years of seeing him grow from a reckless teenage boy to an ambitious but very family-oriented and honorable man. I think Lyarra was quiet but not shy or timid, and that she was just one of those people who tends to keep to themselves and not have many close friends, but who is very content with their own company and deeply loyal to those she does care about. I think she was a lot like Ned, basically, and that she was very close with her own older sister, Branda, until her sister went south to marry. I also think Lyarra was not someone super interested in political alliances with the south and who would have preferred all her children to marry into the North and stay close. I can see her not being thrilled with Rickard arranging for Ned to foster in the Vale, but ultimately making her son promise to write lots of letters, and always visiting Brandon during his fostering at Barrowton. I also think she was an active person who liked to hunt and hawk, and an extremely skilled horsewoman- I headcanon Lyanna as growing up hearing tales of what a talented rider her mother was. I also think she enjoyed reading and history and that like Bran, as a child she was always climbing into high up places much to the annoyance of her family, mostly so she could be alone and read or just daydream. I think her special favorite of her children was Ned because of their similarities but I think she loved them all, of course, and was very proud of them up until her untimely death. For Minisa I headcanon that she sort of had a lonely childhood, being the only child of her parents to survive the first five years or life, and that she grew up at Harrenhal with her cousins, surrounded by ghosts and grim stories. However I don’t think her childhood was miserable and that she learned to entertain herself, spending a lot of time alone, and also that she fancied she could talk to ghosts, and even made up a language to speak with them, like how Catelyn and Lysa would later make up a secret sister language. I think she was at some point maybe sent to another household with daughters her own age because her parents worried she was a bit socially awkward and isolated after her childhood, and that Minisa grew up into a quiet, slightly eccentric, but essentially kind and loving young woman who wound up catching Hoster’s eye, since I headcanon that he negotiated the match himself with his father already dead at that point. I do think theirs was basically a love match from the point that they met onwards and that Minisa was very taken with him, though sad in some sense to leave Harrenhal behind. But I do think she probably appreciated the bright and cheery change of scenery at Riverrun and that she loved the gardens there most of all, since the gardens at Harrenhal were pretty desolate and barren. I also think she loved to swim and taught her children to swim at a very young age, and that while Catelyn was clearly Hoster’s favorite, Lysa was Minisa’s because she reminded her of herself at that age, being sort of dreamy and idealistic. I also headcanon that though her first two sons died in early infancy, she still was very attached to their memories and while they were given a Tully burial on the river, she would visit a certain spot to think about them and maybe talk to them when she was missing them or feeling upset.

#lyarra stark #minisa tully #ask #anon

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weaverlings · 5 years ago

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Every Episode of WTNV with Carlos Mentioned

No, I did not keep track of how long I spent on this. Anyway.

Total series count: 89 episodes

In the main podcast, anyway. The list includes at least partial context; however I wasn't counting the number of times Carlos was mentioned per episode, just if he was mentioned at all. So if he came up more than once I didn't necessarily record each time. Still, there are definitely spoilers.

I can't like… guarantee that I didn't miss something, unfortunately. However, I used both "Carlos" and "scientist" all the time, and I additionally used "boyfriend" from 26 onward and "husband" after 100. So it should be pretty close, at least.

I might go through and do live shows later. However, the answer for them is (almost) always yes, as most of them at least have a segment that Dylan Marron performs at some shows, so it'd be more a matter of checking for mentions of Carlos outside of that.

The reason I did this was to see if I was at all correct in my sense that Carlos has been mentioned less over time. My conclusion: well… sort of?

There actually was less of him than I thought in both year 1 and year 2 (year 1 in particular). However, years 3 and 4 had a LOT of him, and it has gone down from there through the end of year 7, when Carlos was only mentioned in 7 episodes total, with very few casual mentions by Cecil (vs when he had a particular role in what was going on).

So the problem (or at least, I consider it one) hasn't been going on for as long as I thought in the grand scheme of the series. I now believe that a significant part of the issue is just… Well, it has at this point been almost three years since that decline. Plus listening live makes everything feel drawn out, so there's a lot of perceived time in between individual mentions.

That being said, I think the actual conclusion is: it's maybe not as I thought, but I also wasn't completely imagining it, especially not looking at very recent events. We don't know what this year will hold, but year 7, as mentioned above, had the least of Carlos in it so far. There are also some significant gaps - Cecil mentions Carlos in episode 91, and after that the next time he comes up in year 5 is in 100 (!!!!)

He is mentioned in a solid majority of the series, but it's pretty front-loaded at this point. Also he has a few appearances in the first novel, and he's a central character in It Devours!

Finally, thanks so much @cecilspeaks because this wouldn't have been possible to do at all otherwise.

The complete list is as follows:

Year 1

episode 1: yes (well of course)

episode 2: no

episode 3: yes (the Telly thing)

episode 4: yes (dissenting at the PTA meeting)

episode 5: yes (Cecil tried to ask him about the moon but couldn't find him)

episode 6: no

episode 7: no

episode 8: yes (Carlos wants to talk about lights in Radon Canyon, not dinner or weekend plans)

episode 9: yes (but in the context of Telly wandering the desert)

episode 10: no

episode 11: yes (Cecil asked about tectonic activity - Carlos is "distracted yet beautiful")

episode 12: no

episode 13: no

episode 14: no

episode 15: no

episode 16: yes (basically the central plot of the episode)

episode 17: no

episode 18: no

episode 19 A+B: no for both

episode 20: no

episode 21: no

episode 22: no

episode 23: no

episode 24: no

episode 25: yes (absolutely)

Total year count: 9

Year 2

episode 26: no

episode 27: yes

episode 28: no

episode 29: yes (Carlos has opinions on subway riders' DNA)

episode 30: yes (checking out the house that doesn't exist)

episode 31: yes (Carlos "promised a certain person dinner")

episode 32: yes (Carlos gave Cecil the watch for their 1-month anniversary)

episode 33: no

episode 34: no

episode 35: yes (Carlos is being industrious!)

episode 36: no

episode 37: arguably (Cecil mentions finding "someone that might make [him] feel better about what has happened today" which probably means Carlos, but he's not mentioned directly)

episode 38: yes (Carlos has scientific opinions about orange grove growth + Cecil almost texts that he loves him but just knocks the imposter out instead)

episode 39: no (but fun fact: Dylan Marron originally did the pre-episode announcements for this one. I don't have the file anymore sadly.)

episode 40: yes (Lauren brings him up though)

episode 41: no

episode 42: no

episode 43: yes (Carlos is looking into the house that doesn't exist again)

episode 44: no

episode 45: no

episode 46: yes (he's on the phone w/ Cecil about the oak doors)

episode 47: yes (but it's Lauren and Kevin talking about how they haven't found him)

episode 48: yes (Cecil doesn't know where he is)

episode 49 A+B: yes (and I don't wanna talk about it :( )

Total count: 14 (ish, because 37 is subject to debate and 47 is different as noted. So maybe 12.)

Year 3

episode 50: yes (people have been asking Cecil about Carlos)

episode 51: yes (he spends most of it on the phone with Cecil)

episode 52: yes (Cecil's been getting calls and snapchats)

episode 53: no (but Steve mentions Cecil had "softened in the right places" over the past year)

episode 54: yes ("A Carnival Comes to Town." that's it.)

episode 55: yes ("The University of What It Is." again. that's it!)

episode 56: yes (Cecil's been isolated w/out Carlos, Cecil talks to Diane about Carlos, and then Cecil has a dream about being w/ Carlos again and sleeps well…)

episode 57: yes (Cecil wonders if Carlos knew the list, and then discusses the "current context" of their relationship - a matter of space)

episode 58: yes (Carlos doesn't want Cecil to say he's trapped in the other world + Cecil misses him)

episode 59: yes (Carlos is on the phone w/ Cecil)

episode 60: yes (Cecil considering whether or not he can visit Carlos)

episode 61: yes (Cecil mentions Carlos to Earl and also wonders if science can help him process the events of 59)

episode 62: no

episode 63: no

episode 64: yes (this episode has the watercolor painting in it)

episode 65: yes (Carlos leaves a voicemail)

episode 66: yes (considering the logistics of the Dog Park)

episode 67: no

episode 68: yes (Cecil talks about visiting Carlos)

episode 69: yes (Cecil announces his "last" broadcast to move to be w/ Carlos)

episode 70: A; yes (but again, context - it's got Carlos still in the otherworld). B; yes, Cecil describes Carlos' return

Total count: 17

Year 4

episode 71: yes (Carlos "participates" in the heist and is safe at home later)

episode 72: yes (Carlos can apparently sleep through anything!)

episode 73: yes (Carlos apparently tells Cecil not to worry about even catastrophic or paradoxical mistakes)

episode 74: yes (certain local radio hosts and scientists may have been using the Dog Park to go back and forth between Night Vale and a desert otherworld)

episode 75: yes (matching lycra shorts)

episode 76: yes (Carlos makes delicious fruit salad! also he's working on a solution to the flamingo problem)

episode 77: no

episode 78: yes (Carlos likes the gory parade + Earl is invited to dinner w/ Cecil and Carlos)

episode 79: no

episode 80: yes (Cecil tells his boyfriend he wants a beret)

episode 81: yes (Cecil spent time w/ Carlos between reeducation sessions)

episode 82: yes (sort of. Cecil mentions knowing what it's like in a long-term relationship, which is cute, and it's obvious who it's about, so I'm counting it)

episode 83: yes (Carlos does the shopping because Cecil has trouble with auctions)

episode 84: yes ("Hey there, Lonely Boy…")

episode 85: no

episode 86: no

episode 87: yes (Cecil considers the possibility of a tropical vacation w/ Carlos)

episode 88: yes (phone conversation, bunny nickname)

episode 89: yes (what Carlos is up to w/ the stranger situation)

episode 90: yes (Carlos is in the crowd against the dog/strangers)

Total count: 16

Year 5

episode 91: yes (Cecil reaches out to Carlos about the train, but he doesn't know :( )

episode 92: no

episode 93: no

episode 94: no

episode 95: no

episode 96: no

episode 97: no

episode 98: no

episode 99: no

episode 100: YES

episode 101: no

episode 102: yes (Carlos who Cecil is closest to other than Josie)

episode 103: yes (they're excited about going to the beach w/ family + they visited Josie together)

episode 104: yes (Cecil and Carlos go together to pay respects to Josie)

episode 105: yes (Carlos discusses dinner + TV viewing plans and has some concerns about the Smithwick house)

episode 106: no

episode 107: yes (Carlos arranges a task force regarding sounds heard under the earth)

episode 108: yes (tied into broken-reality weirdness)

episode 109: no

episode 110: yes (Steve brings him up - asked Carlos about space and Carlos skips away because he's so excited about science)

Total count: 9

Year 6

episode 111: yes (Carlos worries about having grown too used to Night Vale + the material testing in ep1 was an excuse to talk to Cecil)

episode 112: no

episode 113: yes (everything makes Cecil think of Carlos. Also he's out of town at a science convention)

episode 114: no

episode 115: yes (Cecil isn't concerned about robberies at labs or radio stations, but is concerned about librarian attacks on his family)

episode 116: yes (Strip uno… also "just the most vicious outfits")

episode 117: no

episode 118: yes (Cecil knows science… heck yes of course!!)

episode 119: yes (Carlos' hair is used to calibrate equipment)

episode 120: no

episode 121: no

episode 122: no

episode 123: no

episode 124: yes (A Door Ajar pt 1)

episode 125: yes (A Door Ajar pt 2)

episode 126: yes (A Door Ajar pt 3)

episode 127: yes (Carlos and Cecil plan to hold a blood matter viewing party)

episode 128: yes (the viewing party starts + Cecil and Carlos have a houseguest)

episode 129: yes (everyone, including Carlos, is surprised by the depth of the blood matter)

episode 130: no

Total count: 12

Year 7

episode 131: yes (Carlos texts Cecil about a matter of scientific accuracy)

episode 132: no

episode 133: yes (Carlos has a concern about the time situation, and also there's the Telly ending)

episode 134: yes (Cecil and Carlos attend a high school football game together + with the rest of their family)

episode 135: no

episode 136: no

episode 137: no

episode 138: no

episode 139: no

episode 140: no

episode 141: no

episode 142: no

episode 143: yes (Cecil tells Carlos he's coming home but, y'know, no one can hear)

episode 144: no

episode 145: no

episode 146: no

episode 147: yes (Carlos has been studying the moon and… there's other stuff that happens)

episode 148: no

episode 149: yes (once again a lot of stuff but Cecil remembers by the end. It's "already forgotten" apparently)

episode 150: yes (Cecil discusses their anniversary; also Carlos discovers his clock working)

Total count: 7

Year 8 (ongoing)

episode 151: no

episode 152: no

episode 153: yes (Carlos' experiments get messy so he ends up working at Steve and Abby's place)

episode 154: yes (Carlos is continuing to run experiments at Steve and Abby's and is taken in for questioning when Steve is arrested)

episode 155: yes (Carlos is really the one who figures everything out tbh)

episode 156: yes (Cecil is anxious about death/separation from Carlos, and then gets excited when he thinks there's a way for them to be together forever)

episode 157: yes (Carlos has some concerns about the proposed solution and wants to talk it out w/ Cecil)

Total count (so far): 5

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv ramblings #carlos the scientist #i mean as far as the time question #the answer is more than i probably should have #so

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rwbyremnants · 4 years ago

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=Chapter 18

“I tried to stop her,” Kali Belladonna snarled at her steering wheel as she drove them outside the Vale city limits. “But she had it locked into her head that this was the only way to resolve the conflict. Didn't want to hear a single thing I had to say!”

As the car went screaming around another corner, Weiss gripped the dashboard with both hands, heart pounding in her throat. She could never remember seeing Blake’s mother in a state like this! Moreover, she was trapped in the car and had no way out other than to hopefully calm her companion. “Please, what's going on? It sounds like a much more sensible solution to me!”

Her amber eyes barely flicked over in Weiss's direction, mostly staying focused on the road. “Oh, yes. Very sensible and safe for everyone involved - other than the two racers! And Hazel, that old coward… always hated fighting, needless bloodshed, and of course this solution would thrill him to death. He literally sighed with relief when Yang suggested it.”

“But it's just a race,” she insisted. “You make it sound as if they're risking life and limb. I know motorcycle accidents happen, but is that really so much worse than getting into an actual fight? Some of those boys had lead pipes! One of our Dragons had a chain - that was scary!”

“Weiss…” With a long sigh, Kali began steering the car around the bend toward the abandoned area in question. “What do you know about Mountain Glenn? Besides that it's close to Vale and no one lives there anymore.”

At least Kali didn't think she was that uninformed. “Well… that the Depression came, and everyone gave up on expanding the city for a while. A lot of potential homes and businesses that were being started are just empty husks now. My father thinks it’s a waste. Why?”

“That's not the whole story.” A motorcycle roaring past them made Kali pause before she continued. “The Mountain Glenn project was abandoned due to the instability of the old mines underneath. The copper veins dried up many decades ago when Merlot Industries plundered it all, but the tunnels are still down there, spiderwebbing under what was once known as Glenn Bluffs. There was a proposal on the table for reinforcing those tunnels with steel beams, trying to salvage their plans to help Vale grow and prosper, but as you say, the Great Depression put a damper on everyone's enthusiasm for the project. There was no strong evidence that building support structures would have made enough of a difference, anyway.”

“Ohhhh,” she breathed, thinking about how frightening it would be for her house to suddenly collapse into the ground. “Well… yes, that really is unfortunate. But I don't understand. What does this have to do with the race?”

“There’s a reason it’s off-limits. Even though a few teenagers occasionally sneak up there to make out with their beaus, it’s unwise. The ground isn’t stable. Especially not for a hundred-something pound girl on top of a six-hundred-pound Harley. Times that by two, and it might just be enough to… well…”

As Kali made a thumbs down gesture very briefly before returning the hand to the wheel, Weiss gulped. That certainly didn’t sound like a “safe alternative” anymore.

Apparently, there was a method to this inter-gang madness. Kali parked on top of a higher bluff amidst quite a few other cars and bikes, one which overlooked the skeleton that was Mountain Glenn. A handful of buildings had begun construction, but the rest were mere concrete foundations. The main road itself was fully built, winding around a fountain that was never finished in the center of the proposed sister city.

At the far end of said road were six bikes. She knew Blake would be down there with Yang, and probably Cinder. Even from that far away, she could see the Huntsman at the “starting line” had blue hair; so it was that boy she would be racing. The other two weren’t recognisable from that distance.

“We can watch everything from up here,” Kali whispered as she grasped Weiss by the waist and easily lifted her up onto the hood of the car. She felt a slight flutter from the thoughtful assistance but tried not to think about it too much.

“I wish I could go down there with her.”

“I know. But if you did, you would only watch the beginning of the race; by the end, Yang would be around some corner and you’d never see her victory.” Her hand flipped in the general direction of where two other bikes were idling; the finish line. “So you see, this is the best seat in the house.”

“Everybody seems to agree with you,” she sighed uncomfortably, glancing around at the dozens and dozens of other gang members gathered there. A small gap separated the two factions, but they were all contented to watch how things played out; no one was threatening to breach the temporary truce. “Maybe there really is honour among thieves.”

“Hmm?” Following her eyes, she smiled a little. “Oh, that. I’ve told you before, Vale is a small town; we can’t afford to tear each other apart over nothing. The rumble was a last resort, and you see that we jumped at the chance not to go through with it.”

Around that time, Emerald wandered over to their seat and leaned against the car on her elbows. “Stepping around on Yang already, huh, Schnee?”

“Jealous, Sustrai?” Kali answered without missing a single beat. Weiss didn't even have time to fully process the question and its implications before Blake's mother was answering. How was her mind that quick?

“Hardly. Well… you are a lovely woman, but I have my hands full.”

“Do you think Yang can do this?” Weiss asked nervously, fingering the zipper of her jacket to give her hands something to do. “I mean… yes, of course she’s a skilled rider, but that doesn’t mean she’s better than her opponent.”

The green-haired girl shrugged a caramel-hued shoulder. Where was her jacket? “If anybody can, it’s Yang. She and Cinder are probably the best of us. Of the ones who are still around, anyway.”

“Still around?”

“Raven,” Kali sighed wearily. “Yang learned from the best. Well… the best at riding motorcycles.”

So many questions blossomed in Weiss’s brain, but she heard the bikes revving and no longer had time to contemplate what exactly had transpired between Blake and Yang’s mothers. Even if she was starting to suspect one hypothesis over others.

Velvet was pacing out in front of the starting line. As the only non-Dragon who had come along for the ride, she was tasked with signalling for the others to start. Her arm raised high in the air, with something white gripped in it - probably a handkerchief, even though they were too far away for Weiss to make it out. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, leaning in closer to squint. She noticed Salem and the leader of the Huntsman - Watts, she thought his name had been - had telescopes.

Then the white thing dropped, and two bikes took off from the starting line.

“YEAH!” Emerald burst out immediately. “Wipe the floor with him!”

“Send her back to the kitchen!” laughed one of the Huntsmen.

“Well!” Weiss said under her breath, offended at the implication that housework was all that women were good for. Even if she knew most women spent all their lives cooking and cleaning, not all of them did.

But their commentary was not important. The two bikes were tearing down the street at breakneck speed. Yang seemed to be at the top of her game, weaving only when necessary - other than one time when she dipped a little too close to her opponent, hoping to throw him off. The boy paid no mind, only barely strafing out of the way and then correcting. They both focused on running a clean race, gunning for the finish line as fast as possible.

The fountain presented the first significant challenge. The two went different ways, favouring the side that they were already on, and looked as if they might collide once rounding the concrete basin - Weiss held her breath again - but they corrected and continued toward the finish line…

And then both swerved to the left.

“What?” Weiss breathed. “What are they doing?!”

“The race isn’t over. See those markers?” Kali pointed to three red cones that had been placed in that intersection. The first was near the center, and the next two led in the direction they had turned. “That’s the course. Have to make it interesting. Idiots.”

“Hey, I think it’s exciting,” Emerald protested with a frown.

“Of course you do. It’s not Cinder risking her life and limb.”

That seemed to silence the other girl. Which confirmed something Weiss had been relatively certain of: Emerald had a thing for the alternately gruff and oily Dragon. Admittedly, Cinder did hold a certain appeal; she was confident, passionate, and loyal to a fault. Never mind how attractive, though most of the Dragons were in one way or another. Even the older, “rougher” ones who were so masculine they were almost handsome instead of beautiful. And Weiss was beginning to realise that was alright.

