#jaime: (trudging down the hall)

[headfullof-ideas]

I couldn’t help myself after sitting on this idea for weeks

I like to think that once she gets comfortable with being exposed to the rest of the family like this, she gets into all sorts of mischief. Usually targeted at Rudi. When she gets mad at him, she drags his shoes or tools under Jaimes bed, or hides them somewhere he can’t easily find or grab them. Bianca sets up a timeout corner with a cone of shame and sign that says what Khaji did to get put there this time. She also steals Jaime’s hoodies and stuffs them into a corner of his room that only she can access so that she has her own space

She only starts detaching herself like this at Jenny’s place when Jenny and Jaime start initiating in ‘alone time’. She goes ‘Ah NOPE’ and scuttles out of the room and into the nearest small, dark hidey-hole as fast as her little legs can carry her.

I like the idea of Khaji Da being able to "detach" herself from Jaime's spine, like her main body, but shes still connected to him on a cellular level.

Like one day shes like, "ima explore the house" and just Peels Herself off his back and drops to the floor before skittering off.

and no one knows what just happened, their all just staring at her retreating form like "What the fuck just happened?"

like she'll only do this in the Reyes house and no where else cause safety

[kohanayaki]

Jaime Lannister x Reader .:Fighting Chance:. Part 1

With his right hand gone, Jaime doesn't believe there's any way for him to regain his skill with the sword; his position in the Kingsguard is as good as finished. Luckily, Tyrion thinks he knows just the person to whip him back into shape- you.

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3 

You sighed softly as you swirled your second glass of wine around in your goblet, glancing around at the company you'd found yourself in. Today was but one of the many parties the royal family had planned in the weeks leading up to King Joffrey's wedding to Lady Margaery. 

At the moment you were sitting at one of the lavishly decorated tables with a group of soldiers. You were much too sober by your standards but having a fun enough time. You idly sipped at your wine and threw the occasional word in the conversation, but events like this were dull to you. Everyone around you seemed to put on such a heavy act it made you sick. You were hoping someone would come along that didn't feel so. . . hollow.

As you felt the space shift beside you, you turned to see an older man approach and sit in the empty chair next to yours- very loud and very drunk.

“Now what's a pretty little thing like you doing with a group of mutts?” he slurred, shooting you a shit-eating grin. 

Your eyes narrowed as the man slung an arm over your shoulders, his alcohol ridden breath fanning over your face and making you cringe.

“Hands off,” you said, your eyes narrowing.

The man only laughed and slid his hand down to your thigh.

“Well aren't you a feisty one? I wonder if you're the same way in the sack. Maybe I should fuck you over this table and find out-”

“Maybe you should move your fingers before you lose them,” you said, your tone deathly calm. Your words made the man recoil in shock which quickly turned into offense. 

“I beg your pardon? I am a knight of the Kingsguard,” he said incredulously. 

You forced your grimace into a sickeningly sweet smile as you turned to face him.

“Well then, with all due respect, Ser, kindly fuck off,” you said as you took another sip of your wine. 

The soldiers around you chuckled in amusement at your crass language. 

“You're going to let this little cunt push you around like that?” one of them goaded.

You didn't even take the time to acknowledge his comment but shot him a nasty glare as you cut away at the venison on your plate. 

“No. Looks like the bitch needs to be put in her place,” the man scowled, reaching for you.

His hand didn't get much farther than the edge of his plate before you grabbed it and twisted hard, pressing the blade of your dinner knife against the flesh of his wrist. 

Several of the soldiers stood immediately and drew their swords.

“Now now, what's going on here?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose as you reluctantly released your grip on the man, turning to face the unmistakable source of the voice: Joffrey Baratheon.

“A simple spat, Your Grace,” you said, putting on a smile, “Think nothing of it.”

“This crazy bitch tried to kill me!” the drunk man exclaimed.

“Well he did grab me,” you retaliated, unable to hold your tongue, “And threatened me with disgusting perverse acts. In response, I suggested he move his hand-”

“And nearly slit my wrist while doing so,” the man glared as he finished. 

“Completely warranted if you ask me,” you said under your breath.

You heard a faint chuckle from the high table and shifted your gaze to the man behind the King. He wore the golden armor and cloak of the Kingsguard, his hair matching the hue of the metal. He was handsome, that was for certain, but he seemed. . . maybe tired wasn't the right word, but maybe it was. The man looked exhausted. The hollows of his cheeks seemed sunken into the chiseled features of his face, a sort of emptiness in his dark green eyes. And yet there he was, in his golden garb before the royal family, his facade just a little less prominent than everyone else's. Something told you there was more to him. 

Meanwhile, the King looked between you and the drunk man with a sadistic glint in his eyes which settled on your form.

“Well then, it appears we have to resolve this issue somehow,” he said, “I thought this party was getting a bit dull, and I was right.”

The smile on his face was enough to send chills up your spine. It was cold and didn't quite reach his eyes, full of malicious intent. 

“You claim she attacked you and yet she claims you tried to defile her,” he said, pointing to the man and then you respectively.

The smirk on Joffrey's face turned into something wicked as he spoke his next words:

“A duel should put this to rest, should it not?”

An excited murmur spread through the crowd, the prospect of barbaric entertainment drawing their attention. Of course the King had no real intentions of settling this dispute. In truth, most women in Westeros were forced to endure far worse than you just had without anyone saying a word. The only reason he intervened at all was for his own sick pleasure.

“Will you choose a champion, Ser?” Joffrey asked the man beside you.

“I have no need” he said smugly, “I can fight my own battles, I'm not a woman.”

Hearty laughs and leers were heard in the crowd as he said that, unsheathing his sword and brandishing it drunkenly. 

“Let's have at it!” he shouted to the sky. 

Joffrey's smirk only widened as he turned to you.