Meanwhile, the two racers both rounded a couple of turns in quick succession. The boy had nearly lost control during the second one but caught himself just in time. Now they were racing along the edge of town, which wasn’t exactly right at the dropoff but was a little close for Weiss’s comfort level. Also…

A lamppost began to sink. At first, she thought she was imagining it and was annoyed with her mind for trying to distract her from the race itself, but looking again, she was right; it was sinking!

“Look!” she hissed, gesturing to the phenomenon.

“Oh…” Kali sat up a little straighter. “Damn. I really hoped I was wrong about-”

Gulping, she fell silent as an extra roar of engines went up, her attention forcibly returned to the race. Weiss saw they were weaving around trees and brush that had sprung up over the past years since the area had been abandoned and left to Mother Nature. Now, every swerve made Weiss’s pulse seem louder in her ears, every second brought a new sweatdrop to her brow. Were they going to be alright? Even if she cared about Yang more, she didn’t wish any harm on the boy, either.

They raced around another corner. This stretch was a little more straightforward, but she still found herself biting her fingers to keep from crying out.

“YES!” one of the Huntsmen shouted, seeing that the boy was ahead by a nose. But he was on the outside right; the next curve was to the left and it would cost him a few precious fractions of a second. Weiss hopped up from the car, trying to rush toward the edge of the bluff before Kali caught her by the forearm.

“Hey!”

“Don’t!” was all she breathed. It may have saved Weiss’s life; a few of the rocks crumbled from the very edge. Perhaps she would have been safe, and perhaps not; she found it hard to care when Yang was in peril.

The finish line approached. The two drifted in and out of the lead, but it looked like Yang might really have a shot-

The ground gave way. It was unlike anything Weiss had ever seen, and much worse than the lamppost because it was so much closer - and because Yang and the boy were driving on the section in question. This had two very different effects on the two racers. The Huntsman’s bike shot out from under him and he went cartwheeling back into the opening sinkhole. Yang didn’t get caught in the hole itself, but the shaking completely ruined her ability to stay upright - she began to skid across the pavement, and then rolled once separated from her vehicle, bouncing a few times before coming to a stop.

“NO!!!”

Weiss’s shriek echoed off the bluffs, and there was another slight rumble. Nothing more happened; this one was too high, too far removed from the worst of the mining to truly impact its stability. But she didn’t care. Immediately, she began to race toward the dirt road, but Kali caught her around the middle and held her fast.

“Let me go! I need to-”

“I can drive us!” Kali tried to explain. “Weiss, stop struggling, you’re not-”

“I need to GO!”

“We will go together!” Finally, she calmed down enough to take in the words, and she went slack, gaping down at where the others who had been parked at the finish line began to race toward their respective gang members. “Good… alright, good. Get in.”

“No, I’ll drive you,” Emerald told her, face deadly serious as she shrugged back into her jacket and straddled her bike. “Get her there faster. Kali, can you follow?”

The older woman nodded, pushing Weiss toward the bike to help her start moving again. In seconds, they were astride Emerald’s Harley and racing down the dirt trail toward Mountain Glenn, terror gripping her throat all the while. This was awful. Now she understood why Blake’s mother was so against this solution to their petty squabbles over territory; it might only have been two people risking their safety, but each life was precious.

Yang’s was precious. And now…

No one parked as close as they would have before this incident. They didn't want to risk adding to the danger. Once they were relatively close, they began to race toward the crater on foot as fast as they could, Huntsmen and Dragons alike. Luckily, Weiss had some athletic tone or she might have been further back; as it was, she kept pace with some of the younger boys, though they went past Yang toward the hole.

“YANG!” she screamed as tears rolled down her face, crouching over her bruised, bloodied figure. Luckily, she looked whole, but the awful angle at which her right arm was twisted made her feel sick. But that had to wait. “Speak to me! Yang, wake up, wake up!”

By that point, Coco and one of the older Dragons had joined them. The former rolled her until she was straightened out, and the latter patted her cheek, eliciting no response. “Out cold,” she reported.

“We need to get her to a hospital,” Coco breathed, putting her wrist under Yang's nose. “She’s breathing, but she could have a concussion.”

“No hospitals.” Salem had arrived, and was crouching over her from afar - assessing the situation without interfering. “Watts can take a look at her.”

After a moment, the man in question turned to glare at them. “Are you seriously expecting me to deign to stitch up one of your pet bitches? After this stunt you pulled? Obviously, you knew the ground was unstable along the route and rigged this stretch to collapse - because, as anyone could tell, your racer did actually cross the finish line, while ours did not.”

Salem’s eyes narrowed, and the air seemed to drop in temperature within the bluffs. “Her life may hang in the balance, you old fool. Stop grandstanding and get your kit. Or have you been lying about your medical degree all this time?”

Abandoning all hope of them resolving things between them, especially with the way Watts was folding his arms over the lapels of his expensive grey suit, Weiss shot to her feet and begged him, “Please! Sh-she might not make it! I don’t care about… about any of this! Just save her!”

“Really?” he snapped immediately, cold green eyes stabbing down into her soul. “So I should abandon my own boy to save your girl? You really don’t understand loyalty - family. Do you?”

Weiss spared a glance at the hole where they were trying to figure out how to descend, to search for their man. Already, the blonde she had observed him with before was tugging at his hair, tears streaming down his cheeks while some of the others readied a rope, trying to figure out what they might tie it to.

“I’ll go.”

It was Salem who snapped, “What? Go where?”

“I’ll go down there and look for him.” Her shaking finger pointed at the tall man. “If you help Yang, I… I’ll save… the boy who’s down there.”

He was not impressed. “His name is Neptune. As if you care. What good are you to me at all, what can you do that my boys can’t?”

“I’m smaller,” she offered, already stripping off her jacket. “Most of your boys are tall and bulky, and would get stuck in a tight space. And I’m stronger than I look. Please, I can’t- we don’t have time! Just let me do this!”

“Weiss,” Kali whispered, laying a hand on her arm. “This isn’t sound. You’re going to get yourself killed, and when Yang wakes up, that will be the worst news to wake up to.”

“I don’t CARE!” she shouted, shoving her away. There wasn’t time for rational thought. “Just let me save Yang by saving Neptune!”

No one objected further. Her eyes retained a fleeting image of Kali looking completely stricken before she raced over to the edge of the sinkhole, only slowing down when she got near. The blonde boy was still losing his mind, so she addressed his friend with the long red hair hanging into his eyes.

“What do I do?”

“Well, I dunno,” he said in a heavy English accent. Though he wasn’t quite so emotional, he was certainly not left unaffected by his associate’s plight; his voice shook slightly as he continually wiped his hands on his white jeans over and over. “Just… do somethin’, willya?”

“Here,” said another Huntsman with green hair, handing her one end of a rope. With some help, they both fashioned a loop that could work as a harness, and several more men lined up to anchor her at the top. Everyone else remained ringed around the hole, gazing down and hoping to be the first to figure out a better plan.

“Hey, Schnee!”

Glancing up just in time, Weiss caught the gleaming Zippo lighter being hurled at her, the metal stinging her palms. Cinder merely flashed her a fierce look before continuing past the rest of the crowd on her bike toward the ring of Dragons trying to help Yang - giving the sinkhole a wide berth.

“Ready, then?” asked the Brit. Nodding at him and the others, she stepped into the loop and allowed herself to be lowered down.

Luckily, the hole wasn’t deep; it merely looked that way due to shadows. When most of the light from above was blotted out, she flicked the Zippo to life, just barely able to catch what was rising to meet her from below. Once she touched down next to a groaning form, she could breathe a brief sigh of relief.

“You alright down there?” called an unfamiliar voice.

“YES!” she shouted back. “I’m at the bottom! Hold on!”

Weiss didn’t know the first thing about treating an injury victim. Sure, she could feel for a pulse, but that was fairly basic stuff; did he have broken bones? Internal bleeding? She had no way of knowing. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for her to come down there. Coco would have been a better choice, but she was probably still busy tending Yang.

The boy coughed, and she moved to his side, supporting the head and wiping some of the dust from his face. “Hey! I… are you alright? Speak to me!”

“What… oh… are you an angel?”

“Ugh,” she scoffed as she tried to help him up. “Hurry up, we need to get out of here!”

Coughing again, he sat up and clutched his ribs. “Oh my God… everything hurts…” Little by little, she got him crawling toward the rope. “What… what happened?”

“You fell in a hole, goofus. What’s your name?”

“Neptune.”

“Neptune.” That was right; they had said. But it was probably helpful for him to have something else to focus on. “I’m Weiss. And I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Why? You’re… a Dragon…”

“Yang was hurt,” she admitted, voice cracking. “And I… and we needed your Dr. Watts to fix her up, or… or she might-” Her voice cut off and she had to stop for a brief moment to recover. Then she cleared her throat. “So you have to help me by g-getting out of here. Then everyone will be alright. Alright?”

“Alright,” he echoed with a groan as they came to a stop by the rope. “But… I don’t think I can… climb…”

For a moment, Weiss tried to think of how to best secure him. She didn’t know that much about knots, or harnesses. “Why didn’t I take that nautical class at the yacht club?!” she swore at herself.

“Oh… I know… something about that… this loop sucks, though.”

“What?”

Sitting up, he reached for the rope. “Here, let m- whoa, I’m dizzy…”

“What’s going on down there?!” called a voice from above. It wasn’t the British man, so she couldn’t be sure who.

“HANG ON!” she shouted back up, and Neptune flinched, covering his ears for a moment. “Oh, sorry!”

“It’s fine. Here… I’ll show you. This is a bowline knot, and it’s going to be our best friend…”

It actually didn’t take long for him to tie his own harness. Weiss felt highly useless, but she was glad things were working out reasonably well. Before long, a mess of square knots and fisherman’s knots had him wearing what looked like some kind of clandestine rope-lingerie around his pelvis. By this point, he looked exhausted, so she leaned him back against a craggy wall.

“Shh, just rest a moment.” When his breathing evened out, she tried to wipe more sweat and dirt off his face. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

After a moment, he flashed her a weary smile. “I’d… ask if you wanted to get a malted after this, but… I don’t think Sun would appreciate that…”

“Sun? Is that your blonde friend I saw you kissing before?” When he gulped, clearly discomfited that she knew, she waved a hand back and forth. “Please. You do know I’m in the Dragons, right?”

“Oh… so it’s true? Most of you are…”

Eyes narrowing, she said, “Yes, most of us. Why? Are most of the Hunters that way?”

“Not as much as the Dragons. But a few of us.” He tried to sit up a little higher and grunted in sharp pain; Weiss settled him again. “Are you… going with one of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Yang?” When Weiss didn’t answer right away, he nodded. “Now I… get why you jumped down here.”

“I would have, anyway,” she swore vehemently, even while he was chuckling weakly. “Seriously! I don’t want to see anyone get hurt! Don’t be such a pest!”

Neptune tried to keep chuckling, but it turned into a coughing fit. Though she did privately think he deserved it, she still petted along his upper arm until he was able to breathe freely again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… hold on until we can get you out of here.”

Weiss tugged on the rope and they began to hoist him up. One of her hands helped push his boot up to take some of the strain off the men at the top, but then he was out of her reach.

And she was alone in the darkness with only a flickering light for company. For a few minutes, she began to worry she would simply die down there. It was a possibility. After all, the only Dragons she found herself truly trusting were Yang, Blake, and Kali, and one of them was unconscious the last time she checked. They were vastly outnumbered. And the Huntsmen had no reason to really keep her alive now that she had finished the job they cared about…

“Hello?” she called up nervously. “Is anybody up thBFF!”

She felt pretty silly for panicking when the pre-tied harness hit her in the mouth.

Once at the top, she saw that both Neptune and Yang were gone. She felt a momentary flare of panic as the other Huntsmen made sure her footing was secure before turning her loose, but Kali was already approaching. That set her at ease that maybe not everything was lost.

“She’s going to be alright. I’ll take you to where they’ll be patching her and the Vasilias boy up.”

“Okay,” she breathed, dazed. “Let’s… let’s go.”

Even as they walked away from the site of the sinkhole, she could hear a few more broken bits of concrete coming loose and toppling into the abyss. Weiss looked back in time to see the men backing away from its confines. Sun was already missing - as was Blake. Along for the ride with those who meant the most to them.

Fresh regret welled up in Weiss at having taken away the one person Blake probably wanted to be with more than anything in the world. Maybe, if she survived her injuries and treatment, they could do something about that.

#princess and the dragons #freezerburn fanfic #rwby fanfiction #rwbyremnants #yang x weiss

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hero-deku · 5 years ago

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My Hero Academia / Monster Hunter World / How to Train Your Dragon

*rubs hands together*

Going based off of what I think when I first see the character, whether this be through personality, looks, vibes, etc. Also on mobile and I should get to sleep so I apologise if I miss anyone.

Midoriya: Rathian

A powerful queen. Protective of her family. Familiar to all. Midoriya's Rathian has adapted to his curiosity about the world and to his kindness. She is very protective of him, and she thinks of Midoriya as one of her young.

They met after she was gravely injured by none other than Midoriya himself. He shot her down from the sky and tracked her down himself, wanting to be a great hunter like his idol, All Might. She gave up and stretched her neck out for easier reach, the net taught around her body. Midoriya breathed and put his dagger to her jugular vein. Sweat began to run down his face and he tried to force his hands to stop shaking. All it would take would be one thrust, and the monster before him would bleed out.

A sudden snap of a stick broke his concentration. He threw himself away from the monster and tried to take several deep breaths in. He overheard some hunters talking about a nest nearby. They were going for the Rathian's eggs!

Midoriya groaned. The Rathian's eyes flew open as she heard the 'shk shk shk shk' sound of a knife cutting rope. Midoriya freed her from her restraints. He watched as the monster rose to her full size. "They're going for your nest. Go protect your family." he said. Before hobbling away, she roared viciously in his face. Midoriya watched her leave in both shame and frustration, but with hints of some strange connection pulling at his heart.

Midoriya snuck out and found her lying in his nest. He tried to be stealthy, but his attempt was futile. She stared at him with amber eyes that were laced in anger and sadness. She had been too late. When she finally got to her nest, her eggs were gone. Hurt from the fall, she didn't even attempt to chase after the thieves.

Midoriya wouldn't stop apologising. The monster didn't understand this human boy. He wasn't like the other hunters that came around. No... this human was too kind.

Midoriya hadn't even noticed in his rant that he had gotten closer to the monster. His eyes went wide and the Rathian bared her teeth as him. He yelped and jumped back. A rumble sounded in the Rathian's throat. Was she... laughing at him?

Over the next few weeks, Midoriya brought her meat and fish as she rested from her injuries. Even though she couldn't talk back, Midoriya told her about himself, about his mom, about his friends, and about human life in general. He thought it would be best to leave out information about All Might, as killer as that was for him.

They continued to bond until Rathian was fully recovered. Midoriya was sad to part ways and he even prepared a speech. Rathian had other ideas, though. In the middle of his speech, she picked him up by the collar of his jacket and took to the skies. She flung him up onto her back and flew with him for the rest of the day.

They have an unbreakable bond to this day.

A bit too HTTYD-ish? I like the idea. Midoriya will probably be the the only in-depth story-ish character.

All Might: Rathalos. The king himself. The greatest warrior needs an equally 'mighty' partner. So why not with his good ol' monster rival, Rathalos?

Bakugou: Bazelgeuse. The explodey Bagel in the scale. The dive bombing had never met a human who actually *challenged* it before. Of course, leave it to Bakugou to try to square up with a monster.

Todoroki: Teostra/Lunastra. A young man of higher blood got the attention of two certain equally royal feline monsters. He's the star child of the number two hunter and his renounced researcher wife. He's the combination of brawns and brains. His father has high expectations for this young man.

Bakugou: *points at Todoroki* "Haaaaaaah?????" *thrusts his finger continuously at him* "Why does he get to have TWO dragons?"

Uraraka: Paolomu. Flying balloon squirrel? Yes. It was love at first sight for Uraraka. She loves her rat monster. Paolomu and Uraraka have a trick where Paolomu takes a big breath in and then pushes the air out while underneath her. The air pressure makes Uraraka look like she's floating!

Iida: Legania. Swift and regal. Iida takes pride in his monster. It is his pride and joy as both a hunter and as a rider. Coming from a line of hunters, Iida had a hard time switching over to the idea of not hunting monsters. Legania was his family crest so it was only natural he would seek out one to ultimately befriend.

Kirishima: Lets face it. He has a monster friend in basically every locale. His buddy is a Barroth that has an equally (surprising) friendly disposition as its trainer. Kirishima is also friends with a Radobaan and an Odogaron. His laugh and smile is contagious.

Denki: Tobi-Kadachi. Lighting flying squirrel. Doctors can't explain why Denki is immune to thunderblight. It works out, though, because Tobi-Kadachi loves rubbing its trainer up and down. In its excitement, Tobi often forgets that the contact releases his stores up electric shocks...

Mina: Pukei-Pukei. Mina loves her googly-eyed poison bird. She takes personal offence to anyone who calls her partner ugly, and more times than not, the offender usually ends up with a black eye or two.

Tokoyami: Nargacuga. They were practically meant to be together. Both are masters at hiding in the shadows. They're also both mostly active at night. Not many other creature are active during this time, so they keep each other company.

Tsuyu: Jyuratogas. Tsuyu loves fresh-water swimming, so what better partner to have than a fresh-water monster? Because of its slimey texture, it often throws others off. Tsuyu doesn't mind, though!

Sero: Tigrex. Sero is fairly gangly. Tigrex is also fairly gangly. Sero created his own special bridle to ride Tigrex. He took inspiration from grabbing hooks and clutch claws.

Sato: Uragaan. Uragaan found its way to Sato by following the aroma of his baking. Now Sato has something that loves baked goods as equally as he does!

Jirou: Black Diablos. Both are weak to loud noises. They both stay in their own lane for the most part, but both are known for sometimes being hot headed. Despite their weakness to loud sounds, both find great joy in music.

Koda: Dodogama. Both are very good boys. Dodo's calm disposition is on the same wavelength as Koda's. They made a great team together.

Aoyama: Tzitzi-Ya-Ku. Aoyama loves showing off and loves being in the spotlight. Tzitzi can provide that spotlight. They were literally made for each other.

Shoji: Diablo. Both are strong, and both are just sort of there. Shoji acts as the eyes that Diablo doesn't really have. They have a solid wavelength with one another. Shoji is the only one able to keep a grip on Diablo when it charges.

Hagakure: Kushala-Daora. Hagakure is a master of the illusions. She's able to mask her presence from those around her. Similarly, Kushala is able to hide itself in the wind. The only thing that gives Hagakure away is the mantle that she always has on that protects her from the razer sharp gusts Kushala can create.

Mineta: Kulu-Ya-Ku. Both of them are just kind of there. Kulu loves its shiny objects like Mineta likes his playboy magazines. Its kind of hand in hand. Or talon in talon... Hand in talon?

Momo: Vaal Hazak. Upon first glance, one would assume Momo would be accompanied by a more... lively monster. Nobody really expected her to bond with the queen of the Rotten Vale. A powerful monster with an equally powerful trainer. Momo's inventor brain and her quick thinking allows her to create objects from what she is given in a pinch. This also means patenting her own face mask to be used when entering her monster friend's home. Vaal's back is more boney than fleshy.

Ojirou: Deviljo. Ojirou doesn't look like the type to be partnered with a toothy pickle. But wow, can that tail pack a punch! Once you get past the initial phases, Pickle isn't too bad. Except don't call it Pickle to its face. You might get launched a solid 50 meters away if you do.

#my hero academia #monster hunter world #monster hunter #boku no hero academia #how to train your dragon #httyd #bnha #mha #mhw

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geekprincess26 · 6 years ago

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Ransomed: Chapter 2

Finally, I know.

Lord Jon Targaryen felt the woman in his arms go slack and cursed.

Mother of God, could his luck get any worse?

He’d begun the day by having a shouting match with his father, Lord Rhaegar Targaryen. Granted, the two men were often at odds, especially since Lord Aegon Targaryen, Rhaegar’s elder son and heir, had snuck off to join the Crusaders following King Robert to Jerusalem. Jon grimaced as he remembered the morning he’d descended the steps to Dragonstone’s massive courtyard, where the captains of the contingent Rhaegar had mustered to King Robert’s aid had been scheduled to gather and follow Jon to the coast to join the king, only to find that his cocky half-brother had led them out himself at dawn.

He’d left Father a flowery letter expressing both his deepest apologies for his disobedience and his even deeper assurance that God had spoken to him in a dream and told him to go to Jerusalem and win glory for his family, his country, and all Christendom, and who was he to contradict God?

Jon had rolled his eyes when he’d reached that part of the letter; for Aegon had never expressed any true interest in religion. He rarely attended the Masses held seven times a day in Dragonstone’s tiny chapel, rushed through his Hail Marys more quickly than even the stable boys, and could name even fewer of the saints than Jon himself could. No, if Aegon sought any glory on this errand, it was hardly God’s. That, however, did not register with his father, who barely finished his fool son’s letter before turning white as a ghost and slumping against the wall of Aegon’s solar, where the servants had discovered the missive. Rhaegar read it once before turning to strike Jon a blow to the jaw that nearly felled his unsuspecting son.

“You!” he cried, and whirled to jab a finger at Jon, nearly striking him again in the process. “You,” he repeated, rasping and struggling to regain the breath he had spent on his initial outburst were to go – you – prove the blood of the dragon to the infidels – and you let my heir escape in your place instead! You!”

He doubled over and collapsed in a white-faced heap at Jon’s feet. Jon, still clutching his jaw, shouted at the nearest servant to fetch the steward and the physician.

So it was Jon who had found himself barking out orders to Dragonstone’s marshal to send out as many riders as the castle could spare as quickly as possible to catch up with and retrieve his wayward half-brother. It was Jon who had dictated a letter to the king to beg him to send Aegon back in case the riders should fail, and Jon who had borne the king’s reply to Lord Rhaegar when the riders did fail and the king refused to turn away such a proud and willing young warrior. Jon had feared his father, who had shut himself in his chambers and barely eaten ever since Aegon had left, would break, just as Rhaenys, Rhaegar’s own daughter, had done so long ago, but Lord Rhaegar had let out an anguished howl and shouted at Jon to leave him at once. Jon had taken the shouting as a good sign and his father’s ordering him to the usual distance between them as an even better one. He’d even spared a few minutes to visit Father Samwell Tarly – Father Sam, as everyone in the castle called him – in the chapel and order an extra Mass to be said each for his father and brother. Father Samwell had nodded, asked as he always did whether Jon would not stay to offer a prayer or two himself, and nodded in that disappointed fashion of his that always produced a pang of guilt in Jon’s guts when Jon had refused. He had, however, insisted on soaking a cloth for Jon to hold to his jaw to keep it from swelling too badly before he bustled off to do his lord’s bidding.

“I shall say a mass for you and your father as well, Lord Jon, if you should consent,” he had said, turning on his heel after a moment. Jon had stared at him, mildly surprised, until Father Sam flushed and added quietly, “It is never a painless thing to see a kinsman off to a war, even to a holy war, and even when the kinsman has caused one his own pain.”

Jon had granted him permission then with a sharp nod and at least as sharp a pang of annoyance. Even Jon’s brief acquaintance with the other man had told him that Father Sam spoke little but shrewdly, observed much, could take a man’s measure as well as Jon could swing a sword. This time, though, Jon knew the man spoke from experience, for his own father and brother had left for the Crusades even before Aegon had. Furthermore, Sam’s father, Lord Randyll Tarly, had treated him cruelly as a child and made no secret of his preference for his second son, the Lord Dickon Tarly, who had accompanied him to the war. Jon had wondered for a moment how Sam could possibly miss a man whose ill-treatment had made his own father’s and brother’s neglect of him since his mother’s death look like gentle coddling in comparison. But if one in a hundred priests could actually put the preaching of Christian charity to practice, it would be Father Sam, who had naught but kind greetings for everyone, even Rhaegar, who had met Father Sam but twice and had made it abundantly clear both times that he allowed a priest and chapel in his castle against his own wishes only to honor the memory of his late wives and to avoid constant protests from the servants.

Lord Rhaegar eventually left his chambers, but his melancholy moods, which always made him desire the harp and his private scrolls to the utter disregard of administering a castle, came more often and lasted longer after that; and he avoided Jon even more than he had been wont to do before Aegon’s departure. Rhaenys, Jon’s half-sister, reacted even more poorly. She did not shout, for she had not spoken a single word since the age of twelve years, but she wept as Jon had never seen her weep, and he himself had nearly fallen to tears in his attempts to persuade her to eat and drink. For three days she refused all but small ale, and Jon, desperate, had ordered more masses from Father Sam on her behalf. His father and half-brother had always been content enough to leave him to his own devices; but Rhaenys had always had smiles and even giggles to spare for him. When Aegon or one of the other lords’ sons had beaten him at swords or archery, Jon went to Rhaenys’s chambers as often as not to assuage their jeers with the balm of her humming and sewing. When the rain pelted the training yards too hard for a tilt, Jon would often as not occupy the time by reading Rhaenys her favorite stories. He had come to know most of them by heart, especially the parts that made her laugh and smile, and he had developed a habit over the years of deepening his voice as he read the villains’ speeches and swinging his arms in exaggerated reenactments of the duels they always lost so that he could coax a giggle from her even during the most frightening parts of the stories.

But Rhaenys stopped giving smiles or giggles to anyone the day Aegon left. She did begin eating again, to Jon’s immense relief, and he had been able to focus on questions from the steward and the chamberlain about the business matters that had accumulated unheeded in the days since Aegon’s departure.

Jon had always paid more attention than Aegon when they were younger to their father’s duties – how he discussed the castle’s stores with the steward, how he heard petitions and mediated between feuding knights, how he ordered repairs and mustered men for King Steffon and then King Robert. After Aegon left, however, Rhaegar’s reluctance to leave his chambers thrust Jon into filling much of his father’s role, and it was then that he learned how woefully unprepared he still was for it. He tried to learn as quickly as he could. He spent weeks plying the servants with questions, reading letters over twice or thrice to ensure he understood them, poring over ledgers far into the night, asking the steward to repeat himself yet again so he could task the man with ordering the proper supplies for the castle stores, and spending hour after hour signing and scribbling with a quill till his fingers screamed to hold a sword. He granted Wendel, who farmed the hide nearest the forest to the south of Dragonstone, a sennight’s extra time to produce the lord’s portion of his crops due to his wife’s just having borne their seventh child. He listened to a claim from Torrhen the blacksmith and his wife, who alleged that they had been accosted and threatened by some of Lord Roose Bolton’s men on their way back to Dragonstone Castle from the Vale, where they had been visiting Torrhen’s ill sister, and sent a letter to Lord Roose asking him to question his men and relay their answer to Jon at speed. He refused yet another request from the brothers of Saint Augustine to rebuild nearby Wymondham Abbey*, which had been destroyed by fire some dozen years ago, just as his father would have done. That proved to be the easiest task he undertook in his father’s name, for Rhaegar would have dragged himself out of his chambers to gut Jon himself if Jon had done aught differently.

Eventually, Rhaegar recovered enough to resume many of his duties. He never spoke of the events surrounding Aegon’s departure – indeed, to Jon he spoke even less than usual. Jon, all too accustomed to his father’s lack of attention, spoke equally little, if not less, and spent as much of his newly freed time as he could with Rhaenys. He was still left with the tasks his father, who had taken to retiring well before the day’s final supper**, left undone, but even so, a few months into Rhaegar’s near-recovery, Rhaenys wept only a little and only at night, and Jon began to catch her smiling again in the afternoons.

Not quite a year after Aegon’s departure, however, a courier galloped up the road winding one of the splendid cliffs that surrounded Dragonstone on three sides as though Satan’s hounds were nipping at his heels. They may as well have done, thought Jon, for the rider bore a scroll, signed and sealed by the king himself, informing the Lord of Dragonstone that his heir had perished in battle at Acre.

Rhaegar’s face whitened and aged twenty years in the pace of ten seconds, and he collapsed to his knees. He dropped the letter, which Jon retrieved before it brushed the courtyard stones and read hastily. He might have followed his father’s lead except that his body refused to move, even breathe, for he knew not how long. He had barely managed to elbow his way through the group of servants huddled around the stricken lord and clutch him in his arms before the physician strode into their midst, huffing and puffing. Jon helped the man carry Rhaegar to his chambers, and a gaggle of servants followed them. He noticed his father’s lips moving, but could not hear what was coming from them until he and the other men bent to deposit their lord onto his bed.

The first head is gone. Jon’s ear was perhaps a foot from his father’s lips, but the words were spoken so quietly that he had to use his eyes to discern the them fully. The vengeance. Vengeance is mine. Mine.

The whispers trailed off into nothing. Jon drew back and glanced sharply at the servants and physician, none of whom seemed to have heard anything his father had said. At any rate, they all turned quickly enough to the physician, who assured them that the Lord Rhaegar was alive but must be examined. Everyone burst into questions, but Jon found his voice long enough to order them out and command the chamberlain to keep the servant from speaking of Aegon to Rhaenys and then set everyone else about their duties so they would give the poor physician time to examine his lord and Jon time to think about what should be done next. He could think of nothing, though – nothing except Aegon’s endless pranks, and his violet eyes that twinkled with merry mischief when they played as boys together and then jealous mischief when they got older and Aegon understood just how thoroughly his half-brother outshone him in martial pursuits, and the lilting voice he used to charm countless maidservants and other ladies about the castle, and the hours he spent in the tiltyard trying in vain to outdo Jon at whatever war-sport they were practicing that day, and the sneer in his smile the day before he left Dragonstone, when Jon wished him good fortune and reminded him to pay Rhaegar and Rhaenys some modicum of attention if he could spare any from the ladies.

“Learning to rule a castle may better the rack, if not the women, if you try it a time or two, Aegon,” he had said. It had been half a jest, but the crooked smile Aegon had offered him in return had lacked amusement.

“Heirs were made for glory, not dusty scrolls,” he had replied. “I am wasted on tedious ramblings when the triumph of Jerusalem begs instead for my sword, little brother.”

He had turned on his heel and strode off, but not before Jon saw the frustration warring to burst through his brother’s jaunty mask. That was what had blunted the edge of Jon’s anger enough to keep his wits intact through the tumult of the next day and the months that had followed it, and it was also what bore Jon to the chapel he so rarely visited to request a hundred masses for Aegon’s soul from Father Sam at his own expense. Not even Rhaegar’s love for his heir would make him request so much as a hymn from the priest to that effect, and Jon well knew it.

Then he had turned his reluctant feet to the stairs that led to his sister’s chambers.

Rhaenys had reacted as poorly as Jon had feared. Her once dulcet voice, which had not formed a word in years, uttered loud, rasping wails nearly all night, and nothing, no pleading, no soothing whispers, no countless repetitions of her name, could draw her out of the corner into which she had curled herself like a helpless babe. Feeling just as helpless himself, Jon withdrew to his solar and ordered the servants to direct all further matters of business to him for the foreseeable future.

Rhaegar remained in his chambers for the better part of a month, and when he finally did emerge, he looked nearly as old as he had when he had first received the news of Aegon’s death. Streaks of his pale gold hair had gone white or nearly so, and his face had half a dozen new lines. He spoke even less to Jon than he had in the months following Aegon’s departure for the Crusades, and he resumed even fewer of his duties. That meant that Jon stayed up at his desk halfway until dawn some nights answering letters, reviewing ledgers, and calculating how much the rents of every farmer and tradesman in Sussex would have to be increased that year to pay for Lord Rhaegar’s portion of King Robert’s ransom. The last duty proved nearly as onerous as the rest combined, for in the second winter following Aegon’s death, the Duke of Austria had captured the king and several of his companions on their way back from the Holy Land, and early the following year, he had turned them over to the Holy Roman Emperor, who had promptly demanded 150,000 marks for the king’s release and various lesser sums for the freedom of each of his lords. These included Jon Arryn, Earl of Lincoln; Eddard Stark, Earl of Richmond; and Robb Stark, Lord Stark’s eldest son and heir.

Jon had taken a moment or two to pity the good people of Lincoln and Richmond, who had to raise their own lords’ ransoms in addition to their portions of the king’s. However, his pity for the vassals of other lords was quickly dwarfed by the sheer size of the quarter tax the king’s collectors expected from the Earl of Norfolk. One-fourth of the income of every landowner, from the tenant of a single hide to Rhaegar Targaryen himself, must be collected by the earl and paid over to the Crown’s treasury by the time of the Yuletide festival in the year of the king’s capture. Rumor had it that Crown Prince Joffrey, King Robert’s only living brother, planned to tip a fair portion of it into his own coffers. Jon, who paid little attention to most rumors coming out of London, put more stock in this one than usual, for the king had incensed his brother by choosing as his heir the Prince Renly, son of his dead brother the Prince Stannis, in Prince Joffrey’s place before departing on his crusade. No sooner had his ships left the shores of England than Prince Joffrey had retaliated by making all manner of trouble. He had urged the king’s privy council almost daily to reverse the heirship decision in his own favor; and when its members had continued to refuse him, he had spurned the bride his brother had chosen for him and taken as his wife Lady Margaery Tyrell, daughter of the powerful Earl of Gloucester.

But, Prince Joffrey or no Prince Joffrey, the Crown expected its full quarter tax; and Jon had spent several nights in his solar till dawn scribbling in his ledgers to produce a solution that would shield Norfolk’s poorest tenants from starvation, for the prior year’s harvest had not been great. On one such night, the Lord Rhaegar had entered the solar quite unexpectedly and inquired after Jon’s efforts. Jon had explained his plan to lessen the tax on the tenants who needed their entire income simply to survive the oncoming winter in favor of increasing the percentage of collection from the wealthier lords, who could spare it. Rhaegar had resisted the suggestion for some days, but eventually his exhaustion, a near-constant presence since Aegon’s death, had gotten the better of him following a visit from Lord Roose Bolton and his son, Sir Ramsay Bolton. The day after they had left Dragonstone Castle, Rhaegar had agreed to a compromise that would require more than a quarter’s income tax of every owner of over a hundred hides save for the Boltons and two or three others. On that point he had refused to waver, insisting that these lords kept the borders of Norfolk and should be exempted from the extra tax for their trouble. He had even reduced the Boltons’ tax to one-fifth instead of one-fourth; for, he said, they must watch the border at the edge of the Lincoln Forest, which was the most dangerous of all because of the poachers and outlaws who haunted the woodlands. By this time, however, Jon had begun to suspect that the Boltons were more fit to be banished to the forest to keep the outlaws company than to guard the realm from them. Since Aegon’s departure for the Holy Land, he had nearly a dozen complaints from farmers and merchants alike about the Boltons and their ill-treatment of travelers crossing their borders. All of them had stories similar to that of Wendel and his wife, and some were worse. Jon heard tales of beatings and threats from them and worse from a couple of maidservants he had chanced to hear gossiping in the corridors. One of them had recently arrived at Dragonstone Castle bruised and scratched and begging the chamberlain to accept her as a cook or a chambermaid or anything else he might please, for she had chanced upon rogues near the border of Lincoln Forest, and they had beaten her so badly that she had barely escaped with her life. With a disinterested wave of his hand, Rhaegar had allowed the man to grant her request. When Jon had chanced upon her in the hall a few weeks later, however, she had been admitting to her fellow servant that she had in fact been a chambermaid at Dreadfort Castle and had been beaten and raped not by rogues, but by Sir Ramsay Bolton himself. The other maid had whispered that two of the newest kitchen maids had told her similar stories.

Jon might have dismissed one or two such accounts as but rumors, but by this time he had heard twice the number of complaints that would have made King Robert himself summon a lord to his court for reckoning. When he had pointed this out to his father, Rhaegar’s arm had twitched, and Jon had flinched, thinking his father would strike him again. Rhaegar had done no such thing, but he had set his mouth into a grim line and snapped at Jon to mind his tongue.

“I will hear no more,” he had hissed. “They guard our borders, and they shall be compensated accordingly.”

A tremor had taken the corner of his mouth for such a fleeting moment that Jon questioned whether he had truly seen it before turning on his heel and stalking out of his father’s solar without wishing him a good night.

The next day had brought another complaint about Sir Ramsay Bolton from yet another farmer. Rhaegar had refused to listen to the man when Jon had asked him to repeat his complaint in a private audience, and after he had heard the remainder of the day’s petitions, Jon had stalked to his chambers, and slammed the door behind him. The shudder of his startled valet and the thought of a bruised toe were the only things that kept him from giving his stool a hearty kick into his desk.

Not a week later, he had sent a messenger to Dreadfort Castle warning Lord Roose and Sir Ramsay of reports he had heard of recent attacks by rogues in the area. He had not mentioned that Sir Ramsay himself was one of the rogues in question, but hoped that it would be enough to warn both father and son that Jon was aware of their malfeasances. The following week, however, had brought yet another report against Sir Ramsay Bolton, as well as an account by two smiths on their way to London whose company had been attacked and scattered by some dozen or more rogues who bore no coat of arms, Bolton or otherwise. That had been enough of a pretext for Jon to send a message summoning Sir Ramsay meet him and some dozen of his men to take a turn about the borders of the Lincoln Forest to search for the outlaws in question.

So it was that Jon arrived at the determined meeting place to find Sir Ramsay and thrice the number of men he had claimed he would bring with him already there, accosting a young woman with disheveled red braids and some half-dozen men who looked much the worse for wear but no less willing to defend her to the death. Sir Ramsay was smiling as he spoke to her, but the icy leer in that smile made Jon’s blood run cold and erased any doubts he might have had about the stories of travelers and maids alike. He wanted to grab the man by his surcoat and haul him back to Dragonstone Castle to answer the charges against him, but his men thrice outnumbered Jon’s, and the Boltons were especial friends of Prince Joffrey’s, and Lord Rhaegar would have refused to hear the matter even if Jon could have managed to spirit Sir Ramsay back to Dragonstone Castle without any trouble.

But he refused to let the other man molest yet another innocent, and he had no reason to doubt that this innocent was indeed the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, the king’s closest friend and perhaps the most powerful earl in all of England. Jon cursed his father silently and strode up to Sir Ramsay Bolton with his hand resting next to the pommel of his sword.

Unhand her and to the devil with you, he wanted to shout, or, Away from her lest you dare the wrath of the king, or else mine! But he could say neither, and his mind scrambled madly for the words that would spirit Lady Sansa and her retinue away from the situation as quickly as possible.

“If she is indeed Lady Sansa Stark,” he found himself saying, “it is a matter of my concern, for my father is in negotiations with hers.”

His eyes widened when he realized what he had said, and he cursed his tongue for acting on his memory of the lady’s recent betrothal; but he had spoken the words, and Sir Ramsay was momentarily dumbfounded, and Jon took advantage of the latter’s discomfort to get Lady Sansa and her men away from the Boltons as quickly as he could.

Jon cursed again as he felt Lady Sansa go limp in his arms. At least she would not cry out now and draw Sir Ramsay’s attention back to her, he thought as he trudged up the hill toward the stream he had pointed out to his men. He heard a suckling noise from the ground and sighed, pulling his steel-shod foot out of the mud formed by the recent spring rains. He tightened his grip on the Lady Sansa, felt her face pressing against his surcoat, and picked his way along the stream as carefully as he could.

He had just sludged through the worst bit when he heard his name being shouted. Startled, he raised his head to see Pypar, one of his knights, flying over the crest of the hill where the men were pitching the tents.

“My lord!” shouted Pypar, but he got no further, for just then a mighty lurch from the woman in Jon’s arms pulled his shoulders nearly out of their joints. He managed to hold onto her but got a yelp in his ear for his trouble.

“Unhand me! Out!” The girl struck him full in the chest, and Jon winced as the impact of her elbow struck the links of his chain mail just below his left shoulder. His leather jerkin absorbed much of the blow, but it would still bruise come the morrow.

She struck him again, and this time Jon stumbled forward, dropped her to the ground, and very nearly fell on top of her. At the last moment, he flung himself far enough forward to avoid her. Scarcely had he rolled faceup with a grunt than the girl scrambled to her feet and made to bolt back toward the horses. Jon snagged her wrist, and she cried out in pain as her body pulled taut against his grip. He pushed himself up on the strength of his right leg and seized her shoulder with his other hand, this time more gently. Not gently enough, however, for the girl’s reached across her body as if to grasp a sword or dagger, and, finding none there, flailed outward to strike a blow at his jaw. He dodged it just in time and turned to see her open her mouth, clearly intending to scream again. Jon covered it and gripped her shoulder more tightly.

“Hush, lady!” he snapped. “Are you so eager to meet Sir Ramsay Bolton and his lot of rogues again?”