“And you,” he said, clearly pleased with himself, “Since you are so bold and brave to speak out against this man, why don't you fight as your own champion?”

Laughter erupted throughout the crowd of men around you at the King's joke and your gaze darkened.

“Very well.”

The hall seemed to go silent at your words but you trudged onwards.

“I will fight for myself,” you stated confidently. 

Where there had been excitement before, there was now an air of nervousness. The man behind the King stared at you intently in something akin to disbelief but not without intrigue.

“Is she serious? She's just a woman,” you heard someone whisper.

“It was a joke, lass,” one of the soldiers called to you, “No need to get your pretty little dress dirty.”

“Don't be stupid, girl!” another shouted, “You'll get yourself killed!”

You saw the golden-haired man put a hand on the King's shoulder, a stern, warning look on his face.

“Your Grace-”

“Silence!” Joffrey seethed, slapping his hand away and successfully killing the chatter in the room, “If the girl wants her fight so badly, then so be it.” That twisted smile reappeared on his face as he acknowledged you directly, “Although I assume she'll need to arm herself first.”

A few obligated chuckles followed his statement which you quickly silenced.

“That won't be necessary, Your Grace,” you said.

You wordlessly knelt down to reach under the table where you were sitting before, gasps audible as you produced your sword in its scabbard. The head of a serpent was molded onto its hit, the intricate carvings in the thin, silver blade catching the light as you unsheathed it. 

“Valyrian steel?” you heard someone say in disbelief.

“Impossible,” Joffrey muttered, “There's only a handful of them left in Westeros.”

“Well I'm not from around here,” you said, downing the rest of your wine in one gulp and taking a step forward. The crowd parted like the red sea as you stepped into the hall's center.

The man only chuckled, twirling his blade in his hand. 

“You must have a death wish, girlie.” 

“What is your name?” you asked, feeling the familiar weight and balance of your sword in your hand. 

“Grag Brask,” he grinned cockily, “Remember it well, woman.”

“Well then, Ser Grag,” you stepped forward, a dangerous smile playing on your lips, “Are you going to stand around all day or are we going to fight?”

Joffrey seemed to recover from his initial shock, composing himself and raising his hand in the air. 

“Let the duel commence!”

Before the King had even finished his sentence Grag charged at you with a great yell, swinging his sword in a wide and predictable arc. He was a fair bit larger than you, but you knew you had the upper hand when it came to agility. You ducked under his blade with ease, promptly kicking him between his shoulder blades. He grunted in pain as he stumbled forward, one hand darting to the ground to keep himself steady as his own weight worked against him.

You wasted no time with an attack of your own, moving to strike him in the side. He narrowly blocked your attack and grunted as he felt himself be thrown even more off his center of balance. You swiftly went in for another blow, this time coming from above. Grag parried before your blade could come down on top of his head and pushed you away, putting some distance between you two.

You silently relished in his shocked and agitated expression as you twirled your sword around your wrist, looking around at the audience you'd accumulated. If it's a show they wanted, then you'd happily provide. 

Grag let out a growl, sounding much more irritated than his last, as he charged you again. You held your ground until he was less than a meter away before swiftly stepping to the side. However he surprised you by grabbing hold of your sword hand, twisting it in an attempt to disarm you. You delivered a harsh kick to his armored torso but his grip refused to loosen. 

You let out a sharp exhale as you tossed your sword from your right hand to your left, striking him in the side of his armor. Grag's eyes widened in surprise, attempting to block your swing. However he was unused to dueling anyone with a blade in their left hand and found the angle he had to reach awkward. A sharp clang! rang out in the great hall as you delivered another crippling blow to his torso, every strike sending him further and further back. 

Grag made one last feeble attempt at an offensive maneuver, aiming straight for your head. You parried the attack with your left hand easily, your body moving on its own muscle memory. You twisted your blade around his until the momentum pried it from his grasp, his sword skidding across the polished marble floor. 

He didn't have any time to react before you swept his feet from under him. He crumpled into a heap on the floor as you kicked him in the side so he was on his back. You placed your right foot on his windpipe, the point of your blade against his cheek.

“Yield,” you said.

“This isn't over,” he coughed out. 

Your eyes narrowed as you increased the pressure on his neck. He gargled pathetically as you did.

“Oh, I think it is,” you said, “I don't draw blood if it isn't needed, and it seems I didn't have to at all to beat you.” 

Your smirk widened as you leaned in closer to his face.

“Tell me, Ser Grag, have you ever been beaten by an opponent in a dress and corset?” you asked devilishly. 

Joffrey's expression was furious, clearly disappointed that you weren't in pieces on the floor. You shot an innocent smile his way. 

“Won't you call this off, Your Grace?” you asked sweetly, “This has certainly been entertaining but I'd hate to spoil a party with a death, no matter how tempting it may be.”

Joffrey looked like he was going to burst in anger at any moment, but Grag spoke before he could.

“I. . . I yield,” he said bitterly.

He gasped for air as your foot left his throat.

“Lords and ladies, the victor. . .” Joffrey glanced over to you with clear disdain as he trailed off, waiting for you.

“(Y/n), Your Grace,” you said with a smile.

The audience, once out of shock, erupted in applause. Most of them had never seen a woman fight in their lives, and taking down one of the head knights of the Kingsguard was no easy task.

Jaime watched you from the corner of the room as you curtsied playfully, sheathing your blade and brushing imaginary dirt from your dress. You fascinated him already. Your fighting style was unlike anything he'd seen in Westeros. You struck to disarm, not to kill, though there was no doubt in his mind you were capable of the latter. On top of that, you were proficient wielding a blade with your left hand. . .

He found himself glancing over at you again as you gave your gratitude to those who congratulated you. You weren't the traditional Westerosi lady, that was for sure- your words were crass, your temper hot, and yet your features were soft. Your (e/c) eyes seemed to light up as a little girl stared up at you in awe, jumping up and down as she praised your skills. Wisps of (h/c) hair had come undone from your braid in the fight and you gracefully tucked them behind your ear as you scooped up the child in your arms to ask her name.