The girl tensed, and Jon felt her exhale against his hand. Both her breath and her jaw trembled, but she was standing erect, and Jon decided she was in no danger of swooning again. He felt his fingers cramp and loosened his grip on her shoulder, but she only glared and tried to wriggle out of his grip. Jon glared back.

“Enough,” he snapped, clamping his aching fingers down tightly again. “If you run, Sir Bolton will certainly find you. He owns hounds that can track down a man on several hours’ start, and he lives not even that far away. Were he to set them upon you, they would have you before the night was over, and he is not a man to be trusted or toyed with lightly.” He bent slightly to level his eyes with hers. They were still glaring at him, but the ferocity was fading quickly. “If you would rather stay with your men, they are with mine, just up the hill. Come and see them.”

The girl’s eyes lost all their blue glare to widen in fear, and Jon, realizing how his words must have sounded, shook his head.

“My men are only tending to them, lady,” he said. “I mean them no harm – or you.” He turned back toward her and felt the protest of his body where she had hit him. Aye, that would bruise. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“If I take my hand down, will you cease screaming?” he asked. Her jaw set more firmly beneath his hand, but after a moment she nodded, and after another, he dropped his hand. He held out his arm, but she did not take it.

“My men?” she said at once, her tone heavy with accusation.

“This way,” he replied and turned toward the tent. Pypar, however, was right in front of him.

“My lord – my Lady Stark,” he said, and bowed in the girl’s direction. “One of your men has swooned in the tent and will not awake. My lord – ” he turned back to Jon – “you may wish to take him to the nearest holdfast rather than remaining in the tent for the night. Grenn fears his condition may be grave.”

Jon sighed. None of the lady’s men had appeared to be badly wounded when he had first laid eyes on them, but he had spared them barely a glance in his haste to get away from the Boltons’ men. He had dearly hoped they could manage the night in the tent, for the nearest holdfast was Dreadfort Castle, and the closest abbey beyond that was at least two hours farther, which would keep them riding well past dark and far too near to Lincoln Forest. Any of his knights could bandage a simple wound, and Grenn, the son of Dragonstone’s physician, could treat worse in a tight corner; but if the man was beyond Grenn’s help, their only recourse was to take him to the Dreadfort and the Boltons’ physician.

“Sir Jory?” Jon turned to see the lady addressing Grenn. “Sir Cassel, that is?” she added, seeing the confused look on both men’s faces, and Grenn nodded.

“Your men do call him that, my lady,” he said, and she nodded. She pressed her lips together so tightly that they began to whiten, but she still ignored Jon’s proffered arm as they both swept up the hill after Grenn. Once they reached the top, Jon groaned.

A man of perhaps thirty years lay upon a hastily erected pallet just beside the tent. His face was white as river’s foam and contorted with pain. Grenn was bent over him examining his leg, which had already been stripped of its armor to reveal a bandage soaked in blood covering the stricken man’s lower thigh. When Jon drew closer, he saw thin red streaks emanating from the wound down the man’s leg and grimaced. Those streaks meant an infection of the blood, which would kill the man unless treated at once.

The lady must have known this as well, although Jon knew not how, for she gave a sharp gasp and clapped her hand over her mouth. He stepped to her side, worrying she would swoon again; but after a moment, she let down her hand, drew her shoulders back, and turned to face him.

“Do you have a physician, sir?” she asked him. “I – I can pay whatever he requires.” Her jaw quivered again, and she pressed her lips together tightly before she resumed speaking. “ ‘Tis true that much of my father’s ransom was stolen from us, but my men and I have enough left over on our persons.” Her mouth twitched, as though she would take the words back if she could. “We shall not inconvenience you for long. I ask only that your physician see my men to health and let us pass back to the Kingsroad, and we shall be of no further trouble to you.”

Jon shook his head. The girl had clearly never traveled at any great distance before if she thought that physicians were so easily had or that any lord she ran across would negotiate on honorable terms so easily. “I have no physician here,” he replied. “The nearest is at Dreadfort Castle – the Boltons’ home.”

But he had not given the girl enough credit, for she blanched at the mention of Dreadfort without even hearing the Bolton name.

“The very nearest?” she asked, looking nearly as terrified as she had when Jon had first seen her being accosted by Sir Ramsay. “You are certain?” Her voice lowered and took on a distinctly accusatory tone. “You had claimed to want me away from him.”

Jon sighed again. Did the lady think he looked happy about this turn of events, especially since he had been the one to snatch her out of Bolton’s claws in the first place?

“I spoke the truth, my lady,” he replied abruptly. “I like it not, but the Dreadfort’s physician is nearer than any other, and your man must have one at haste. Lord Bolton is unpleasant and ruthless; but my father is his liege, and he will remember it.”

He wished he could believe his own words entirely; but at any rate the lady must believe them, or Christ and Saint George along knew how loudly she would start shrieking.

“And I shall have my men guard your and your ladies’ rooms,” he added. The girl grimaced and drew back a hand’s breadth.

“My own men shall watch over me, with my thanks, my lord,” she replied. “Yours need not take the – the trouble; and my men do not know them.”

Her voice caught upon the last phrase, and Jon heard it shake. Her hand drifted toward her side again as if to clutch for a weapon she did not have. She flinched and pulled it back, and when she blinked, the westering sun shone off her eyes with suspicious brightness.

Jon sighed again. Now he had managed to frighten the girl, as well as to anger both her and Sir Ramsay Bolton, in whose castle he must now spend the night. He opened his mouth but was still trying to find something to say when he heard an unfamiliar voice call out, “Lady Sansa!”, and saw a fair-haired young knight, blood splattering his Stark surcoat, stride up and bow to the woman.

“Sir Wendel,” she sighed, relief overtaking her features, and turned to curtsy briefly toward Jon.

“My lord,” she said, and swept off almost at a run to join the other knight. Jon turned to watch her hurry to the wounded man’s side and found Grenn at his own.

“Any others wounded?” he asked. Grenn nodded, his face grim.

“Aye,” he said. “Five others. Three with scratches. Two worse.” He inclined his head toward Jon’s tent. “Neither as bad as him, but they’d best get to a physician sooner than later.” He reached up to swat a fly off his forehead. “Shall we go to the Dreadfort, my lord?”

His voice rose, and for a moment Jon heard the red-haired girl’s last words to him – low, but measured and proper and not at all m’lord, as a peasant or lowborn impostor would have said. He let out a loud sigh through his clenched teeth.

Sir Ramsay Bolton may have claimed to doubt her words, but Jon suspected the man knew as well as he did that the girl was indeed Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard – and the woman he had proclaimed in the hearing of Sir Ramsay and all their men to be his future wife.

Jon cursed again, this time audibly.

“Aye,” he snapped, and Grenn’s eyebrows rose. “As quickly as you can, Grenn. Keep an especial eye on that wounded man.” He turned to Sir Tormund Giantsbane, who had just stalked over to join his lord. “Tormund, take Oliver and find the Lady Sansa a horse. I want you within a horse’s breath of her at all times.” His jaw tightened, and he turned toward where Sir Ramsay and his men were setting up camp. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

*Wymondham Abbey was a Benedictine monastery founded in 1107 in Wymondham, Norwich, about 10 miles southwest of Norwich. You can find out more about it here.

**The last meal served in a medieval castle for the day was often not dinner, but a late evening meal termed “supper.” For more information, see Daily Life in Medieval Times, by Frances and Joseph Gies (Barnes & Noble Edition, ISBN #0-7607-5913-8).

#jon x sansa #jonxsansaff #jonsa fanfiction #multi-chapter #game of thrones #my writing #historical au #drama #fic: ransomed

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thatgirlonstage · 7 years ago

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Podcast Challenge 6/4/18

When I said I got home and collapsed and only wanted to listen to podcasts I wasn’t kidding between this morning, my commute, and me getting home this evening to do NOTHING I listened to HOURS AND HOURS of podcast today

Trying something new today-- here’s a list of podcasts that I’m listening to. Bolded ones are ones that I listened to episodes of today, while those with the strikethrough are the ones that I’m caught up with (and so I’m waiting for the next episode).

I apologize, when the post gets this long I’d normally put it under the cut, but readmores are still glitching -_- No one reblogs these, though, so at least you only have to scroll past it once

Podcast: The Thrilling Adventure Hour

Episode: #49.1: “Filibuster”: A word from WorkJuice Coffee

Time: 4 min, 9% of goal

Commentary:

“Keep this country great” oh boy that phrase has never been a good thing but these days it triggers my fight-or-flight response

Episode: #49.2: “Dressing Room”: A word from WorkJuice Coffee

Time: 2 min, 4% of goal

Commentary:

An abundance of flowers in a dressing room give me flashbacks

Episode: #50: Tales from the Black Lagoon, “The Search for Marnie Bennett” part 3

Time: 13 min, 29% of goal

Commentary:

Awwww Ben came back!!!

Episode: #51: Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars, “A Mind is a Terrible Thing... In Space!”

Time: 23 min, 51% of goal

Commentary:

I’m really falling in love with Croach and Nevada’s relationship. I don’t think I’m ready to fully articulate WHY it’s so good but there’s always something so compelling about people who are wildly different from one each other and don’t even particularly like each other but also would die for each other... even if they would never admit that.

Also I feel like we got a lot of foreshadowing and hints at backstory this episode???? I don’t really know how much things are going to be used in continuity - like the robot fists being a gift COULD mean something important in the future, or maybe it was just a throwaway joke, and “King of Mars” is either SUPER important or Nevada just pulling something out of his ass. But the Red Plains Rider backstory was new!!!! (I think.) Human raised by Martians? That’s so cool, and explains a lot about her character and her connection with Croach. I’m really hoping we get more about her backstory in the future.

Episode: #52: “Christmas on Mars”

Time: 1hr 28 min, 196% of goal

Commentary:

"Christmas, the most important of all human organs”

Oh my god it’s podcastception I love it. Does this mean Beyond Belief is just ghost stories on Mars?

There are parts of this episode that are perhaps, uh, shall we say playfully offensive, but I have to say the line “He took a pistachio in the war” is so much funnier than it has any right to be

Episode: #53: Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars, “War of the World”

Time: 23 min, 51% of goal

Commentary:

She’s baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. Rebecca Rose Rushmore is a hilarious character I hope she sticks around. Also I love that Croach’s wingman-ing was clearly him TRYING to be exceptionally considerate by trying to get Nevada laid by the best human woman he knows but so misguided lol

Podcast: Alice Isn’t Dead

Episode: (2) Mérida, Yucatán

Time: 4 min, 9% of goal

Commentary:

HOLY SHIT ALICE. Are we actually getting Alice talking in this season???? Are we getting more characters recording???? Are we going to hear from Sylvia in the third preview??

Podcast: The Flop House

Episode: Movie Minute #15 - Horn-nutz!

Time: 11 min, 24% of goal

Commentary:

This episode made me feel like I had bees crawling on me

Episode: #26 - 88 Minutes

Time: 49 min, 109% of goal

Commentary:

“We are recording this the morning after Obama was elected president” 1. Oh my GOD this episode is from a long time ago 2. That sound in the distance is me sobbing

Al Pacino where did you go so wrong

Episode: Movie Minute #16 - Missed Connections

Time: 4 min, 9% of goal

Commentary:

ie, the millennial version of all those “killers on the phone” horror films because none of us answer the phone ever

Podcast: The Bright Sessions

Episode: S1E1: Patient #12-D-10 (Sam)

Time: 13 min, 29% of goal

Commentary:

Hmmmmm intriguing. A different take on time travel, one that eliminates most of the usual problems with paradoxes.

Also I love the cover art???

Episode: S1E2: Patient #11-A-7 (Caleb)

Time: 17 min, 38% of goal

Commentary:

I highkey do NOT agree that the witches took Macbeth’s free will, most interpretations are that he is manipulated into a self-fulfilling prophecy. Otherwise the story loses much of its interest. Also are you kidding I love Lady Macbeth.

I love this character though, I love the idea of a teenage boy, which can be such an emotionally repressed demographic, as an empath. That’s such a cool subversion.

Episode: S1E3: Patient #13-A-3 (Chloe)

Time: 14 min, 31% of goal

Commentary:

I like Chloe she’s so bubbly!! Also though “If properly trained, she could be one of my most promising subjects” is... a TAD ominous. Promising for... WHAT, exactly?

Episode: S1E4: Patient #12-D-10 (Sam)

Time: 17 min, 38% of goal

Commentary:

WHO IS MARK

WHAT KIND OF ASSET. WHY DO YOU NEED ASSETS

WHY SO INSISTENT THAT SHE CAN’T TELL ****ANYONE****

I’M NOT SURE I TRUST YOU DR. BRIGHT

Episode: S1E5: Patient #11-A-7 (Caleb)

Time: 19 min, 42% of goal

Commentary:

So like Caleb and Adam are definitely gay and become boyfriends later right

Also oooooooh hints at backstory, Caleb is in therapy because he got overwhelmed with anger and hit somebody. I don’t know if this podcast would do this yet, but I’m hoping maybe for a flashback episode where we get his first session? It’s an interesting choice to have both Sam and Chloe be just starting but start Caleb at Session 9

Episode: S1E6: Patient #13-A-3 (Chloe)

Time: 14 min, 31% of goal

Commentary:

1. Chloe is going to get herself in trouble

2. I’m not sure that Bright should be ENCOURAGING Chloe to get better at voluntarily READING MINDS, that’s... a pretty extreme invasion of people’s privacy

3. Soooooooo who’s Damien hmmmmm

Podcast: Can I Pet Your Dog?

Episode: 2: Corgi Beach Day

Time: 35 min, 78% of goal

Commentary:

“We all made it back for episode 2!”

Travis: “Well it’s my house”

One of my dad’s old friends has a dog who “had a career change” after they didn’t make the cut as a guide dog, but the dog still occasionally does guide-doggy stuff. So like for instance, if she’s out running and drifts too close to the curb, the dog will bump her side to push her back onto the sidewalk

Podcast: Wonderful!

Episode: 4: Good As Hell

Time: 50 min, 111% of goal

Commentary:

Yessssssssss The Good Place is so good. It was actually a tweet Justin made about it that convinced me to check it out, I’m really glad Griffin likes it too

Rachel the 20-minute power nap skeptic should meet my mom, she doesn’t even need the 20 minutes. Her power naps are 2 minutes long and she gets up from them more awake than I am after eight hours of sleep

Podcast: My Brother, My Brother, and Me

Episode: 122: In Your Tarzan Boy

Time: 1hr 6 min, 147% of goal

Commentary:

Okay that girl legit has a stalker and I really really hope she did something like call the actual police about this problem and didn’t just write into a comedy podcast because YIKES

Total Listening: 7hr 46 min, 1036% of goal

#tal listens #tah #alice isn't dead #the flop house #bright sessions #cipyd #wonderful!#mbmbam

16 notes · View notes

wendynerdwrites · 7 years ago

Text

Sapphires and Salt --- A Salty Teens Fic

Sansa:

A sudden rush of light and fresh air jolts her from her troubled sleep. She tries to bury her face in her pillows, only to have her bedclothes ripped off of her violently.

“Up,” Aunt Lyanna says, sitting atop Sansa’s bedside and brushing a curtain of greasy red hair from her face, “You’ve been in bed a week, and court convenes in three hours.”

“So?” Sansa asks, scoffing, “Why should that matter to me? It’s not as if I have a place there anymore.”

“Don’t be absurd,” the queen replies, “Remember who you are. You’re Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the Lord of the North, Granddaughter of the Lord of the Riverlands, Niece to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lord of the Vale--”

“-The jilted cast-offs of the prince of Dragonstone-”

The queen looks as if she’s about to say something, but appears to think better of it.

“Niece, I am ordering you, as your queen, to get out of bed. You are going to get up, bathe, dress, and walk into the throne room with the pride of a Stark, understand? Show that brat Aegon every inch of what he’s missed out on.”

Sansa feels bile rush to her throat. “Aegon? Aegon is going to be there?”

“Aye,” Lyanna says, getting to her feet and striding to Sansa’s dressing table, “We dragged that spoiled shit and that common slut back to court. And I can assure you, the king is none too pleased with either.”

Two of the five maids Lyanna brought with her help Sansa out of bed and into a tub of steaming water scented with the aroma of almonds and roses. Lady pads over to the side of the tub and nuzzles the hand Sansa hangs over the edge. Sansa strokes her wolf’s ears affectionately. Lady has barely moved from her bedside all week.

Sansa watches her aunt suspiciously as Lyanna goes through her jewel-chest. Her aunt has always been a bit of a mystery to her. To everyone, really. To this day, no one aside from the king and his wife seem to be sure what occurred between them that led to the Rebellion and their marriage. Some claimed Lyanna was abducted and raped, others insisted she ran off with the king in a swirl of rebellion and romance. After four years at court observing the royal couple, Sansa’s been inclined to think it was somewhere in the middle. The two seemed to love one another, but her aunt always seemed rather unsatisfied and melancholy.

Aunt Lyanna was never unkind to Sansa, but their relationship has always been a bit strained. Lyanna had more in common with Sansa’s wild younger sister, Arya, and it was clear before long that the queen would have preferred a girl of Arya’s inclinations to join her at court than Sansa. Queen Lyanna is a wild woman herself, a voracious huntress and rider who adored besting men with a blade. Far, far more than she enjoyed holding court, that was certain. Queen Lyanna had no patience for pomp, pageantry, or the feminine arts, often eschewing gowns for breeches and leaving her ladies to ride out to the kingswood with her two eldest daughters, Visenya and Lyarra, who had similar dispositions.

When Sansa came to court, it was clear that Lyanna expected her to be similar: to look and act like a Northern girl in full. Indeed, apparently she’d gotten the descriptions of her two nieces from her brother’s letters mixed up, and had expected the scabby-kneed tom-boy, not the perfect lady.

Upon discovering the mistake, the queen encouraged Sansa to be more like her ideal: to ride, learn to fight, to hunt like mad. She pushed her niece to pursue every activity designated as more “masculine”, to unexpected results. Aside from taking up the bow and falconry as regular hobbies, Sansa ended up resisting all of her aunt’s martial inclinations. Instead she took the opportunity of the “freedom” her aunt offered her to read everything her Septa back in Winterfell deemed “unfit” for a lady, and became even more engrossed in reading than she’d been prior. She took up statecraft, trade, astronomy, art, and music over swords and lances. And even when hawking, she had a habit of releasing her game that drove her aunt mad.

Ironically, Sansa ended up becoming closer to the king than the Stark queen, something Sansa sensed bothered her aunt as well.

“If you’re going to be a queen and survive a marriage to my spoiled step-son,” Lyanna had told her, “You have to be strong.”

Another thing Lyanna couldn’t stand: the fact that her niece worshipped the ground Aegon walked.

It was no secret that the relationship between the Crown Prince and his Stark step-mother was strained. That was partly why the betrothal was crafted in the first place. Princess Elia, Aegon’s mother and Rhaegar’s first wife, died during Robert’s Rebellion. Rhaegar had left Elia (and their two children) to run off with Aunt Lyanna, sparking the war. Rhaegar won the war, of course, making Lyanna his queen, something that infuriated Houses Martell and Stark. But a betrothal between Prince Viserys and Princess Arianne, the heir to Dorne, and the fact that Elia’s son remained heir to the Iron Throne managed to placate the Martells. House Stark, however, was another story. They feared for Aunt Lyanna’s safety, and that only got worse as Prince Aegon grew up resenting his step-mother, viewing her as a whore who humiliated, killed, and supplanted his mother. The fact that King Rhaegar had sent his son with Lyanna, Prince Jon, off to foster in the Reach at a young age as well didn’t help.

So, to try and bridge the gap and promote a reconciliation between the half-Martell Crown Prince and the House Stark, the betrothal was arranged.

Sansa left her home in the North at age eleven to come to King’s Landing to get to know her future husband. And she thought she had. Aegon, despite his resentment towards her Aunt Lyanna, was always kind, gallant, and lovely to her. He was everything a prince should be: tall, strong, handsome, well-mannered. And Sansa thought he’d come to love her. Despite the fact that their betrothal was set in stone before they’d even met, he’d courted her upon her arrival to the Red Keep, writing her poems and songs, giving her gifts, escorting her to events, and calling her his lady love. As she grew older, he began stealing kisses and even touched her a few times in a way that gave her shivers and even… Well, he did some wicked things to her that often left her dizzy and boneless. Wicked, wicked things he assured her weren’t worth confessing or atoning for, as they were his sins. And not once did he ever let her reciprocate.

Her prince, with his amethyst eyes and mischievous smile, made her life seem like a dream. How many favors had she made him, ones he’s pressed to his lips and proudly worn? How many times had she sworn her love to him, only to have him swear it right back?

She did everything she could to be his ideal bride-to-be. She worshipped him.

Sansa still remembers the last time she saw him. He’d taken off for Dragonstone to prepare it for their use. On their wedding day, Aegon would formally be granted the ancestral seat of the heir to the Iron Throne, and their wedding wasn’t too far off. Before stepping onto the ship, he’d donned the new cloak she’d made him and kissed her fingertips formally. Then as if he couldn’t contain his passion, he grabbed her before all the court and all of Blackwater Bay and kissed her lips deep. Highly improper, but oh-so-thrilling. And then he’d sprinted toward the ship, grinning.

It had left her so dazed that it wasn’t until later that she thought to blush over so many lords and ladies witnessing that kiss.

Aegon wrote to her to say he felt that Dragonstone would require far more modifications than expected for it to be worthy of her. And so he’d requested more funds from the treasury, and sated her with daily letters assuring her of his love. He told her of the things he was building for her, things based on what she missed from Winterfell: a lemon tree orchard, glass gardens, a fancy bathing chamber with a tub that would be as big as the Hot Spring baths from back home, but twice as fine.

And then…

Lyanna’s warnings, always taken with a grain of salt, turned true. Word came from Dragonstone. Aegon had eloped with Daena Valeryon, daughter of the Lord of Driftmark, a “dragonseed”, and declared her his princess.

His letter to his father (he didn’t write to Sansa), declared his bride to be of “proper and worthy Valyrian blood, a descendent of our own royal bloodline, with the silver-gold hair and amethyst eyes to prove it. A proper vessel to purify our bloodline and preserve the traits of Old Valyria.”

That wasn’t enough, however. Despite not sending Sansa an explanation, it was clear he intended to send her a message. The date Aegon gave for his clandestine wedding was the same date as Sansa’s fifteenth Name Day, and he’d sent her letters--- lying letters--- assuring her of his love following that date.

Lyanna was right. Lyanna was right all along.

Not that Sansa felt particularly inclined to turn to her aunt now. Lyanna hadn’t exactly offered Sansa a shoulder to cry on when the news came, preferring instead to devote her time to arguing with her husband and his council. When she did come to visit Sansa before, her manner was patronizing and cloying.

For years, Lyanna warned Sansa not to trust anyone in King’s Landing. Sansa’s all too ready to take that advice now.

Brokenhearted she may be, but Sansa isn’t stupid. There have been rumors for years about how Queen Lyanna desires to see her own son, Prince Jon, supplant his elder half-brother, and that it was partly why King Rhaegar sent Jon to foster in the Reach when he was eight. Sansa’s only ever exchanged light correspondence with her cousin, and though he’s always been kind and courteous in his letters, she always got the odd feeling that she was being condescended to.

Everyone knows the story of Duncan, the Prince of the Dragonflies, who gave up his crown to marry Jenny of the Oldstones. But that was different. Jenny was a common girl with no name or title behind her. Lady Daena is of one of the chief Houses of the Crownlands, a family that has married into House Targaryen multiple times, who shared Valyrian ancestry with the royal family.

If not for the betrothal, she’d probably be considered a fine match for Prince Aegon. And he wouldn’t be the first king of Westeros to have broken a betrothal in his youth--- just look at Jaehaerys II.

Not to mention, there’s the precedent set by Rhaegar himself. How could the king justify disinheriting his son for defying his designated match to wed another when… Well...

Everyone in King’s Landing plays a game, Sansa knows that. Even before Aegon jilted her, she knew that. But she’d always thought his game was to raise up his Martell cousins when he took the throne. She never imagined this.

Lyanna is no different.

As Sansa is helped out of the tub, the doors open, and Visenya, her looks as Targaryen as her name, marches in carrying a velvet-wrapped parcel. “It’s ready,” she tells her mother.

Lyanna rises from Sansa’s dressing table, leaving an array of carefully-arranged pieces laying out on the surface. Sansa takes her aunt’s place, watching her royal aunt and cousin unwrap the parcel through the mirror as the maids dry and comb her hair.

Yards of shimmering, silvery-white damask and myrish lace spill out of the velvet, and Sansa’s heart stops. It’s her wedding gown, completed, with a chain of pearls studding the trim.

Lyanna and Visenya smirk at her.

“You’re going to dazzle the room,” Lyanna says, “You’ll look every inch a queen.”

Sansa gazes longingly at the exquisite brocade, then glances back at the surface of the dressing table. Sapphires Aegon gifted her gleam up at her.

She clenches her teeth, furious, and shoves the gems off the table. She stands and turns, glaring at Lyanna and Visenya.

“I will not…” She snaps. Her aunt groans.

“Sansa, you’re a direwolf. You’re a Stark. You must be fierce and strong. I will not let you hide yourself away like--”

“---No!” Sansa shouts again. The whole chamber falls silent. Never once has she raised her voice to anyone, let alone the queen. “I am a wolf! But I am not some doll for you to dress up and parade out. I will not wear the gown of a wedding that shall not be, I will not wear his sapphires. Send my regular maids in and get out.”

Lyanna stares at her, alarmed. “Niece…”

“---I assure you, Aunt Lyanna, you will see me at court, and I will appear every inch a Stark. Now leave.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

She has the gown, the sapphires, and every other bauble Aegon ever gifted her sent to his new bride. When she enters the throne room, she does not need to glitter. She wears an ivory silk with grey velvet trim, with a posey of blue winter roses pinned to her bodice. They match the crown of blossoms atop her head. Yet more of the flowers are pinned to Lady’s collar. She dons no jewels. What need does she have for them when she is literally leading a wolf the size of a horse? The gown is simple, but it shows off her figure better than anything else in her wardrobe, and she never fails to make heads turn when she wears it.

Sansa meets every pitying eye with a smile, and she climbs the dais to take her usual place with her cousins, Visenya and Lyarra. She is still the queen’s niece and lady-in-waiting. The place is still hers.

The king, however, has other plans. He gazes at her appraisingly, and gestures for her to come over to him. Sansa stands before the Iron Throne and curtseys. King Rhaegar surprises her by taking her hands in his. Their eyes meet. His are kind.

“My Sweet Niece, you are very brave. My most profound apologies.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Sansa replies modestly.

Before he can say another word, however, one of the heralds announces the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, and Sansa hurries to her place.

Aegon and his new bride are escorted by guards. Princess Daena wears the very costume Lyanna intended for Sansa: the gown, the sapphires. Both of them look thoroughly pleased with themselves.

Sansa doesn’t hesitate to meet Aegon’s violet eyes. She does not flinch, though she wishes to. Just seeing him is painful. Seeing the obvious glee with which he presents his new bride is worse. What had Sansa done to make him want to hurt her so?

The two of them kneel before the throne, and for once, King Rhaegar doesn’t immediately gesture for them to rise. Instead, he looks down at his son and new good-daughter with a sad resignation.

“Aegon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Lady Daena Valeryon of Driftmark, you are found guilty of entering into an unlawful union, of a violation of sacred vows made before Gods and Men, and endangering the succession, security, and stability of the Iron Throne. Your elopement has not only violated the orders of your king, but done grievous insult to our allies and dishonored a good lady of high birth and morals. In so doing, you have endangered the very peace that the Seven Kingdoms have worked so hard to achieve and severely undermined our most holy relationship with our good vassals. You’ve dishonored your position, you’ve dishonored our people, you’ve dishonored your suitors, you’ve dishonored your Houses, and you’ve dishonored yourselves. Tell me, what do you have to say for yourself, my son?”

Aegon looks up at his father and smiles. “I only followed precedent, Your Grace.”

King Rhaegar rises, incensed. “A precedent of reigniting a war that nearly destroyed our dynasty? A precedent of dishonor?”

“If that is how you see it, Father. I bow to your judgment.”

The throne room erupts in whispers. This is dangerous. Aegon has only managed to place his father’s hypocrisy front and center. He’s trapped the king.

Rhaegar looks at his eldest son sadly and walks down from the dais. He stands over his kneeling son and raises him up. “You’re right, my son. For too long, I have placed the burden of my mistakes on you. I did everything I accuse you of to your mother and her House, and more. And in my efforts to rectify my mistakes, I forced you into my atonement. You don’t deserve that. I violated custom and honor to do as I wished, and the consequences should be mine to shoulder alone. Though I maintain that my queen is blameless in all of this, Elia’s memory deserves better than to have the same injustice done her be rewarded and to have her son forced to bear the responsibility for it. You deserve the same freedom she did, my son. And even though you’ve chosen to emulate the crime I did your mother, you still don’t deserve to endure the consequences of them. I’m sorry, Aegon. All I ask, however, is that you show remorse to the one you did harm.”

Aegon smiles, nods, and turns toward the dais, looking right at Sansa. “My dear Lady of House Stark, I cannot begin to rectify the harm I’ve done you. If there was any way I might spare your heart, I would. You are a lady of the finest qualities, as gracious as you are beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have you. Please know, it was not any failing of yours that prompted my actions, but my own weakness and the fact that I lost my heart to another. I am unworthy of you, My Lady. I know it. I dare not assume your forgiveness, but I humbly beg for it nonetheless.”

He smirks throughout this little speech. Every smug word is yet another blow, another confirmation that he never loved her, that he’d fooled her.

But what does it truly matter? The king has forgiven him. And she’ll never truly escape this humiliation. She will spend the rest of her life the jilted, unwanted woman, expected to serve Prince Aegon and Princess Daena, and later King Aegon and Queen Daena. This will follow her forever.

She’ll still make an excellent match, of course. Her family will have to be appeased, and part of that will be ensuring she have a bright future. But she’ll still always be the subject of the man who purposely broke her heart. But she’s not going to wilt away. She’s not going to give Aegon the reaction he’s clearly looking for.

Sansa forces a smile to her face, eliciting gasps from the court. “Prince Aegon, I wish you and your new princess every happiness.”

She alights from the dais, moving towards the newlywed, leading Lady to walk beside her. Aegon’s smile falls from his lips, and both he and his new bride look frightened. The throne room rumbles with shock and speculation.

Daena does indeed have purple eyes and silver-gold hair, but her looks end there. She’s got a plain, spotted face. Sansa can’t tell if that makes this better or worse.

Sansa moves before them, stops, and curtseys. She even kisses Princess Daena’s new sapphire ring, and smiles up at her replacement.

“You’ll have to get your royal husband to replace the stones with amethysts to better match your eyes, My Princess,” Sansa says sweetly, “And hopefully you’ll be able to alter the gown to better suit your own origins.”

Both Aegon and Daena go stony-faced. The jewels are sapphires, a precious stone, to match Sansa’s eyes. And the gown Daena wears is basically a giant Stark tapestry. They’d presented themselves to the court draped in a giant tribute to the House Aegon meant to insult, and brought attention to the fact that his new princess would have to downgrade to semi-precious stones in order to free herself of Sansa’s cast-offs and achieve the same personal touch the gift originally had.

King Rhaegar shocks Sansa by taking her hand. “It seems Lyanna’s niece takes after the best parts of Elia more than her own son. Now, Aegon, as I promised, you’ve made amends. And thus, I free you to live the life you want.”

The wildly speculating hall comes to a sudden silence. Sansa’s heart freezes.

“F-Father?”

“Aegon of House Targaryen,” Rhaegar announces, “I hereby release you from the seat of Dragonstone, the inheritance of the Iron Throne, and all other burdens of leadership and rule of our family name. You are freed from the line of succession and all pertaining duties and responsibilities, as are your future heirs, and you shall henceforth be known as Lord Aegon, Prince of the Blood, with an honored place at court and a fair income to accompany your new rank. You are free to do as you wish with your life.”

The color drains from Aegon’s handsome face. “You… You can’t do this… House Martell…”

“House Martell are still our kin,” Rhaegar replies, “Bonds which are compounded by the union between our brother Viserys and their Princess Arianne. Meanwhile, the Houses Stark, Tully, and Arryn require appeasement. Your brother fills the Stark role, but the ties to the Tullys and Arryns are not guaranteed. At least, not until the proper blood ties are secured.”

“You… You can’t….”

“Yes, Aegon, I can. Don’t worry, you will always have a place at court, if you wish. You and your new bride are of course expected to remain here until Jon arrives and you’ve sworn the proper vows to him. And I will expect you to attend the wedding, as well, and show Lady Sansa the same honor she’s shown you. But after that… Whatever you wish… The world is your oyster. You’re a free man.”

Sansa absorbs the full impact of these words, and everything they mean. She tries not to shake.

Aegon and his new wife begin to howl and curse, but Sansa takes no satisfaction in their fury. Rhaegar orders court done with, and has his son and new good-daughter escorted out. The lords and ladies file out, and Rhaegar turns to Sansa with a sad smile. Aunt Lyanna, grinning from ear to ear, joins them at once.

“You’re to be our daughter after all, Lady Sansa,” King Rhaegar says with a strained, affected warmth. He grips her hand tightly.

Sansa swallows. “Please, Your Graces, I am flattered, but there’s no need for you to do such things on my account.”

“Come now, my lady,” Rhaegar tells her, “I thought you always wanted to be queen.”

The combination of Aegon’s betrayal and observing her aunt for nearly half a decade have made her reconsider. “It isn’t about that, I---”

She just wants to be free of this place, the halls in which Aegon kissed her lips, made her a thousand promises, and broke her heart. The walls built on deceit. She wants to go home, to people who truly loved her.

“---You’ll make a wonderful queen. Probably a far better one than myself,” Lyanna says, letting out a bark of laughter, “You’re made to be one. The perfect lady since age three, as your parents always said.”

“And after all these years, I can hardly let you go, can I? Who will I play duets with?” Rhaegar asks.

“My son isn’t like Aegon, Sansa,” Lyanna tells her, “He’s honest, honorable, and dutiful. He’s like your father. He even looks a bit like Ned.”

Sansa doesn’t want someone like her father, she wants her father.

“Jonny’s a sweetheart!”

Sansa nearly jumps at the sound of Lyarra’s voice. She looks behind her. Both princesses stand there, smiling eagerly. When did they get there?

She feels sick, oh so sick. She hasn’t seen Jon face to face since she was three.

But that’s never mattered, has it? She’s allowed her feelings for Aegon to keep her oblivious all this time. Sansa was never here as family. She’s a hostage. She’s always been a hostage. She was sent here to marry Rhaegar’s heir and secure the loyalties of all of her kin. And she’s going to do that, whether she wants to or not. The political capital she comes with is more important than anything to them. It’s what keeps them in power. And Rhaegar is willing to disown his own son for it.

“I… I suppose I could meet my cousin.”

Her aunt and uncle lean back, pleased.

“We’ve already summoned Jon back to court. He’s due to arrive in three short weeks,” Lyanna says, “In the meantime, though, why don’t we order you a new trousseau?”

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

Jon:

“She’s very beautiful,” Sam remarks.

Jon looks at his foster brother, incredulous. He and the ill-favored Tarly son recline in the sumptuous chambers Lord Varner gave the prince. When they arrived at the Roseroad Keep that afternoon, the lord presented Jon with a package from the Red Keep along with the accommodations. It turned out to be a miniature of his new bride-to-be, his cousin, Sansa Stark.

Jon can’t help but wonder, looking down at painted ivory, if this bauble belonged to Aegon a few weeks ago. How many more of his hand-me-downs should he expect? Jon’s already been granted his title, his inheritance, his bride…

The portrait does indeed depict a stunning young woman, with flowing auburn hair, big, blue eyes, creamy skin, high cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips. But Jon has rarely come across a portrait of a highborn maiden that doesn’t possess these same attributes, even if the supposed subject had spots and a lazy eye. That Lady Sansa is pretty, Jon doesn’t doubt, his mother has been saying as much in her letters for years. But he doubts his cousin in the porcelain-doll-goddess this miniature promises.

Not that he cares too much about that. Mother also said Lady Sansa is frivolous, a “perfect lady”, who didn’t care to take advantage of the freedoms offered to her and learn to fight. Mother complained often that Lady Sansa was content to adhere to the rigid, dull lifestyle of a highborn maid, more interested in fashion than adventure. That she fell madly in love with Aegon, and ignored all of his mother’s warnings about him. That she loved silk dresses, handsome knights, songs of romance, and shiny baubles, and that she loathed the sight of blood.

Of course, the moment Aegon threw his birthright aside like a bag of dung, the queen’s descriptions of Lady Sansa became more favorable. Her beauty and virtue were stressed, and Mother assured Jon that the lady “learned her lesson” after being jilted. That she enjoys hawking and has a lovely voice, that she’s “an ideal queen.”

Jon, the unwanted prince, has never desired an “ideal queen” and he’s not sure he wants one now. He’s always preferred girls like his mother and sisters: athletic, unconventional, ready to ride and joust and spar with him.

His cousin is a sweet, if spoiled girl, and he knows she’s blameless in all of this, but not only is she by all accounts a ninny, but even in their scant correspondence over the years he’s detected a certain reticence from her.

Of course, that hardly makes her any different from almost everyone else. Until a few weeks ago, Jon was the family embarrassment, the prince that the king would rather everyone forget. The product of the king’s insults to House Martell, the ashes of Robert’s Rebellion. Too male to be as unthreatening as his sisters, too questionable to be a valuable bargaining chip. Even his legitimacy was questioned. Father had shipped him off to Horn Hill when he was eight, and mostly ignored him since.

Jon is hardly pleased to suddenly find himself the favored son and heir. Sam has always been more a brother to him than Aegon ever was, and Jon made peace with his status a while back. He’d learned not to pin his self-worth on a father and kingdom that didn’t want him and embrace the freedom that being the second son afforded him. Besides, court was a cesspool of deceit and corruption. Why should Jon want any part of that when he could gain his knighthood and use his name and income to forge his own path?

Until, of course, Aegon went and ruined everything.

Now Aegon has the freedom (not that the spoiled tit probably appreciated it), and Jon is saddled with all the responsibility, dragged back to the court of the father that never wanted him, to marry a stranger who will spend the rest of her life comparing him to his fancy, handsome half-brother.

Sure, his mother might be thrilled with this development, but for Jon, it means a life of being the second choice.

Jon holds the miniature down to the eye-level of Ghost, his direwolf. “What do you think, Old Friend?” He asks, “Do we like her?”

The direwolf wags his massive tail in reply.

“Is that for her, or your littermate?” The image depicted Lady Sansa sitting beside her own direwolf, from the same litter Ghost came from. At least that will be interesting. Though the fact that Sansa named her wolf “Lady” is worthy of an eyeroll.

Ghost cocks his head, which could mean anything.

“You should send her something,” Sam suggests.

“There’s no time to have my portrait done,” Jon responds, taking a sip from his tankard of ale.

“Obviously. But you said she like pretty things, right? Send her a piece of jewelry. A necklace or bracelet or something. Maybe something with sapphires, to match her eyes.”

“How am I supposed to get sapphires?” Jon asks.

“You were saving up your pocket money for a new set of blades, remember? But your parents already sent you all the new things you could want. So why don’t you use the money?”

Jon frowns. A good point. Jon had worked hard to earn and save up that gold, only for all of his new princely trappings to arrive just as he was about to reach his goal, rendering the two-year-effort more or less pointless. Something must be done with the gold, he supposes.

“Sapphires?” Jon asks. Sam nods.

“Like her eyes. In all the best romantic stories and poems, a lady’s eyes are mentioned. You can have it sent ahead. It may break the ice. And she did send you something…”

“Fine. We’ll head down to the market tomorrow before we leave.”

Sam helps him select two sapphire cuffs the next morning. “You should write a note.”

Jon isn’t much of a writer. And he’s not sure what to say. But he does it.

These sapphires are the exact color of your eyes.

Jon can barely remember the layout of the Red Keep, it’s been so long. Ten years, more than half his life. His mother’s letters tell him what to expect. Aegon will be there, probably plotting to poison him, because Father insists that the old crown prince pay homage to the new one. To make sure the whole thing is as awkward as possible, Aegon’s new wife will be there as well.

The Dornish courtiers are none too pleased, but Mother says that they blame Aegon as much as they do the Starks, and that many lords and ladies from the Northern Alliance Kingdoms--- the North, Vale, and Riverlands-- will be there to support them. He’ll be allowed to keep Ghost close by most of the time, since Sansa was permitted to keep Lady. As long as he made sure the wolf behaved, he’d be fine.