“She could be useful,” a voice suddenly jolted Jaime from his thoughts as he looked to the side and then down at his brother. 

“When did you get here?” Jaime sighed, “And what do you mean 'useful'?”

“You saw her fight, she's no ordinary lady,” Tyrion said, “And I know you noticed her skill with her left hand. Given your current circumstances, she's an ideal teacher.”

“I don't need a teacher,” Jaime scoffed, “It's not as if my knowledge of the sword was cut off along with my hand.”

“No, but you certainly ought to learn how to connect that head of yours with your hand, because as we stand you can barely write your own name,” Tyrion countered. 

Jaime grumbled to himself, out of witty remarks in that regard.

And that's how he somehow found himself, the very next week, on a wide plateau above the water, waiting for you to arrive.

Tyrion hadn't exactly given him a choice once he confirmed these sessions with you, and the small bit of anxiety creeping up in his chest surprised him. He looked down at his left hand, clenching and unclenching it into a fist. Would he really be able to fight again? What if he completely made a fool of himself in front of you? He'd never even talked to you, your first impression was going to be him barely able to wield a blade.

He exhaled sharply as he took another deep breath in. What if there really was no helping him? He felt his gut twist, feeling conflicted. He felt like the most useless creature in Westeros at the moment, and yet the lingering trace of pride in him didn't want to reach out to anyone for help. He didn't want to be seen as useless as he felt- as everyone else said he was now. 

His head turned towards the docks as he heard footsteps approaching to see you and Tyrion. Instead of the embroidered dress he had seen you in at the party, you wore a simple pair of slacks and a flowy white shirt which you had tied at the waist. Your hair twisted around your head like a crown, the rest braided loosely to the side. Your sword rested against your hip in all its glory, and a burlap bag was slung over your shoulder.

You smiled at Jaime as you came to a stop in front of him and he felt his breath hitch in the back of his throat. Hell if you weren't beautiful. . .

None of this went unnoticed by Tyrion who looked between you two, making a point of clearing his throat before speaking up.

“Jaime, this is Lady (Y/n). Lady (Y/n), this is my brother, Jaime. Hopefully he can learn a thing or two from you.”

Jaime scowled inwardly, turning away slightly from you two.

“You flatter me, My Lord,” you chuckled, “I'm sure I'll have some things to learn from him as well.”

Tyrion nodded to you before turning on his heels and beginning to walk away. 

“Have fun,” he called over his shoulder, “And do try not to kill him, most of our family would like him back alive.” 

You grinned at his remark and turned your attention to Jaime. You had seen him a bit during your duel at the party, but you took a moment to study him more closely. His eyes appeared a brighter green in the afternoon sun, and you could see the faintest splatter of freckles across his tanned skin.

“Something you find interesting?” he asked, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“You're different than I expected,” you replied simply. 

“How so?” he asked, quirking a brow.

“I expected you to be. . . I don't know, taller? More handsome?” you said playfully.

“With two hands?” he chuckled, taking a light jab at himself. 

“Well, truth be told, I didn't know who you were when I saw you at the party,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed, “I only found out when Tyrion approached me afterwards.”

That surprised Jaime for two reasons. One, he hadn't even known that you noticed him at the party, and two, you truly didn't seem to know or care who he was.

“Like I said, I'm not from around here,” you said, going off his expression. 

“And where would that be?” Jaime questioned. 

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Your smirk widened as you stood in front of him.

“Oh, I would,” he grinned up at you, “Among other things, if you're up to sharing.”

Damn that smile. 

You forced yourself to hold your ground as you spoke.

“How about a deal? Each time you land a hit on me I'll tell you something about myself,” you grinned back. 

“You seem pretty confident that I won't be able to hit you,” Jaime said, feigning offense. 

“On the contrary,” you said, sliding your bag off your shoulder and dumping its contents onto the cobblestone. Two training swords tumbled out making Jaime look up at you.

“You're joking, right?” he scoffed, actually taking offense this time, “I haven't used a training weapon since I was nine.”

“Tell me something, Jaime Lannister,” you began, picking up one of the dulled blades, “Have you even attempted to hold a sword since you lost that hand?” 

That shut him up fairly quickly. 

“No,” he said quietly, begrudgingly picking up the weapon. 

“Let's take it slow,” you said, sensing his unease, “Although, I won't be going easy on you.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Jaime replied, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. Simply holding the weight of the sword upright in his left hand put strain on his wrist he hadn't felt since he was a child. It felt heavier than a sword ever had in his right, the center of its balance precariously placed.

“Defend yourself,” you instructed him, lunging at him with surprising speed. 

Jaime's eyes widened as he stumbled to block your attack, biting his lip as his wrist bent at an awkward angle to do so. You wasted no time going in for another offensive maneuver, sliding your foot in front of you and turning to strike him in his blind spot. Jaime grunted as the practice sword made contact with his ribcage and he fought to ignore the painful sensation. 

When he managed to turn to face you, you had already ducked under his arm, swiftly bringing the hilt of your sword between his shoulder blades and making him fall forward. Even as he knelt at the floor you didn't relent, and a sharp clang of metal rang through the air as he brought up his sword horizontally to block your downward attack. You really weren't kidding about going easy on him.

You backed away, letting him come to his feet but not waiting a moment more than that. You circled him like a predatory animal, observing his stance and body language. When his grip on his sword loosened slightly so he could adjust it, you sprang forward and delivered another harsh blow to his side. Jaime grit his teeth and whirled around, striking at you straight on. You avoided the attack with a simple tilt of your head, seamlessly shifting your weight to deliver a roundhouse to his gut.

Jaime reeled back as the air was knocked out of his lungs and he staggered back on the impact.