He’ll be watched and judged constantly, even by the Stark faction, who will want to make sure their lady is happy following her humiliation. Thousands of eyes will look to find fault with him and declare him an unfit prince.

No pressure, really. With every step closer to King’s Landing, Jon feels the apprehension grow heavier. He doesn’t want this. They don’t want him. So why, why is this happening?

I’ll be keeping Mother safe, he reminds himself. Lyanna Stark was never going to flourish under Aegon VI. But with her son as king, her future is assured. So there’s that.

When they’re at the City Border, his retinue is stopped, and servants swarm around him, pushing him into a tent and the bathtub within said tent, coming at him with scissors and razors and perfumes and silks. Before Jon is fully aware of what has occurred, he’s sitting atop his horse again in black and scarlet brocade, his beard trimmed and perfumed, his normally-unruly curls cut and slicked back, a ruby-studded chain dangling across his chest, and shod in boots shiny enough to render his reflection from the stirrups. Even Ghost has acquired a new collar and a very confused expression.

He looks down at Madrick, his Master of the Guard. “I suppose I’m finally fit to be seen?”

“Indeed,” Madrick confirms before calling for the gates to be opened. He hands Jon a sack of coins.

“What are these for?”

“The beggars.”

Jon isn’t prepared for the roar that erupts from the crowded streets when he rides in. He’s not prepared to hear his name being called, or for anyone to appear happy to see him. He’s not prepared for the children on their father’s shoulders, reaching their chubby arms out to him. He’s not prepared for the thin, hungry-looking men, women, and urchins to run into his path. Sam has to elbow him in the stomach for him to remember to throw the coins. He’s not prepared to see grey and white direwolf banners amidst the Targaryen flags, or for children to point to Ghost in delight rather than terror. He’s not prepared for the pretty maidens who blush when he looks their way.

The tidal wave of adulation follows him the closer he gets to the Red Keep. By the time those gates open, he’s almost forgotten a lifetime of being the unwanted prince.

The court is assembled on a marble dais, his family at the very front. His sisters and Aunt Daenerys wave at the sight of him, delighted. But it’s his mother’s eyes he finds first: the Stark-grey irises. She grins at him, and he can see the pride there. It warms his heart even more than the crowds.

But then, of course, there’s the King.

My father, Jon reminds himself. He has to do that sometimes. Rhaegar Targaryen has always seemed more his mother’s husband and his king than his father. Even when Jon lived with his family, the king had little time for him. The only remotely father-like warmth Jon ever received was from Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Jon looks for the old knight among the crowd, and both men smile upon catching one another’s eyes.

Then, of course, there’s Aegon. Jon feels his older brother’s eyes on him well before he meets that purple gaze. Jon’s hands ball into fists when he beholds his brother. You did this, Jon wants to shout at him, You did this, so don’t you dare hate me for it.

Jon glances at the silver-haired young woman at Aegon’s side. She wears a matching look of loathing, but it’s easily the most remarkable thing about her face. He scans the lines for a sign of his new betrothed, but finds nothing.

Jon dismounts and approaches his family carefully. He has to get this just right.

He walks up the steps, and drops into a kneel seven steps down from his father’s feet.

“My King,” he recites, “It is my honor to come before you.”

All of a sudden, there is a gloved hand under his chin, pushing his gaze upward into a pair of affectionate violet eyes.

“My son!” Rhaegar cries in a tone that makes Jon wonder who he’s speaking to. “My Jon!”

Now he’s being embraced, pulled to his father’s broad, silk-clad chest. Thoroughly confused, the young prince looks into the king’s eyes, half expecting the man to shed tears.

Rhaegar releases him and scans his from head to toe. “You’ve become a fine man, my son,” the king declares, “I couldn’t be prouder.”

“Neither can I. Now, may I please also embrace our son?” Lyanna Stark snipes, though with a smiles on her face and tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. Her hug is warmer and tighter than Rhaegar’s, and Jon returns it gratefully.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers to her.

“I’ve missed you,” she replies.

Jon embraces his sisters and aunt affectionately, truly thrilled to see them. His Aunt Daenerys is more beautiful than ever, Visenya looks like she could take on an army, and Lyarra is his mother in miniature.

When Aegon comes to shake his hand, the two brothers end up battling for control, trying desperately to make the other give in. It’s not until Lady Daena clears her throat that Aegon lets go and introduces his new wife. Jon kisses her cheek and greets her as ‘Sister.’

She has no chance to reply when the king steps forward and clears his throat. There’s suddenly a cloaked, hooded figure on his arm.

“And now, my son, the person that perhaps, you’ve been most eager to meet,” Rhaegar declares pompously as he reaches for the hood, “Allow me to present the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

The hood falls and Jon finds himself speechless.

She’s not as pretty as the miniature. She’s prettier. She’s utterly stunning. Up until now, the most beautiful woman Jon has ever seen is Margaery Tyrell, the doe-eyed daughter of the Lord of Highgarden. But even Lady Margaery pales in comparison to the woman before him.

The deep blue of her eyes are like an ocean, and Jon almost feels like he’s drowning in them. Her creamy skin makes his fingers shake with the urge to stroke it. Her hair is a river of silken fire. Strawberry-colored lips frame a dazzling smile.

She drifts into a curtsey dainty and graceful enough to set his teeth on edge. He expects a high-pitched, girlish voice. But when she greets him, it’s with a low, husky, velvet-like tone.

Jon swallows heavily. He can’t tell which is worse: the lump in his throat, or the one stirring in his pants.

She’s for him?

He looks her up and down, amazed, absolutely undone---

---Until his eyes find her wrists.

Her bare wrists. Elegant, slender, and uncovered by the cuffs he spent two years of pocket money on.

Indignation takes over. This is the first time they’ve met. He’d sent her the product of two years of squiring for Randyll fucking Tarly, and she couldn’t even be bothered to wear them?

He observes her perfect smile again. It’s too perfect. It’s fixed. And he realizes that those blue eyes of hers don’t sparkle with a matching joy. She’s not happy to meet him, she’s playing a part.

If anything, now that he observes her more carefully, she looks like she’s been frozen in place, and is in pain, almost.

Jon tries to calm himself. Perhaps the package simply didn’t arrive. He’s jumping to conclusions. He takes a deep breath and presses her knuckles to his lips.

“Sweet Cousin, it is my honor to meet you. I’d been told to expect a beauty, but nothing could have prepared me for this.”

“You are much too kind, My Prince,” she says quietly, “You’re even more handsome than I’d been told.”

There’s something to her tone, and undercurrent, that sets Jon on edge. If he didn’t know any better, he’d guess she was mocking him somehow.

“But not as handsome as some, I suppose,” he replies, watching her carefully.

“As handsome as I could have hoped.”

That was definitely a charged remark. And Jon sees it, clear as day. I didn’t want you.

I didn’t want you, either, he thinks, And neither did he. Everyone files into the palace, and Jon takes the opportunity to quietly inquire to his betrothed if she received his gift.

“I did,” she replies, “Thank you. It was very kind.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he stresses as they follow his parents through the entry hall, “When I saw your wrists, I feared their delivery had been delayed. It would be a great shame, as I had very much hoped to see the sapphires, considering the expense.”

Her nose actually wrinkles. “Perhaps you’d rather see me wearing a necklace made of coins, if expense is so important to you.”

“Not everyone can drop a pound of gold to buy a lady jewels,” Jon says, “I know things are different at court, but generally, people have to work for their money.”

“Hardly something you’ll have to worry about, I think,” Sansa responds, “You’re clearly happy to try and buy your way into anything that isn’t handed to you.”

Randyll Tarly is a hard-nosed, thin-lipped, cruel, miserly son of a bitch. Ever since Jon set foot at Horn Hill, Lord Tarly made it clear how much of a burden it was to take in “the half-bastard”. Nothing Jon did was ever good enough for the man, especially after Jon dared to befriend and defend Lord Tarly loathed older son, Sam. Jon’s adolescence had been characterized by his guardian’s determination to teach him “humility” and to be a “real soldier.” The man hadn’t even granted Jon his knighthood, despite the years of service and skill Jon had displayed. No, that came from Garlan Tyrell. And even after that, the man had Jon, an anointed knight, mucking the stables and polishing his boots like a lowly squire, all to be paid an absolute pittance.

It took two years for Jon to save up his “wages” (which, given they came from the royal treasury anyways, were more rightfully his now that he’d reached manhood than they were Lord Randyll’s) to acquire gold that most squires were paid in a year. He’d spent that two years all to buy her those bracelets, as it turned out, rather than the blade set he’d wanted. Two years of serving a man who only seemed to find joy in flogging his servants for sneezing in his presence.

He’d practically had to pry every copper penny out of Tarly’s fists.

“Handed to him”, indeed.

“I’m sorry for thinking of you,” he retorts, furious, “I had hoped you’d like them. Perhaps you prefer diamonds. But I thought sapphires might---”

“---Match my eyes?” She interrupts, “Next time, save your gold. I have an entire lockbox of sapphires, courtesy of my last intended. Sure, none of them resemble literal shackles, but it’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Jon gapes at her, utterly floored by this pronouncement of spoiled entitlement. “May I remind you,” he hisses, “That I am to be your husband and your king.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of that, I assure you. I know my place.”

“Do you?” He asks, baffled. Mother always said that despite everything, Sansa was sweet. This girl is a monster.

“Oh, yes. My place is wherever I’m put. I’m a good little pawn. I’m just not half as stupid as you all hoped.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t even worry about it,” she replies, pausing to greet a courtier and smile her courtly smile, “I’ll spread my legs, give you sons, manage your court, and charm your vassals. I won’t trouble you or get in the way of your dalliances as long as you show some discretion. I’ll be the perfect queen. I believe in doing my duty. It’s what’s best for Westeros. I’d just prefer it if you don’t assume that I don’t know what this is. I’m to be your queen, not your fool.”

Seven Hells. “No wonder---”

But he stops himself before he says the rest. Not that it matters, he can tell by the look in her eyes that she knows exactly what he almost said.

She says nothing, merely greets and charms the lords and ladies around them until at long last, they’re free to settle in. Before she departs, however, she hisses through clenched teeth. “I’ll never forget.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

His first morning in the Red Keep, he is woken by a delivery. Two guards carry a steel-bound lockbox into his solar and open it before him. Jon is nearly blinded by the cerulean glare of its contents.

There’s a note is curly, angelic script.

This should prove more than enough to compensate for the expense of my new shackles. To ensure that you receive a fair price, I’ve enclosed certificates of appraisal for each piece and a list of merchants who will not cheat you. This should be enough to swell your coffers admirably.

Well- “Earned”,

Lady Sansa Stark.

It’s an absurd amount of sapphires. Apparently, Aegon isn’t too imaginative.

Jon instructs his men to pawn them at once, finding it uncomfortable to look upon the small fortune his betrothed sent a moment longer. He ends up using portions of the revenue to send her gifts. She returns them.

He soon learns that his bride hosts sewing circles and small banquets in the Maidenvault. She avoids him, and show little concern as to whether or not he notices. He does.

So does his mother, who is none too pleased.

“If you don’t make her happy, you’re going to spend the entirety of your reign with half the Lords Paramount breathing down your neck,” his mother informs him, “And I can only buy you so much confidence from the Northern faction. The Tullys and Arryns aren’t going to be happy if their lady is miserable. The last time a royal bride was miserable, there was a rebellion. House Targaryen was nearly toppled. And trust me, the Martells are desperate for means to undermine you. You want to sit the Iron Throne with the Seven Kingdoms united behind you, or you’ll end up like your father, basing every decision on pleasing his unruly vassals.”

“How can I make her happy when nothing pleases her?” Jon asks. “I’ve sent her flowers, jewelry, fabric, all the things you said she likes.”

“Jon,” his mother cups his cheek, “Aegon showered her with gifts, too. You’re a good man, give her that instead of things.”

He invites her to take lunch with him. She reschedules four times until finally giving in. He makes sure all her favorites await her on his balcony, and tries to look handsome for her.

She arrives wearing green silk and that fixed smile of hers. Jon sends the servants away and serves her himself.

The direwolves, at least, get along, tails wagging madly as they rush to greet each other.

Jon swallows. “I hear you’ve practically founded your own little court within the Maidenvault.”

“I felt it kind to offer a place for the ladies of the court who prefer silk and songs to sweat and saddle-sores,” she replies, playing with her food, “I hesitated to organize things before, as I didn’t want to presume or step on Her Grace’s toes, so to speak.”

“But now…?”

She actually snorts. “Now? What does it matter, now? I’m not going anywhere, and your mother is going to have everything she wants, so I may as well.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. The tone with which she speaks of his mother irritates him, but something holds him back to full-blown fury. There’s a resignation to the way she speaks that is so, so sad.

“I know Her Grace and you have your differences.”

“She thinks I’m a useless, frivolous fool, and always has. She wishes I were my sister, Arya. A proper Northern lass. I’ve been a disappointment to her ever since I arrived,” Sansa interrupts, “I’m sure she’s recounted what a weak, love-struck ninny I am several times. I ignored the warnings of my own blood to fall for a duplicitous prat because he was supposed to be the prince from my dreams. I’ve learned my lesson, better than she expected. But it doesn’t matter now. Her son will be king, her position is secure, and she doesn’t have to worry. I’m still here to secure your family’s position, and I’ll cover all the duties she’s always hated as well. Despite her frustrations with me, Jon, she’s better off with me than with Arya, I assure you.”

Jon stares, eyes wide. He had no idea. “She’s… She’s a good woman.”

“In her own way, yes. She was just a girl when your father stole her heart and won a war for her. She loves him and you madly. But she’s not a girl anymore. And as much as she loves your father, she hates being queen. She’s stuck. And for the last eighteen years she’s carried the guilt of the war, of Elia and Brandon and our grandfather. And she’ll do anything to make sure she’s not the undoing of the man she loves. All the while, being terrified of the man she helped raise, the living reminder of all her youthful impulses wrought. But now her son will be king, and the Seven Kingdoms will stay intact. I’m here, silly, stupid, and weak, maybe, but with all the right connections to bind the rupture her love story caused. Here I am, the daughter of enough fallen enemies, to be married off and save her from all the consequences, heartbroken or not, I’m here. I always will be.”

Jon feels bile rise from his stomach. It terrifies him. Sansa isn’t stupid. Sansa isn’t stupid at all.

He wants to defend his mother, but he has no argument. “I’m sure she cares for you---”

“---I don’t think she’s heartless. I’m sure she pities me. And it’s not her fault that I let Aegon break my heart. She tried to warn me. But I’m still a worthy sacrifice. And your mother has at least been more honest with me than the rest. Everyone, even my parents, were happy to let me believe the lie. I told you, Jon. I know my place. Your family taught it to me. I came here thinking I was the heroine of a song. But I’m a hostage. I’m a literal peace offering.”

“So am I,” Jon replies bitterly.

There’s an awkward pause.

“It’s not the same,” she states, finally.

“No,” he admits, “It isn’t.”

He feels unclean, as if he’s just committed some sort of crime, and he’s staring into the eyes of his victim. But he’s not sure how to apologize or fix it, because he can’t identify exactly what crime he’s committed. He just knows he’s party to this, whether he wishes to be or not.

“You’re going to treat me well, Jon. Because I’m the key to half of Westeros. I know my place. Every bit of it. You need me to keep my family in check. It’ll only become more important with each passing year. So you’re going to give me a place at the table. You’ll be discreet with any infidelities. You won’t keep my children from me. You won’t hurt me, or force yourself on me, or be cruel. You will show me every inch of honor, respect, and credit I am due. I will have a say in every major decision made. I will do my duty and show you respect, honor, and give you my full support. I will bear your children. I will not bear any other man’s bastards. I will charm your vassals and placate my kin. I will reach out to the Martells. I will mend your clothes and your wounds. I will aid you in matters of state. After I’ve born you an heir and a suitable amount of spares, I will be discreet in any liaisons and keep myself from conceiving another man’s child. I will devote myself to the success of your reign and the preservation of our family. And we will both be honest with one another. Is that fair?”

He doesn’t like the bit about the other men. Not one bit.

“No,” he says, fists clenched, “That isn’t fair at all. It’s not fair to you, or to me. It’s not fair to anyone. Why should I have to go looking to other women to find happiness? Why should you have to sacrifice your body to a man you barely know, then restrict yourself? Why should either of us have to build our life together through leverage and threats? Use our families, who, let’s face it, don’t care a wit about us, or at least not as much as they should, to control each other?”

“Because there isn’t an alternative. These are the roles we were born into. And the people of this country need us to fill those roles.”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “They don’t need that. Jaehaerys the Wise and Good Queen Alysanne loved each other…”

“You can run off and marry for love if you like, Jon. But they’ll just pass the crown to Viserys, and the realm will suffer for it. Your uncle is an utter shit, but at least his marriage secures Dorne.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jon snaps, rising to his feet and beginning to pace. “I’m marrying you, that’s set in stone. But why should we go into this merely tolerating each other?”

“Because your brother left me broken, Jon. I don’t have a proper heart to give anymore.”

He stops short. “No, I don’t accept that. Aegon is a dog turd. He’s not capable of such a thing. He hurt you, but he couldn’t possibly ruin you. You’re a… You’re you, and he’s just something you stepped in.”

She actually giggles at that. “You think that, maybe, but he… I loved him, Jon.”

“You loved what you thought he was. Because everyone wanted you to feel that way. You were a child when you met him, like my mother was. But you’re not a child anymore. You see so much else, Sansa. Surely you see that.” He walks over to her and kneels by her side, looking into her eyes. “See me. I’m not Aegon. I don’t want to use you, or hurt you, or lie to you. I don’t give a shit about the Iron Throne, or your family. I’d happily see that stupid metal chair melted down and run away to the East. I’d run away with you, if you like. They are trying to force us into things we don’t want. But one thing I think I want is you, if you’ll have me. I’ll take you, and leave everything else.”

“Why, though?” She asks. “Why do you want me?”

“Because you’re beautiful, clever, and just as angry as I am. And you care, Sansa. You are ready to resign yourself to bondage because you want to help others. That’s… That’s incredible.”

“I’m not clever, I’m frivolous and weak. Your mother--”

“You’re just as defiant in your frivolity as my mother is in her armor. If she can’t see that, it’s her loss,” he grins, “If you were really as weak as she claims, you’d have dropped everything and done whatever you can to please her. Instead, you started your own court. That’s inspiring. I didn’t want to be king, but if you wish, I’d like to be king to a queen like that.”

His stomach sinks a bit. He feels like an idiot, and he isn’t even sure what he’s saying, though he means every word. But Sansa’s given no indication that she wants him.

He supposes that’s not too surprising. She’s beautiful. He’s the second choice.

Jon pulls away, embarrassed. He’s made a fool of himself. She’ll never respect him. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll pity him.

“You’re sweet,” she says, “A good man.”

Jon cringes. Sweet. That’s something women say about puppies and babies.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “About the bracelets. I just felt so trapped and I was so angry with myself for letting him charm me. And I felt like everyone thought I was stupid enough to fall for it all again… I didn’t want to be bought or tricked. I didn’t want them to be right about me. I was scared.”

“I did it because a friend suggested it,” Jon confesses, “I just looked for whatever had the biggest stones. It didn’t occur to me that they looked like shackles. But I didn’t care. I sent them because I thought you’d be charmed by something shiny. So you weren’t entirely wrong. I got so angry because I’d been saving up before… well… Father sent for me. And I spent the savings on them. But it’s stupid, because as much as I cared, I didn’t care to spend it on something I cared about. It’s… It’s strange, really. I worked so hard, and cared so much about the work I did, then dropped all that work on something I didn’t care to even think about.”

She sighs. “I know what you mean. I spent months working on my wedding dress. But when it was finished, I sent it off to Daena. Can you believe that?”

Sansa utters a bitter laugh. She closes her eyes and leans back in her chair. “I’m not going to run away with you, Jon. There are a lot of people who would suffer if Westeros falls apart, people who are blameless in all this. Our families think we belong to them, but we don’t. We belong to the people that depend on their lords to do their duty. And honestly… I’ve spent my whole life preparing to be queen. It’s all I know. And frankly, I barely know you.”

He turns away, stomach sinking. She’s right, of course. They’re stuck.

“...But I’m willing to stay with you…”

He turns around, heart rising. She smiles at him.

“I know this isn’t the life you expected,” she says gently, “But I’m willing to help you through it. I’m willing to try. Maybe we could fall in love. I’d like to.”