“I thought I told you to defend first,” you said, “How are you going to get the opportunity to attack if you can't avoid your opponent's?”

“I know that,” Jaime huffed, irritated, “I'm not a child, I'm the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I know the basics of swordplay you so desperately want to reteach me.”

You lowered your sword and studied him curiously, an unreadable expression on your face.

“So that's what it is,” you sighed, “I know what you're thinking, 'How can this girl possibly be qualified to teach me? I have years of experience on her and I've managed just fine on my own until now. I've never needed any help. I'm a prodigy. If I had my right hand right now I'd be able to beat her with my eyes closed.' Well let me tell you something, Lannister, you don't have your right hand anymore, and it isn't growing back any time soon.”

You charged him again and he struggled to block you once more.

“You know you need help but you're too proud to ask for it,” you stated confidently, “And more than that, you're giving up.”

“I'm not,” he countered breathlessly. He made a half-arsed attempt to take a swing at you which you easily countered.

“It seems you already have,” you said, your eyes narrowing. 

“Why are you even here?” he snapped, “If my brother offered you gold to work with a lost cause then I'll pay you triple and you can just leave already.”

That set you off.

In one swift movement you swiped his feet out from under him, grabbing his sword out of his hand as he tumbled backwards. He cursed under his breath and was about to counter with another evasive, witty retort when he froze as you drew your real sword, pressing the blade to his chest. 

“Your brother did offer me gold,” you said, “and I told him I had no need for it. So listen up-From what I've heard, your skill with the sword was unmatched. If you want to get back to that point it's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be fun either. But if you're going to give up before you've even started, then just walk away. Don't waste your time, and don't waste mine either.”

Jaime was both taken aback and slightly turned on by your demanding tone as you stood over him. He could tell you meant every word you said, and something told him that he could trust you. 

Your expression softened slightly as you sighed and sheathed your blade, staring at the uncertain man in front of you.

“You aren't a lost cause,” you said.

His heart pounded in his ears as he stared up at you, and that's when he realized: You weren't here to laugh at him like so many others had. You weren't here for gold or a shallow round in his bed. You were here to help him become the greatest fighter in Westeros once again. He knew what you said was true, this wasn't going to be easy or fun, but he was willing to work for it. You had lit a fire under his ass. 

He wordlessly reached down for the practice sword and took up a fighting stance, and you knew something had changed in him. 

“Alright then,” you grinned widely, readying your own weapon,

“Let's do this, Jaime Lannister.

[takingcourage]

Additions: Part Six

Here’s a link to my masterlist if you need to catch up! 

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 3,600

Summary: The Lewis household prepares for the arrival of its sixth member. 

Note: Thanks for your patience, friends. I’m sorry this update has been so long in coming. Grading took all of my brainpower (and most of my free time) toward the end of the year, and it’s taken some time to get back into the habit of working with words for fun. 

Only an epilogue left to go!

July, 2028

“Can I ask a personal question?”

Arden came to the end of the line she was reading and raised her head slowly. Sophia traced every movement, mouth tugged to the side like it always was when she was trying to gauge reactions. 

It was almost frightening how skilled the teenager was at picking up on nonverbal cues. In the year they’d spent together, Arden had learned more about her own body language from her daughter’s thoughts than she had in over decade of working in television. 

Realizing she still hadn’t answered the question, Arden bobbed her head in assent. “Sure.” 

“Are you pregnant?”

Arden sucked a breath. It was hardly the question she’d expected. 

“Yes…” she began tentatively, then set the packet of coffee on the counter. Ignoring the bag of grounds, she turned to face Sophia. “We were waiting until after Family Day to tell you and the boys,” she offered by way of explanation. 

Her daughter dumped another spoonful of granola into her morning yogurt. “Makes sense.” Sophia paused to meet Arden’s eyes before resealing the container. “I don’t think they’ve noticed anything, but you’ve been acting weird lately. Drinking decaf coffee and taking pills and stuff. My second grade teacher was always complaining about that when she was pregnant.”

Ignoring the glimpse into her daughter’s past, she motioned for her to follow into the dining room. “Sophia,” she began, sitting so that she could look the girl directly in the eyes. “I know you probably weren’t expecting this when you came to live here. Jaime and I weren’t either. But I need you to know that won’t change anything about how much we love you and your brothers.”

A glint of uncertainty passed over her daughter’s face, but it vanished quickly. “Well, no. I know that,” she insisted, forcing a laugh. 

The pit in Arden’s stomach loomed at the unnatural sound. This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. How do I fix it? 

The girl avoided her gaze and picked up her spoon. When her eyes rose from the woodgrain of the table, Arden could just see the glisten of unshed tears. 

“Sophia...”

“I’ll be okay,” she insisted, dropping the spoon and nudging her bowl a few inches forward. “It’s kind of a lot though.” 

Tell me about it, Arden considered, heart wrenching as she watched her daughter battle with her emotions. “Jaime and I are excited, but it’s a lot for us too. We’ve loved having a family of five.” 

“Yeah.”

“And we’ll figure out what it means to be a family of six.” She might have missed the solitary tear on Sophia’s cheek if she hadn’t seen the hand she raised to bat it away. Arden opened her mouth in reassurance, but Sophia cut her off before she could speak. 

“Don’t worry -- I’m okay. I’m fine.” The tremor in her voice suggested otherwise. 

Arden considered challenging the assertion, but thought better of it. “I’m still getting used to the idea. It means adding onto the house again and figuring out a lot of things with work. Things may get tricky.”

“I can share a room with the boys again, if it helps.”

Arden mentally kicked herself for bringing up that aspect of their preparations. Of course her people-pleasing daughter would want to volunteer anything she could think of. “Absolutely not. No one’s giving up any bedrooms. We’ve got it figured out.”

“Okay.”

“And not to pressure you, but this baby is so, so lucky to have you as an older sister. You’re pretty incredible.”