#Jonsa #Jon x Sansa #Salty Teens #rhaegar wins au

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ray935sworld · 3 months ago

Text

VR's academy of supernatural riders (Part 4: Vogelfrei)

TW: description of a motorcross accident and physical symptoms of an injury (no blood or flesh wound description), allusion to feeling like dying

I don't know a lot about the technical aspect so it might be unrealistic

Summary: Luca, Marc and Alex go motorcross riding. Something goes wrong...

Riding with the Marquez brothers was fundamentally different to riding on the ranch.

Riding on the ranch meant interacting with many people. It almost always ended in a party since Vale made sure to provide food and drinks and the boys had playlists on their phones and speaker in their bags. The main academy riders, which were already a group of 6 people, sometimes even more when the former ones and the SBK rider joined them – not to mention the 100km of champions – often came with their partners (unlike Luca). Additional to them each of them had a at least one assigned engineer for the day and someone helped them overview the data. Not to forget the bunch of other people working on or around the ranch. Sometimes even Luca was curious about his brother’s net worth. He knew ‘It’s a good number’ but how the finances and sponsorships of the academy worked, was probably a science for itself. All he knew was that he didn’t want to know more. For legal reasons.

Right now it was only the three of them, two Spaniards and an Italian, which definitely had a certain advantage. Less people to look out for, meant more focus. And the bickering and colourful insults in the breaks were limited to sarcastic comments. On the ranch he still learned new words, especially from Bez. That guy was the king in making up letter combinations and new orders of words to achieve the biggest insult possible.

But the missing presence of Vale, even if it’s just as the spirit of the ranch, was something he noted. He didn’t even wear his ranch gloves. He wore his private, plain suite and helmet without sponsors and the sign of his brother. VR46 was nowhere to be seen.

Marc noticed it, but decided not to say anything. Alex didn’t thought about it. He was too busy adoring his boyfriends leather ass. Another difference to the ranch!

Normally Luca would be chasing Bez or Pecco, followed closely by Franky, Cele or Migno while Vale overtook them all with a laugh over the headset. They once had a mass-coalition in the early days of the ranch. Fenati had gotten to optimistic and accidently kicked Franky out while overtaking. Bulega had to crash himself out to not to end up in them, while Luca had gone wide. Pecco was able to stop the bike. The boys had looked at each other, making sure none of them were hurt before bursting out laughing.

Now Luca was a little bit behind Marc. He watched his shirt flutter in the air as they passed the part of the track with small hills they had to jump. Vale hated those things, so he never included them in the Tavullia track. He called them unnecessary risks since they weren’t rally rider and the bump in Austin alone didn’t justify it.

The younger brother loved them anyway. They were great to rider over and jump. He felt the air and he sometimes just laughed while passing them. It was a technical part, one not meant for racing but to learn how to control the bike. Overtaking would be idiotic. The loss of focus and the increased speed could make a difference between crashing and staying on the bike.

Luca gave the bike another push. He needed more speed to surpass the heaped up dirt. Some more. A little bit more. Just a tiny-Then it was enough. It was like an instinct at that point. If he didn’t had enough speed he would only make a small jump and he had to adjust his weight to land properly. If he had to much speed he risked hitting the beginning of the other hills which would cause him to get stuck.

They needed perfection for this part and that was a strength of Luca. He was a calculating rider, not someone that headless run into something and just hoped it would work. He preferred to understand the track. Sure, it took more time but it was just another way to ensure his mother didn’t had to rush to a hospital, like she already did so many times for Valentino.

He basically grew up on a bike. He had heard a motor and knew what it was supposed to sound like before he learned to play with other kids. It was engraved in his DNA, given in blood and taught with the burning passion of one of the greatest brother who happened to be an... Okay rider himself.

He looked up. The sun hit him and he was happy to have a coloured visor that absorbed the light a little more. A movement took him pit his thoughts. A shadow flew in front of him.

Marc felt free. The feeling of freedom was rushing through his veins and the racing gave him a kick like no drug ever could. He drove above the small hill, hitting the air once more. He had learned from experience how to ride this track. He had ridden here a few weeks ago and a few months ago and few years ago, many years ago as it was one of the first Alex and he used to train.

Accelerate, break, stop. Maybe slow down. Fly. Focus. Lift the front of the bike just a little bit. Bend your knees. Lift your ass. Let the bike touch the ground. Accelerate again. Take a look back. Luca behind. He’s giving you space. Lean to the side to hit the curve.

He kept repeating the motion like a prayer performed by his body. His foot only lightly touching the pedal. He felt the dirt bike speeding up and his grip tighten. He would have seen his knuckles turning white if he weren’t wearing gloves.

He hit the air like a bird. He felt the high and for a moment everything around him disappeared.

No sound, no people, no worries, no problems.

He laughed. He was free.

Then he came crushing down.

Things happen to fast to realize. He felt the wheels drift away and next thing he knew, he was on his way to hit the ground. His body reacted faster than his mind could. He felt his knee lifted closer to his body to prevent a broken shank. As it turns out, a broken leg was his smallest problem. He felt a pressure against his head while he was falling. His head had hit the bike. The pressure was too much too soon. The tapes didn’t stand a chance with that angle.

It was like the worst combination of things. Bad luck once again came to haunt him. The straps of his helmet broke. He felt his cheeks break free. It hit him. He realized what the air against his skin meant. For a moment the world froze.

Time was going slower than usual. His helmet was being torn off his face. His hair broke free. It seemed to just break. There was no way to protect him. He couldn’t just pull a signature Marquez move and get rid of the situation. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t safe himself. He wanted to lift his arms. He wanted to wrap his arms around his head and neck to at least protect himself a little bit. But he couldn’t. Too many things happened to fast.

He felt the gravel hitting his face. Small cuts, hurting him deep. He was glad his body had already closed his eyes. He kept his mouth shut. He didn’t need it down his throat.

Then everything stopped.

He was laying on the ground, facing the air.

The pain hadn’t hit him yet. It was as if his body hadn’t noticed they crashed yet. His veins were full of adrenaline. He was just laying there, his body limp. He knew what would come - pain, like every time he landed in the gravel.

He expected it to come and that felt weird

It was like being a 6 year old again. He would wake up and knew his baby brother would sneak in his bed in a few minutes – or hours depending on when he woke up. But every day like an unbroken tradition once Alex woke up, realizing that most of the night had passed and they still had time, in need for a cuddle and love, Marc would soon have a 3 year old plastered to his side. On his birthday he knew it even more. On this day, his baby brother would had a messy picture in his hand. He knew that it was a drawing of a little boy on a big bike with a trophy on the side. “Cause you me winger” he had said in a tired voice.

Marc knew that it was coming. The pain would hit him once the adrenaline had worn off. He tried to move again. Maybe he could run away from it? But all he felt was his mind becoming more cloudy and his focus left him.

When he was younger and he was watching the street in front of their house when he knew his relatives were visiting. He knew it was happening. It just didn’t happen yet. In the same way he was now lying on the ground.

He was laying there, watching the sun. He saw dark clouds in his vision. He hadn’t noticed them before.

When did they appear? There weren’t any when they arrived.

Why did the sky darken? Did something so terrible happened that the sun thought it’d be more appropriate to hide? Something that should be kept hidden?

When he was a kid he would always lay down in the grass of their garden. He just throw himself to the ground to breath. He smelled the fresh grass. The smell stronger after one of the rare rains. He loved to do it after a training when he was still sticky with sweat and his weak muscles were acing, not yet used to pain and exercise. Back then the feeling had fascinated him. He didn’t knew what it was and didn’t understand it. His brother used to giggle about his actions and did the same. Just stomach first, flat on the ground. Sometimes including a proper face plant in the mud.

“Mak! Mak, look!” he said excited. He didn’t had a care in the world. He didn’t understand anything. He was just happy to spent time with his brother.

Marc had smiled at the little child whose face was now dirty. Their mother was used to it at that point, she was just glad her children were alright so they didn’t had to worry about making her angry with their action.

All that mattered to him was that Alex was safe. Back then and now.

All that mattered to him was that Alex was happy.

Alex.

Alex who was dating Luca.

Alex who was with Luca and him at the dirt track.

Alex who was here.

Alex.

The thought of his brother took him back to reality. He was no longer lost in memories of passed days trying to relieve them. He was back to reality and the reality hurt. It hurt like a bitch. The pain of his injury hit him. It was in an amount he never felt before. It was so clear, so full and all over his body that he felt like he was drowning in it. He felt the need to scream. He wanted to scream, get up, wipe it off his body. He wanted to run from it. Hide. Or run until he forgot about it. Until the pain in his lungs and legs, the pain on his side was so strong he didn’t feel the pain of the injury.

At least he had control over that pain. At least he created it. He chose it. He understood it. Unlike this. He was looking for some kind of relief to get rid of it. He wanted to stretch his muscles, ease the burning. But he couldn’t move.

He couldn’t add pressure to his forehead to ease the pressure on the inside like he usually did. Neither could he grip an imaginary handle tightly to help his body steady. He felt dizzy. He felt so dizzy. It was like he was about to break down.

But he already broke down. He was already laying on the floor, unmoving, unable to react or help himself.

How could he break down even more?

Didn't matter. He needed to do something. He had to simply because - cause - Alex. Cause Alex was here. He had to calm down and save himself, the same way he always did.

He breathed in. It was almost impossible, like he had a cold and kept his mouth completely closed. He felt like he was suffocating. He hated those feeling. The combination of symptoms made the moments even worst to the point of unbearable pain. His head hurt like nothing he ever experienced. His past shoulder injury was a love bite compared to that. He just wanted the pain to end.

“When nothing helps, you just have to take a good, long nap” his mother once told him. Her voice was ringing in her ear. “And when you wake up, Corazón, everything will be okay again”.

She was usually right. He trusted his mama. Maybe she was right now. He tried breathing one more time and failed. Instead the pain made him close his eyes. He wanted to sleep. He wanted it so much and when he woke up he’d be okay again. Yes The pain would be gone and everything would be fine. Then he would be so tired. Physically and mentally.

But as always, he didn’t get what he wanted. Like he was cursed to never fully get whatever he desired.

He wanted love and he got it until it broke him. He wanted success in MotoGP and he got it at the price of being forever doomed as the hated villain. Now he wanted to sleep but a hand kept him awake.

It made him open his eyes. He had to check. Someone had taking his wrist in their hand. He hated the feeling of restriction. He couldn’t identify the pressure exactly but he knew he didn’t like it.

Then blue eyes hit him. Beautiful blue eyes that looked like the ocean had coloured them after it’s own image. He knew those eyes. His gaze was blurry enough not to notice the different shades between the Italian brothers and a helmet covered the featured that gave his mistake away.

It took him back. Just for that moment. He was able to be young and naïve and stupid again. No consequences this time. His brain had given up the capacity to understand and realize that Valentino was in Italy training with the academy boys while his brother – whose features were hurtfully similar to his– was here, right in front of Marc.

Maybe it was the injury. Maybe it was the need to believe it once more, maybe for the last time. He believed that Vale was here, holding his hand one last time. If he was here – that meant something, didn’t it? It had to. Vale never did anything without reason. He wouldn’t stop an academy training for no reason. So if he was here, he was still worth something. Right?

Maybe Luca had been right all those years. Maybe not everything was lost. Maybe this time it wasn’t Vale that drove them apart. Maybe it was his time running out that separated them this time. He could accept this fate.

“Marc! Fuck!” A thick Italian accent yelled at him. Italian accent. Blue eyes. Vale. He said that so many time with countless different emotion. His voice sounded strange, but he was also blurry so he didn’t mind. Marc didn’t even notice it actually. He felt dizzy but his happiness was outweighing it by far. He was just happy.

“-ale” His voice had failed him but he grabbed the hand that was still lingering around his wrist. He grabbed it tight, clawing himself in the skin with the little bit of physical strength he had left. He refused to ever let it go. He was holding it like an anchor, as if it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t worry.. Just focus on me. Focus on my voice and my hand. Okay? You feel my hand, right? Focus and stay with me”

He had lost the warmth and the love that these hands could hold once. He would never let it go again. He never wanted to lose it. He’d do anything to keep it. And now he was speaking so peacefully to him. His voice was worried and he just wanted to calm him. It was like years ago, before reality had destroyed him. But now reality wasn’t an issue.

Marc knew deep down in his bones that this injury was worse than anything. He thought about Marco Simoncelli. Nicky Hayden. Jason Dupasquier. Did they felt the same?

How had they reacted, looked in their bodies, unsure if they would open their eyes again or not. Did they even had the time to feel their souls slip?

He swallowed hard as his mind kept spinning. Vale had been right after all.

His riding got him here. Maybe he was dangerous. But this was just a stupid mistake, no risky move.

Still, his words were stuck in his head. It was like back then when Vale scolded him for riding dangerously and scaring him to death. “I’m not as young as you are anymore. You and those god damn kids will give me a heart attack before I’m 40 if you keep riding like that!” he had said, more scared for his safety than actually angry, not like a few months or years later.

Marc had just laughed. He now wished he had listen. “You love us” he had replied with a cheeky grin which earned him a warning look. The young Spaniard, barely a single MotoGP champion, had smiled innocently and took his face in his hands. “You are not that old” he had dismissed the comment, knowing Vale was still worried about their age difference.

He dead-panned with “I was riding in 125cc when you weren’t even in Kindergarden.” What the Italian didn’t expect was the way the eyes of the other man got a little bit wider and his smile dirtier. “That shouldn’t be as hot as it sounds” “You got daddy issues” “Maybe” he agreed “But you love me anyway and because I only ride risky not suicidal, you’ll have to deal with me for a long, long time, old man”

He had smiled at him. That wonderful, beautiful smile that had made him think everything might end up okay. “Good… Little brat.” “And your kids got the best rider to train them. They’ll be okay. I know you take good care of them” “Mmm… Can we stop talking about the bunch of kids I accidentally adopted when I want to focus on taking care of you?” he had asked sheepish and so he did.

Once more, the Italian took him back to the now. “Alex is calling help. You will get help. Everything will be okay.” He said.

Alex. How could he have forgotten the most important person in his life?

The past was behind him. But one thing would never change. He had to protect him. He promised it to himself. No one would harm Alex. Not even menatlly.

He’d be okay. He’d be alright. He couldn’t be so selfish and only care for himself now, thinking about past relationships when he needed to focus on getting back to his baby brother.

“Alex.” He choked on the little of breath he had. He focused, taking another breath as deep as possible. “Vale-“ At least he got his name now. What a kick of fear for his brother could do to a boy. “Pro- Protect- A-Alex”

That was the most important thing. And he was happy to entrust this task to Vale. He already took care of a bunch of kids. He knew what to do. He was an expert in handling adult men with the personality of a child. He would hopefully agree to add Alex to the mix. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. He could be with Luca.

There would no longer be those long breaks in between where the two lovers couldn’t see each other. It was perfect. Alex would be with Luca and Vale at the ranch. Alex got along with Franky very well, since their day’s as teammates in Moto2. Since the relationship with Luca, he had already befriended Bezzecci and Pecco. And from what he knew Cele and Andrea seemed like good guys. Without Marc in the equation he would definitely earn the hearts of the Italian fans.

Didn’t Franky mention that the academy took care of him when his father died? That Vale embraced him even more, connected with the grieve about Simoncelli. Maybe it was the same now. Vale taking care of Alex because of Marc’s-

He didn’t end his thought. The dizziness had stopped and his gaze became unbearable. He was tired. Fighting for words and consciousness while his mind was still racing had tired him out. His eyes had become smaller and smaller. He was still looking at Valentino’s eyes praying that those he loved would be okay. Then he couldn’t make out the silhouette of the Italian anymore

He fell into a deep darkness and drowned in.

#VR's academy of supernatural riders #ray's writing #ma fwiends is it gay to ask your ex/ rival to raise your (adult) brother?#while you mistake his brother for being him?#I dont know how to ride a bike - let alone dirtbike - but anyway #I think I overwatched one of Marc's motorcross videos to describe the bike scene #OBVIOUSLY HE DIDNG CRASH #Currently rereading this... Jesus #What did I take to write this?#I kind like this and hate it so much I wanna burn my phone

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ask-narkku-the-nargacuga · 6 years ago

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Narkku’s New World Adventures Wildspire wastes

After Narkku and Angel woke up the next morning the Anjanath that took them in during the night had brought them some food to eat. “Morning darlings, ya both all rested up?” Narkku yawned and smelled something good. It was well done steak and eggs. Angel was just waking up and right in front of her was a butterfly that just fluttered in. “Aww, its cute. Narkku can we keep it?” Though he couldn’t say yes or no, he would have to see what the commission’s commander would say first. A member of the commission stopped into the cave greeting them. “Hello young ones and M’lady. You kids will be needed to head to the Wildspire wastes where an elder dragon is located. We have reason to believe that the gifts will give you a better chance to help us understand the riders more better. For now though I shall leave you to your breakfast. M’lady I would like to let you know that the commission will need you to stop by and help us identify a mysterious print we found.” Though the language barrier was there, she understood perfectly and she let both Narkku and Angel finish up. After they ate their breakfast they had to go back to Astera to reach the wastes. They went out of the secluded den and took to the sky only to see a rathalos pass by them. Instead of heading to Astera right away, they followed the king of the sky to his nest. Unfortunately it happened to be the same area where Narkku had his nest at. “Oh aptonath dung, that explains the big nest.” The rathalos noticed the two and yet he did not attack. He looked very old and tired. Narkku went down and to talk with him. “Are you okay?” The Rathalos looked at Narkku with his eyes very squinted. “Yes I am youngling. I’ve lived here for several years and kept this part safe from those who invaded my territory, but I’m to old now. You’re not one of the scoundrels that works for the Bazelgeuse are you?” He said with a growl. Narkku shook his head. “No I’m from the old world a small village of Hakum. What’s a Bazelgeuse?” The Rathalos was shocked to see one that was from a different land. “Child, I’ve never been to the old world and yet I believe you. Do this old Rathalos a favor and don’t tell anyone of this place. I want to stay here in peace.” The nargacuga cub rubbed the Rathalos in a way to show that he’ll keep his promise. “Such a good kid. Do come back when you can.” Narkku then took off back towards Astera. Angel followed along and landed at the gate. “That’s nice of you Narkku, did the guild teach you that?” She said innocently. The nargacuga gave a happy laugh. “Nah, I thought being nice was what we’re trained for.” Though he wished he could say the same for Jho who isn’t nice at all.

Meanwhile in Hakum Village, Jho had escaped his stable stall and went to leave the village. Brak stopped him before he could get tot he gate. “Where do you think you’re going Jho? You know you’re not supposed to leave without your rider right?” The deviljho’s response was just as much as any could expect. “You think you’re gonna stop me dork? I won’t let you stop me from getting to that loser Narkku.” The Brachydios jumped in front of Jho blocking his escape. “Don’t make me knock you out again Jho. You know how hard I hit.” His pounders was up and ready to make a quick jab to knocking Jho out. “Fine, but I’ll get you dorks when you least expect it.” The brute wyvern turned around went back to his stall. The Brachydios put his pounders down but eying Jho with a single though. He’s up to something, me and Tigger better watch him carefully so he doesn’t try to escape. The next morning came and both Brak and Tigger was to help with the exploration team to find object. Unfortunately Jho was on that team as well. They was gathering items that was close to the port. Just as they thought that things was looking good in keeping Jho in line, the Deviljho bucked his rider off of him and made a mad dash towards the port. “Tigger, he’s escaping! Don’t let him close to the port!” Brak shouted out to Tigger. The tigrex tried to get in front of Jho to cut him off however Jho rammed into Tigger forcing the Tigrex to fall and slide to the ground and Brak had to stop to help Tigger. “You okay? I can’t believe he...” Upon looking at Jho something had given the Brachydios a fear that he wished to never see from the stories he was told. “It can’t be. Is that the?” The Brachydios thought it was the black blight however it wasn’t. Jho’s rider stopped and was out of breath. “Jho stop, please come back.” He said. Brak feared that Jho was going to the New world to interfere and attack Narkku there. “Narkku’s in trouble and we need to get there before Jho does.” However luck was on their side as two Guild hunters had caught and put Jho under the effects of the tranqs. “Is this your monstie? We had to subdue him before he got onto one of the ships heading to Moga Village. We would hate to see him get lost at sea though so just take him home and let him rest for the time.” After that, Jho’s rider had returned to Hakum with Jho still asleep and this time making his stall strong enough to hold him in for a while. Brak and Tigger returned with the others with a lot of items including some rare commodities.