“Thanks,” Sophia muttered, pulling her breakfast back within reach. “I’ve gotten lots of practice with the boys.” 

Arden slid her palm across the table with emphasis. “Think you can handle one more?”

Sophia’s free hand stretched toward her until their fingers met in the middle. “Probably.” Fresh panic drained all color from her features, and her brow worried itself into knots. “As long as it’s not another brother.” 

Laughter sprang to Arden’s lips as she drew her hand back. “I’ve been hoping for a girl too. It’d be nice not to be outnumbered anymore.” 

“Good.” The syllable floated across the table almost conspiratorially. “I don’t want to be like that princess in Cordonia. Three brothers is too many.” 

"Three brothers is a lot...but maybe don’t tell the boys that I said that?”

Sophia smirked around her spoon. When she finished the bite, the expression had turned to a smile. “I won’t tell them anything. Promise.” 

_____

August, 2028

This definitely doesn’t fit anymore, Arden determined, standing before her full-length mirror. In most outfits, no one would even realize she was pregnant. At four months along, she was still getting by with wearing looser clothes and staying away from her trademark pencil skirts when she was at work. This particular garment was an aberration. 

The “safe” bathing suit she used for family outings had made a lot of sense at the time of purchase more than a year ago, but the additional fabric now meant that the entire top was embarrassingly tight.

“Damn, Arden. Your body is amazing. ” 

She treated her husband to a small reflected smile and untied the straps behind her neck. “Amazing or not, I’m definitely not going swimming like this.” Jaime helped to ease the fabric over her shoulders, fingers skimming her ribs along the way. She shivered at the contact and leaned back against his chest. 

“I would hope not. If we ever decide to go skinny dipping again, the kids are definitely not invited...” he trailed off upon noting the tension in her shoulders. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

Arden leaned forward to dig through the open drawer, wondering if she could pretend not to have heard the question. He squeezed her side with a gentle hand. 

“It’s just... I keep thinking about next summer. We’ll have the baby’s schedule to work with and we won’t be able to take off and do fun things with the kids whenever we want to...” The words ended in a sigh as she met his eyes in the mirror. 

Jaime’s brows knit together. “You’re worried?”

“Aren’t you?” 

He thumbed the seam of her discarded suit, gaze dropping as he considered her question. I want this baby, Arden. 

“I want it too,” she assured, interrupting his thoughtful silence. “But so much is changing again and I just got used to it being this way. Our kids just got used to things and now we’re changing it all again.”

How many times do I have to tell you that we’ll solve this together? Please stop freaking out. 

His whispered thought cut through her escalating worries. 

“I didn’t mean to think that.” 

“I know,” she groaned. Thinking better of her initial response, she tried to lighten the mood. “But it’s true. We will figure it out...eventually. I just hate feeling so uncertain.” 

Tossing the bathing suit to the mattress, he held his arms open with invitation. For a moment, she pressed her cheek to his chest and tried to set her fears aside. 

“The kids are going to be fine,” Jaime asserted. "Will’s already started bragging about how he isn’t going to be the baby anymore, and you know Sophia is happy that she’ll finally have a sister. Alex is gonna come around sooner or later. He just needs more time.”

“That child always needs more time...” she muttered, turning back to the drawer to find a suitable replacement. “I love him dearly, but it’d be a lot easier if he just processed things as they happened instead of bottling them up.” 

Jaime’s brow quivered at the complaint, and it wasn’t long before Arden took his meaning. 

“Stop! I’ve gotten a lot better.” 

He took the fastenings of her new swimsuit and began working. “Yes, you have. Alex will get there someday too.” 

“I really hope so.” 

“Maybe even today!” he offered, something akin to a challenge in his eye. 

She brushed it off and directed her eyes toward the ceiling. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you love me for it,” he deduced, capturing her lips in a kiss as he released the fastened straps. 

“Very much.” She caught his eye in the mirror again, but this time the smile was genuine. They had every right to be optimistic, of course. This was just the latest in the series of hurdles their family had faced. If their track record was anything to go by, everything was going to work out...eventually. 

_____

October, 2028

"Last call for trick or treating!”

Will was testing out the length of his sleeves in the hall mirror, but Jaime’s announcement gave him pause. Seizing the subsequent chance to pester his brother, he darted into the living room. “Please come! We’ll get twice as much candy.” 

Alex burrowed deeper into the couch cushions and shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jaime deduced, trading glances with Arden. 

In the kitchen and out of Alex’s view, Arden gave him a small shrug. Their eldest son had been adamant that he was too old this year. In spite of his brother’s relentless cheer and encouragement, he appeared to be standing his ground. 

“I’ll bring you back some Skittles,” Will flourished his bag as if to make good on the promise. “Do you think Sophia’s getting candy at Ava’s house? I’ll try to get some extras for her too.” 

“That’s really sweet of you, bud,” Jaime encouraged, guiding him into the hall. “I’m sure she’d love that.” 

“Last call?” Will echoed in a pitiful refrain as he trudged toward the door. 

Mouth full, Alex murmured an approximation of, “I’m good.” 

“Have fun, you guys! We’ll stay here and hold down the fort.” After waving them off, Arden returned to the living room. “Ready to start this thing?”

“Sure.” 

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Alex’s feigned nonchalance. Like he hasn’t been asking to see this film for months, she quipped internally, mashing her thumb against the play button on the remote. 

The dull screen came to life, and a quick glance was enough to tell Arden that her son was much more engaged in the proceedings than he was willing to let on. Turning her attention to her own bowl of popcorn, she sorted through the pieces to find which ones had the most color. 

Stupid salt cravings.

Keeping one eye on the screen, she fell to musing. It seemed like she'd been measuring months for an eternity, fixated somewhat arbitrarily on the one-year anniversary of having the kids with them. Now that they'd passed it, time had started to fly. The fact that this was already their second Halloween together was baffling. Soon, they'd pass their second Thanksgiving, second Christmas, second New Year's Eve...