While back at Astera Narkku and Angel had sat listening the commander’s orders for them. “We need you both to head to the desert area of the wildspire wastes, we believe an elder dragon is there that you can help us understand. yWe’ll send someone from the fifth fleet in case things go bad.” A hunter came from behind patting both Narkku and Angel on the head. “Well, guess I’m playing babysitter for a rider’s monsties eh? Hopefully things do go good.” He said jokingly. The hunter kneeled down to look at Narkku at eye level. Narkku was oddly weirded out by him until he rubbed his head again. “You’re kind of spunky there. I’d probably name my kid after you once I retire.” Joking again. After that the commander dismissed them. “I’ll catch up to you kids in a bit, I need to grab my palico before I head there. Oh if you get there before me, just stay back until I arrive.” The two nodded and flew off toward the wastes. There was a camp site close by and with the two landing there they got to see the land as it was. “Wow Narkku, the place looks pretty even during the day.” Angel said giggling. Narkku missed the days when he and Angel had fun and laughed. They both hopped down and immediately, they met a Kulu-Ya-Ku who seemed to be a bit dimwitted. “I’m a pretty bird. I’m so pretty.” It was saying, but it also ran into things left and right before running off. “Huh, what an unusual bird wyvern.” Narkku said. Angel was once again looking at the landscape until she spotted a vespoid flying around. “Ew ew ew ew. Its gross, go away vespoid.” Of course though vespoids have always made her dislike them. They haven’t stung or done anything to her, but its just how the looked. The Nargacuga swatted at the vespoid until it flew off. “I guess you still don’t like them.” Then some apceros came walking by. Narkku was expecting them to be hostile however they was more calm. “Huh, they’re different from the ones back home.” One of them that was traveling with its herd had nodded before saying something. “Howdy kids.” Guess they was more neighborly. After traveling a bit with Angel they made it to the area where the Elder dragon was sighted and it was still there except it was a different teostra. Its mane was less regal than the one that lives in a mansion. More scruffy looking and just a wild boy kind of thing. “Wow, and I thought my fur got bad on stormy days.” Narkku said. The Hunter arrived just in time as Angel lightly taps Narkku. “That hunter guy is here Narkku.” The hunter with his palico walks in front of Narkku and the palico talks to them first. “Meowster and I will keep you kids safe, but don’t get any meowchies okay?” How caring of the palico. For now they would have to talk with the teostra who’s just swinging his head around like he’s zoned out to something. Narkku and Angel went ahead as the hunter kept his distance holding his sword’s handle at the ready in case things went south. “Um, I was told I could find you here.” The Teostra snapped out of it and looked at Narkku. “Well look at this, a couple of kids. Dudes there’s a couple of kids here. Well shucks little dude and dudette. How can I help you?” Only one thing came to mind in Narkku’s head. It was what the heck is this teostra on? “Don’t you live at a volcano?” Narkku asked first. “Nah little dude, volcanoes are boring and no Lunastra would want a boring king. I came here to find the lost cave of El Dorado. Gotta have some gold little dude.” The hunter came out but kept his distance. “Ahh, who’s the hunter dude over there? Hey hunter dude how bout them narrly waves.” This was no king that was for sure. He looked more like a scruffy Teostra that took into treasure hunting than being in a pride. “Say kids what’s he saying?” Narkku told him everything and the Teostra put his head on top of the hunter’s head trying to look over the journal. “Woah cool dudes he’s got a map I can find El Dorado with that.” The Hunter moved to get out from under the Teostra’s head. Narkku then asked the hunter if he could borrow the journal. He reluctantly handed it over and Narkku laid it down. “Ya see little dude and dudette, the cave supposed to be by the rotten vale and the hot volcano place. They say a nice dudette lives there with her golden servants to open the lost golden treasure.” The Teostra used a little bit of his fur to mark it on the map. “I’ll see you dudes and dudette later.” After that the Teostra took off in the direction of the cave. “Well that was exciting, we better get back before..” The hunter paused as a Bazelgeuse was heading towards them. “Get into the forest. Don’t come out until its safe.” Systrak was there looking for trouble. “Where’s that punk? I know he’s somewhere around here.” Punk? who was he referring to. The hunter kept looking through the small peepholes in the tree. Narkku could hear the sinister and evil voice the Bazelgeuse had. “If that Teostra ever comes around here I’ll make him suffer for getting into MY territory.” After that it took off heading away from them. “Phew, that was close, lets get back to Astera to tell the commander.” After that they headed back to Astera.

#Narkku's adventure

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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Catelyn

My lady, you ought cover your head," Ser Rodrik told her as their horses plodded north. "You will take a chill." "It is only water, Ser Rodrik," Catelyn replied. Her hair hung wet and heavy, a loose strand stuck to her forehead, and she could imagine how ragged and wild she must look, but for once she did not care. The southern rain was soft and warm. Catelyn liked the feel of it on her face, gentle as a mother's kisses. It took her back to her childhood, to long grey days at Riverrun. She remembered the godswood, drooping branches heavy with moisture, and the sound of her brother's laughter as he chased her through piles of damp leaves. She remembered making mud pies with Lysa, the weight of them, the mud slick and brown between her fingers. They had served them to Littlefinger, giggling, and he'd eaten so much mud he was sick for a week. How young they all had been. Catelyn had almost forgotten. In the north, the rain fell cold and hard, and sometimes at night it turned to ice. It was as likely to kill a crop as nurture it, and it sent grown men running for the nearest shelter. That was no rain for little girls to play in. "I am soaked through," Ser Rodrik complained. "Even my bones are wet." The woods pressed close around them, and the steady pattering of rain on leaves was accompanied by the small sucking sounds their horses made as their hooves pulled free of the mud. "We will want a fire tonight, my lady, and a hot meal would serve us both." "There is an inn at the crossroads up ahead," Catelyn told him. She had slept many a night there in her youth, traveling with her father. Lord Hoster Tully had been a restless man in his prime, always riding somewhere. She still remembered the innkeep, a fat woman named Masha Heddle who chewed sourleaf night and day and seemed to have an endless supply of smiles and sweet cakes for the children. The sweet cakes had been soaked with honey, rich and heavy on the tongue, but how Catelyn had dreaded those smiles. The sourleaf had stained Masha's teeth a dark red, and made her smile a bloody horror. "An inn," Ser Rodrik repeated wistfully. "If only . . . but we dare not risk it. If we wish to remain unknown, I think it best we seek out some small holdfast . . . " He broke off as they heard sounds up the road; splashing water, the clink of mail, a horse's whinny. "Riders," he warned, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Even on the kingsroad, it never hurt to be wary. They followed the sounds around a lazy bend of the road and saw them; a column of armed men noisily fording a swollen stream. Catelyn reined up to let them pass. The banner in the hand of the foremost rider hung sodden and limp, but the guardsmen wore indigo cloaks and on their shoulders flew the silver eagle of Seagard. "Mallisters," Ser Rodrik whispered to her, as if she had not known. "My lady, best pull up your hood." Catelyn made no move. Lord Jason Mallister himself rode with them, surrounded by his knights, his son Patrek by his side and their squires close behind. They were riding for King's Landing and the Hand's tourney, she knew. For the past week, the travelers had been thick as flies upon the kingsroad; knights and freeriders, singers with their harps and drums, heavy wagons laden with hops or corn or casks of honey, traders and craftsmen and whores, and all of them moving south. She studied Lord Jason boldly. The last time she had seen him he had been jesting with her uncle at her wedding feast; the Mallisters stood bannermen to the Tullys, and his gifts had been lavish. His brown hair was salted with white now, his face chiseled gaunt by time, yet the years had not touched his pride. He rode like a man who feared nothing. Catelyn envied him that; she had come to fear so much. As the riders passed, Lord Jason nodded a curt greeting, but it was only a high lord's courtesy to strangers chance met on the road. There was no recognition in those fierce eyes, and his son did not even waste a look. "He did not know you," Ser Rodrik said after, wondering. "He saw a pair of mud-spattered travelers by the side of the road, wet and tired. It would never occur to him to suspect that one of them was the daughter of his liege lord. I think we shall be safe enough at the inn, Ser Rodrik." It was near dark when they reached it, at the crossroads north of the great confluence of the Trident. Masha Heddle was fatter and greyer than Catelyn remembered, still chewing her sourleaf, but she gave them only the most cursory of looks, with nary a hint of her ghastly red smile. "Two rooms at the top of the stair, that's all there is," she said, chewing all the while. "They're under the bell tower, you won't be missing meals, though there's some thinks it too noisy. Can't be helped. We're full up, or near as makes no matter. It's those rooms or the road." It was those rooms, low, dusty garrets at the top of a cramped narrow staircase. "Leave your boots down here," Masha told them after she'd taken their coin. "The boy will clean them. I won't have you tracking mud up my stairs. Mind the bell. Those who come late to meals don't eat." There were no smiles, and no mention of sweet cakes. When the supper bell rang, the sound was deafening. Catelyn had changed into dry clothes. She sat by the window, watching rain run down the pane. The glass was milky and full of bubbles, and a wet dusk was falling outside. Catelyn could just make out the muddy crossing where the two great roads met. The crossroads gave her pause. If they turned west from here, it was an easy ride down to Riverrun. Her father had always given her wise counsel when she needed it most, and she yearned to talk to him, to warn him of the gathering storm. If Winterfell needed to brace for war, how much more so Riverrun, so much closer to King's Landing, with the power of Casterly Rock looming to the west like a shadow. If only her father had been stronger, she might have chanced it, but Hoster Tully had been bedridden these past two years, and Catelyn was loath to tax him now. The eastern road was wilder and more dangerous, climbing through rocky foothills and thick forests into the Mountains of the Moon, past high passes and deep chasms to the Vale of Arryn and the stony Fingers beyond. Above the Vale, the Eyrie stood high and impregnable, its towers reaching for the sky. There she would find her sister . . . and, perhaps, some of the answers Ned sought. Surely Lysa knew more than she had dared to put in her letter. She might have the very proof that Ned needed to bring the Lannisters to ruin, and if it came to war, they would need the Arryns and the eastern lords who owed them service. Yet the mountain road was perilous. Shadowcats prowled those passes, rock slides were common, and the mountain clans were lawless brigands, descending from the heights to rob and kill and melting away like snow whenever the knights rode out from the Vale in search of them. Even Jon Arryn, as great a lord as any the Eyrie had ever known, had always traveled in strength when he crossed the mountains. Catelyn's only strength was one elderly knight, armored in loyalty. No, she thought, Riverrun and the Eyrie would have to wait. Her path ran north to Winterfell, where her sons and her duty were waiting for her. As soon as they were safely past the Neck, she could declare herself to one of Ned's bannermen, and send riders racing ahead with orders to mount a watch on the kingsroad. The rain obscured the fields beyond the crossroads, but Catelyn saw the land clear enough in her memory. The marketplace was just across the way, and the village a mile farther on, half a hundred white cottages surrounding a small stone sept. There would be more now; the summer had been long and peaceful. North of here the kingsroad ran along the Green Fork of the Trident, through fertile valleys and green woodlands, past thriving towns and stout holdfasts and the castles of the river lords. Catelyn knew them all: the Blackwoods and the Brackens, ever enemies, whose quarrels her father was obliged to settle; Lady Whent, last of her line, who dwelt with her ghosts in the cavernous vaults of Harrenhal; irascible Lord Frey, who had outlived seven wives and filled his twin castles with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and bastards and grandbastards as well. All of them were bannermen to the Tullys, their swords sworn to the service of Riverrun. Catelyn wondered if that would be enough, if it came to war. Her father was the staunchest man who'd ever lived, and she had no doubt that he would call his banners . . . but would the banners come? The Darrys and Rygers and Mootons had sworn oaths to Riverrun as well, yet they had fought with Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, while Lord Frey had arrived with his levies well after the battle was over, leaving some doubt as to which army he had planned to join (theirs, he had assured the victors solemnly in the aftermath, but ever after her father had called him the Late Lord Frey). It must not come to war, Catelyn thought fervently. They must not let it. Ser Rodrik came for her just as the bell ceased its clangor. "We had best make haste if we hope to eat tonight, my lady." "It might be safer if we were not knight and lady until we pass the Neck," she told him. "Common travelers attract less notice. A father and daughter taken to the road on some family business, say." "As you say, my lady," Ser Rodrik agreed. It was only when she laughed that he realized what he'd done. "The old courtesies die hard, my—my daughter." He tried to tug on his missing whiskers, and sighed with exasperation. Catelyn took his arm. "Come, Father," she said. "You'll find that Masha Heddle sets a good table, I think, but try not to praise her. You truly don't want to see her smile." The common room was long and drafty, with a row of huge wooden kegs at one end and a fireplace at the other. A serving boy ran back and forth with skewers of meat while Masha drew beer from the kegs, chewing her sourleaf all the while. The benches were crowded, townsfolk and farmers mingling freely with all manner of travelers. The crossroads made for odd companions; dyers with black and purple hands shared a bench with rivermen reeking of fish, an ironsmith thick with muscle squeezed in beside a wizened old septon, hard-bitten sellswords and soft plump merchants swapped news like boon companions. The company included more swords than Catelyn would have liked. Three by the fire wore the red stallion badge of the Brackens, and there was a large party in blue steel ringmail and capes of a silvery grey. On their shoulder was another familiar sigil, the twin towers of House Frey. She studied their faces, but they were all too young to have known her. The senior among them would have been no older than Bran when she went north. Ser Rodrik found them an empty place on the bench near the kitchen. Across the table a handsome youth was fingering a woodharp. "Seven blessings to you, goodfolk," he said as they sat. An empty wine cup stood on the table before him. "And to you, singer," Catelyn returned. Ser Rodrik called for bread and meat and beer in a tone that meant now. The singer, a youth of some eighteen years, eyed them boldly and asked where they were going, and from whence they had come, and what news they had, letting the questions fly as quick as arrows and never pausing for an answer. "We left King's Landing a fortnight ago," Catelyn replied, answering the safest of his questions. "That's where I'm bound," the youth said. As she had suspected, he was more interested in telling his own story than in hearing theirs. Singers loved nothing half so well as the sound of their own voices. "The Hand's tourney means rich lords with fat purses. The last time I came away with more silver than I could carry . . . or would have, if I hadn't lost it all betting on the Kingslayer to win the day." "The gods frown on the gambler," Ser Rodrik said sternly. He was of the north, and shared the Stark views on tournaments. "They frowned on me, for certain," the singer said. "Your cruel gods and the Knight of Flowers altogether did me in." "No doubt that was a lesson for you," Ser Rodrik said. "It was. This time my coin will champion Ser Loras." Ser Rodrik tried to tug at whiskers that were not there, but before he could frame a rebuke the serving boy came scurrying up. He laid trenchers of bread before them and filled them with chunks of browned meat off a skewer, dripping with hot juice. Another skewer held tiny onions, fire peppers, and fat mushrooms. Ser Rodrik set to lustily as the lad ran back to fetch them beer. "My name is Marillion," the singer said, plucking a string on his woodharp. "Doubtless you've heard me play somewhere?" His manner made Catelyn smile. Few wandering singers ever ventured as far north as Winterfell, but she knew his like from her girlhood in Riverrun. "I fear not," she told him. He drew a plaintive chord from the woodharp. "That is your loss," he said. "Who was the finest singer you've ever heard?" "Alia of Braavos," Ser Rodrik answered at once. "Oh, I'm much better than that old stick," Marillion said. "If you have the silver for a song, I'll gladly show you." "I might have a copper or two, but I'd sooner toss it down a well than pay for your howling," Ser Rodrik groused. His opinion of singers was well known; music was a lovely thing for girls, but he could not comprehend why any healthy boy would fill his hand with a harp when he might have had a sword. "Your grandfather has a sour nature," Marillion said to Catelyn. "I meant to do you honor. An homage to your beauty. In truth, I was made to sing for kings and high lords." "Oh, I can see that," Catelyn said. "Lord Tully is fond of song, I hear. No doubt you've been to Riverrun." "A hundred times," the singer said airily. "They keep a chamber for me, and the young lord is like a brother." Catelyn smiled, wondering what Edmure would think of that. Another singer had once bedded a girl her brother fancied; he had hated the breed ever since. "And Winterfell?" she asked him. "Have you traveled north?" "Why would I?' Marillion asked. "It's all blizzards and bearskins up there, and the Starks know no music but the howling of wolves." Distantly, she was aware of the door banging open at the far end of the room. "Innkeep," a servant's voice called out behind her, "we have horses that want stabling, and my lord of Lannister requires a room and a hot bath." "Oh, gods," Ser Rodrik said before Catelyn reached out to silence him, her fingers tightening hard around his forearm. Masha Heddle was bowing and smiling her hideous red smile. "I'm sorry, m'lord, truly, we're full up, every room." There were four of them, Catelyn saw. An old man in the black of the Night's Watch, two servants . . . and him, standing there small and bold as life. "My men will steep in your stable, and as for myself, well, I do not require a large room, as you can plainly see." He flashed a mocking grin. "So long as the fire's warm and the straw reasonably free of fleas, I am a happy man." Masha Heddle was beside herself. "M'lord, there's nothing, it's the tourney, there's no help for it, oh . . . " Tyrion Lannister pulled a coin from his purse and flicked it up over his head, caught it, tossed it again. Even across the room, where Catelyn sat, the wink of gold was unmistakable. A freerider in a faded blue cloak lurched to his feet. "You're welcome to my room, m'lord." "Now there's a clever man," Lannister said as he sent the coin spinning across the room. The freerider snatched it from the air. "And a nimble one to boot." The dwarf turned back to Masha Heddle. "You will be able to manage food, I trust?" "Anything you like, m'lord, anything at all," the innkeep promised. And may he choke on it, Catelyn thought, but it was Bran she saw choking, drowning on his own blood. Lannister glanced at the nearest tables. "My men will have whatever you're serving these people. Double portions, we've had a long hard ride. I'll take a roast fowl—chicken, duck, pigeon, it makes no matter. And send up a flagon of your best wine. Yoren, will you sup with me?" "Aye, m'lord, I will," the black brother replied. The dwarf had not so much as glanced toward the far end of the room, and Catelyn was thinking how grateful she was for the crowded benches between them when suddenly Marillion bounded to his feet. "My lord of Lannister!" he called out. "I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat. Let me sing you the lay of your father's great victory at King's Landing!" "Nothing would be more likely to ruin my supper," the dwarf said dryly. His mismatched eyes considered the singer briefly, started to move away . . . and found Catelyn. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. She turned her face away, but too late. The dwarf was smiling. "Lady Stark, what an unexpected pleasure," he said. "I was sorry to miss you at Winterfell." Marillion gaped at her, confusion giving way to chagrin as Catelyn rose slowly to her feet. She heard Ser Rodrik curse. If only the man had lingered at the Wall, she thought, if only . . . "Lady . . . Stark?" Masha Heddle said thickly. "I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I bedded here," she told the innkeep. She could hear the muttering, feel the eyes upon her. Catelyn glanced around the room, at the faces of the knights and sworn swords, and took a deep breath to slow the frantic beating of her heart. Did she dare take the risk? There was no time to think it through, only the moment and the sound of her own voice ringing in her ears. "You in the corner," she said to an older man she had not noticed until now. "Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your surcoat, ser?" The man got to his feet. "It is, my lady." "And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun?" "She is," the man replied stoutly. Ser Rodrik rose quietly and loosened his sword in its scabbard. The dwarf was blinking at them, blank-faced, with puzzlement in his mismatched eyes. "The red stallion was ever a welcome sight in Riverrun," she said to the trio by the fire. "My father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen." The three men-at-arms exchanged uncertain looks. "Our lord is honored by his trust," one of them said hesitantly. "I envy your father all these fine friends," Lannister quipped, "but I do not quite see the purpose of this, Lady Stark." She ignored him, turning to the large party in blue and grey. They were the heart of the matter; there were more than twenty of them. "I know your sigil as well: the twin towers of Frey. How fares your good lord, sers?" Their captain rose. "Lord Walder is well, my lady. He plans to take a new wife on his ninetieth name day, and has asked your lord father to honor the wedding with his presence." Tyrion Lannister sniggered. That was when Catelyn knew he was hers. "This man came a guest into my house, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of seven," she proclaimed to the room at large, pointing. Ser Rodrik moved to her side, his sword in hand. "In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me return him to Winterfell to await the king's justice." She did not know what was more satisfying: the sound of a dozen swords drawn as one or the look on Tyrion Lannister's face.

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