The doorbell chimed, yanking her back to reality.

Vaguely aware of the car chase taking place before her, Arden set the bowl aside and moved to answer the door. A strange weightlessness came over her as she stood, but darkness clouded her vision before she could move further. 

Arden woke slowly, floating and devoid of sense. Tingling returned in increments through her fingertips, creeping along the rest of her skin as she tried vainly to clear the cobwebs from her head. A firm hand gripped her shoulder, but it took several moments to place it.

"Arden? Arden, you okay?" Alex's voice was the most concrete thing that she could latch onto.

"M'fine," she managed around a cottony tongue. "I must have gotten dizzy."

With some effort, she trained her eyes on the boy. Sweat beaded across her forehead as her body attempted to reset itself, and she felt the flush run through her core and out over her limbs. 

"I think -- I think you fainted. I looked up and you fell over all of a sudden."

She blinked, mind too fuzzy to formulate a response. 

Alex stared back with pleading eyes, his worry etched in every crease of his brow. “Is the baby okay?” Please let my sister be okay. 

Even in her disoriented state, her throat immediately thickened. That simple shift from the baby to my sister spoke volumes. “Yeah, I just stood up too fast. Sometimes that happens.” 

“Do you need medicine? I can get it for you if you tell me where it is, or --”

Arden sat up straight, brushing a hand through the air in protest. “I just haven’t had enough to drink today. I’ll be fine.”

“Lemme get you some water.” 

Her head had stopped swimming by the time he returned with a brim-full glass. 

“Lemme know if you need more when that’s gone,” he offered, handing her the drink. “And are you sure you’re okay? I don’t...” the words trailed, but she heard the rest of the sentence: I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. 

“Alex, listen to me. The baby and I are going to be fine. We’re so much better already.” She made a show of drinking from the glass. “This is going to help too. I’ll let you know if anything changes. In the meantime, don’t worry -- okay?”

“Okay. But I’m gonna take care of all the trick or treaters from now on. You can stay on the couch and get better. We don’t even have to watch the rest of the movie if you don’t want to.” 

She took another long sip to counteract the sudden ache in the back of her throat. “Nope, I want to finish it. We’ve got to figure out what happens to those kids who got lost in the woods.” 

“Oh, yeah.” He tried to keep his eyes on the screen, but she felt him staring at her countless times as the film progressed. Quiet as he was, his thoughts spoke for him: nothing in the movie was going to scare him as much as what he’d already seen. 

That unspoken burst of feeling was all she was likely to get from her middle child, but it was more than enough to satisfy. As usual, Jaime was right. Alex was coming around after all. 

_____

February, 2029

The snow had just started to fall when Jaime pulled into the driveway. The morning temperatures had been just enough to thaw some of last week’s snow, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before the streets were coated in ice. 

“C’mon, let’s get inside before we freeze.”

“Do we still have hot chocolate?” Sophia asked, shutting the car door a little harder than she needed to. The force of the movement suggested she already knew the answer to the question. 

Jaime unlocked the front door, gesturing for the teenager to enter the house before him. “We’ll make sure to add cocoa mix to the list on the counter. Julie offered to run by the grocery store later this evening.” 

“I bet Alex drank all of it while we were gone.”

The offending brother was nowhere to be found -- a likely sign that he was in his bedroom. Will looked up briefly when they came in, but was soon engaged again in the round of checkers he and Harry were playing at the coffee table. 

“’Scuse me,” Harry offered in apology, pausing their game to follow Jaime toward the coat closet. 

Jaime faced his father in law with an easy grin. “Hey! Thanks again for helping out this afternoon. How’d it go?”

The other man pulled a skeptical face as Jaime shrugged out of his coat. “She’s trying to do too much. When we got here, she was unloading the dishwasher and listening to Will’s reading practice and everything. She thinks that baby carrier means she can do anything.”

With a sigh, Jaime eased the sleeves over the hanger. The image his father-in-law described came to his mind all too readily. He’d spent the past three weeks preventing as much undue exertion as possible, but there was only so much he could do. “Harry, I stopped trying to control your daughter a long time ago. We both know she’s going to do those things whether we want her to or not. The rest of us do as much as we can, but she got an extra dose of stubbornness from somewhere.” 

“That’s why we were here,” Julie cut in with a hand at Harry’s elbow. “I went and stayed with my son for two whole weeks when his wife had their first baby. The least I can do is come by every once in a while to help around the house.” 

“We all appreciate it -- truly,” Jaime assured. “I take it Arden’s upstairs?”

A door slammed from the direction of the boys’ room, and Alex’s voice spilled into the hallway, “It wasn’t me! There was still a packet and a half the last time I had any.” 

“Brothers are such...” Sophia censored herself as she passed the group of adults. At her pasted-on smile, Jaime raised an eyebrow before giving his focus back to his in-laws. 

“Last I knew, she took the baby up there to nurse. That was about half an hour ago, I think.” 

“I’ll go check in and let her know we’re back.” 

Jaime climbed the stairs, cautiously testing the handle of their door before swinging the whole thing open. He’d interrupted their daughter’s naps just a handful of times, but they’d been enough to make him wary of doing it again. 

Arden stirred as he came in, her voice quiet, but fully awake. “What time is it?” 

“A little bit after 4:00. Did I wake you up?” His wife was in the center of their bed, body curled protectively around the weeks-old infant that lay inside. 

“No, there was some noise downstairs.” At Jaime’s sigh, she continued, “ It’s fine; they didn’t know. I didn’t mean to fall asleep in the first place.”

“I’m still sorry you had to wake up to a fight about hot chocolate packets.”

“At least it’s a change of pace. I don’t remember the last time I woke up to something other than crying.” 

“Me neither,” he agreed, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. From this position, one tiny fist was visible. The rest of the newborn’s body was shielded from view, but the glimpse was enough.

Their baby was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that Jaime knew he could go the rest of his life without making anything that could ever compare. Each exquisite feature, from her thick crop of dark brown hair to the slender toes he knew were curled tight beneath the flannel of her pajamas, proved that their daughter was a work of art.

He’d never put much stock in blood relations. The few family members that he vaguely remembered from childhood had disappeared from his life long ago. 

And even though he didn’t love this baby any more than he loved the three kids downstairs, this love was a little different, somehow. Already, there were traces of Arden in this child -- traces of him. Their family had never felt like it was missing anything, but none of them could deny how much more complete it felt now that Lindy had entered the scene.

“How was the concert?” Arden asked, startling him from his musings. 

“You’ll have to ask Sophia about it later, but I’d call her pre-birthday celebration a success.”

“I’m sure she loved it.”

“I am too,” Jaime beamed, remembering how intently their daughter had watched all of the proceedings onstage. “And she loved getting to stick around and meet the musicians. Tony said to tell you hi, by the way.” 

"Did you tell him hi back?” she inquired before her mouth was hijacked by a yawn. 

“Of course. How have things been here?”

“Fine when I came up. Dad’s been telling me not to do so much, but what else is new?” 

“And Lindy?”  

Arden hiked a hand through her hair and arched her back, rolling toward him so that he could see the sleeping baby clearly. “As happy and sleepy as always,” she whispered, eyes following his to watch the sleeping infant. 

“We got so lucky.”

Arden smothered another yawn against her hand. “You know that saying that is practically asking for trouble, right? She’s not even a month old yet.”

“Look how well she’s fit in so far. Besides, it’s kind of hard not to think she’s perfect when she’s got your cute little nose and eyebrows.”

“And your toes, unfortunately…” 

Jaime shoved out his chin in retaliation. “Maybe she’ll have long fingers like me too,” he wondered, reaching out a hand to brush the hair from Arden’s forehead. “You’ve always complained about how short yours are.”

“They’re terrible for typing and playing instruments. Why do you think our band never worked out?”

“There were a lot of reasons...” he reflected. With the pad of his index finger, he followed the dimpled line at Lindy’s wrist. The baby continued to sleep despite his intrusion, her serene face turned toward Jaime’s body. 

“What are you thinking about?”

He rubbed his jawline with a wry smile. “I’m pretty sure you know what it is already.” 

“Maybe,” she evaded coyly. “Humor me anyway?”

“That you’re still my best girl, but you’re not the only girl in my life anymore. And that I’m pretty damn lucky to have three amazing ladies in my family.”

“The boys are pretty great too,” she reminded with a fond smile, allowing both eyes to flutter shut. 

“Arden?”

One eyelid rose. “Uh-huh?”

“I think we might have the best family ever.” 

She grinned at the absurd statement. “We’re so biased. But I think you may be right.” 

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 1

Alright, it’s here.  I’m fucking doing it.  This is my Jonsa tour de force, my magnum opus.  My ultimate fix-it fic.

This is going to be a Season 7/8 AU. To summarize the major plot points up until now, this 'verse branches out roughly post Battle of the Bastards in canon, the mass murder of the Freys by Arya still stands, Cersei has been killed but her murderer hasn't been determined yet, Daenerys has only just landed in Westeros, the occupation/battle over Riverrun never happened as the Freys were slaughtered beforehand, and both Edmure and Brynden Tully are still alive, Bran found his way to Winterfell while Jon and Sansa dealt with ruling the North and preparing for a war with the dead, as well as the shifting power dynamics in Westeros now that Cersei has died. This story also assumes established Jonsa. Soft E. Dark. Politics and magic and murder and sex. That's essentially the gist of it.

I HIGHLY recommend that you read 'Bruises' before getting into this. It serves as a prequel of sorts, and it's only a one-shot so it reads pretty quickly. 'Bruises' really helps to set up the tone of where Jonsa is at the start of this fic.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter One: Hunger

"There is an old sort of magic to sacrifice, after all." - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

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

* * *

It would be a lie to say that Sansa understands Cersei now – here at the end.

           Here where she warms her brother’s bed.

           Sansa imagines Cersei looked at Ser Jamie like this once, watching him in his sleep beside her.  Or perhaps not.  Perhaps theirs was always a quick, furtive fuck.  A blinding instant of lust and need, smothered in dark alcoves and behind garish tapestries, a secret, silent thing – clawing at them from the inside.

           Perhaps they’ve never slept the night through beside each other.

           Perhaps she regretted it – gurgling out his name while she choked on her own blood.

           Sansa reaches up to trace a hand down the side of Jon’s face, trailing past his jaw, along the cords of muscle flexing in his throat beneath her touch, whispering down his chest as he groans to wakefulness.  She slips her hand to his growing hardness with a surety that might have been foreign to the little dove Cersei once knew.

           But then, maybe that is also a lie.

           “Sansa,” he groans, head thrown back along the pillow, voice rough with sleep and desire.

           She braces her lips to his neck, imagines the rush of blood just beneath her mouth – pulls him from slumber with a selfish, desperate yearning she does not regret.  “I need you,” she breathes into his skin, teeth sinking down.

           Jon growls his answer, grabbing her by the hair, yanking her head back and kissing her hungrily.  He turns her easily, bracing her back along the bed as he covers her with his weight, already hard and ready in her hand.

           Some small part of her wishes Cersei had been her kill.  A different, equally intense part of her, is relieved beyond words that she isn’t – that she would never be, now.

           But more than that – more than a vengeful wrath she’s spent too long feeding to ever be free of hunger, to ever be satisfied with a mere raven scroll and the somber, even way Bran announces the news – more than that –

           She just needs Jon.

           “Come back to me,” she whispers against his mouth, moving with him in the dark.

           No, she doesn’t think she’ll ever understand Cersei.

           But as she feels Jon slip inside her, as she cradles his groan in the hollow of her throat, as she catches her lips at his temple – she thinks she doesn’t need to.

           It’s a different hunger she feeds now, after all.

* * *

           Sansa recognizes the sound of Baelish’s footsteps well before he’s made it to her side.  He slinks like shadow easily enough across stone and wood and dirt, but here in the godswood, trudging through snow in the womb of winter, his steps are almost awkward, clunky.

           He does not belong here.  She knows this now with a certainty she hasn’t felt in years.

           “My lady, I had hoped to find you here.”

           Sansa only sighs, glancing away from the red weirwood leaves to meet his gaze over her shoulder.  She offers a silent nod in greeting.

           Baelish makes his way toward her, smoothing his hands over his robe when he settles beside her.  “You have not forgotten what we spoke of when last I found you here, I should hope.”

           Sansa tugs her furs tighter around her shoulders, eyes drifting back to the weirwood branches.  “How could one forget?”

           “Yes,” he murmurs, eyes drifting down her face and trailing the length of her throat.

           She tries not to swallow, not to give notice of her discomfort.  He takes a step closer.  She resolutely does not take one back.

           “This is a very crucial time for us, Sansa, you must know that.”

             “Cersei is dead,” she says in answer, and she thinks maybe it should feel different along her tongue.  Lighter, perhaps.  Sweeter. Instead, it’s nothing but a stringent tartness.

           “Yes, and by whose hand?  None of my people seem to know the answer to that, except for whispers of faceless girls. Dead end gossip.”  He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, appraising.

           Sansa gives him nothing to appraise.  “Is that what matters right now?”

           He stays quiet a moment, and then, “It is, until we can ascertain whose side her murderer is on.”

           Another silence.  Sansa stretches a gloved hand out to catch the faint flecks of snow falling from the branches.

           “We can’t let this opportunity pass us by.  Cersei’s death has lead to infighting amongst the houses.  King’s Landing is in near shambles with no discernible sovereign.  Qyburn has fled without the support of his queen.  The Mountain hasn’t been seen since reports of Cersei’s death. Citizens are fleeing to the other kingdoms as we speak, and even Daenerys Targaryen has seen the uselessness in conquering King’s Landing at this point.”

           She knows this.  She knows this already and she’s tired of hearing it.  It only ever ends one way.

           Baelish reaches for her, grasping her arms and turning her to face him, his gentleness forced and rushed – a falsity.  Sansa blinks up at him.

           “We have to consolidate power.  If we wait too long, this chaos will be of no help to us.”

           “Then go.”

           Baelish furrows his brow at her answer, his fingers flexing along her elbows.

           She swallows tightly, face a blank visage.  “Go to King’s Landing then.  Consolidate.”  She lifts her chin.  “Go.”

           His throat flexes, poison tongue pressing back behind pursed lips.

           “You can’t, can you?” she asks, not unkindly.  “Because your power lies here.  With me.  And with the Vale.  You can’t abandon either of us without giving yourself a disadvantage.”

           “Sansa.”  It’s almost a warning.  As much a warning as Baelish ever gives – all smooth tones and invaded intimacy.  His head inclines toward hers.

           “Jon won’t go South.  Not for that.”  She extracts herself from his hold slowly, gently, without offense.

           Baelish smacks his lips, a minute flicker of irritation crossing his eyes, but it’s all he will allow her to see of his disturbance.  “The King can be persuaded.”

           “Not in this.  The dead occupy him on all sides.  He won’t play the game.”

           “Not even for you?”

           Sansa doesn’t think too long on the way his eyes flick to her lips for a fraction of a second.  “You overestimate my influence.”

           “Oh, I think not,” he says lowly, a curl to his lip that reminds her of purple-faced boy-kings and hound-fed bastards.

           No, he does not belong here.  Not in the white and cold and wind of home.  Not here where her mother used to brush her hair and her father used to beg her hand to dance and her brothers played their knightly parts in her tales dutifully.  Not here where she had wanted to bury Lady those many years ago.

           Wanted, and never could.

           Sansa realizes suddenly, that Winterfell is not yet free.

           And neither is she.

* * *

           In the wake of Cersei’s death, the ensuing vacuum of power nearly cripples the kingdoms, with the remainder of the Lannister forces rallying behind a mourning, vengeful Ser Jaime, intent on securing the Reach and the Stormlands. Dorne wastes no time to declare its independence from the Seven Kingdoms entirely, and shortly after the suspicious slaughter of the Freys by unseen Northern hands both the Riverlands and the Vale swear to the North under the threat of a coming dragon queen.

           Jon has no time for such politics.

           Sansa rails against him openly in the Hall of Lords, demanding his attention to the ensuing fight for the crown, but the dead take precedence in everything he brings to court, and it’s not long before ravens are sent to all corners of Westeros begging aid in the coming fight.

           Bran watches placidly, neither arguing for or against either of them. Sansa would call him not unlike a piece of furniture if she hadn’t better manners, and most days her pleads for his council lands on deaf ears.  She ends most gatherings of the lords rife with frustration and nearly frothing at the mouth.

           She doesn’t need to glance at Baelish to know the look he gives her.

           “You think just because Cersei is dead that we are free from the South? That they will not land their hooks into every inch of the North until we are chained to them once more?” Sansa seethes, shutting her door once Jon is through it.

           Jon heaves an unsteady breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I think, and you know it,” he grits out, sending a dark look her way.  “Stop twisting my words.”

           “Then stop ignoring mine.”

           “I’m not!”  He stalks toward her, stops before he can do anything else.  His hands itch at his sides.  “Sansa, we can’t keep this up – this back-and-forth.  We can’t afford such a divide, not now.”

           Sansa takes a purposeful breath, hands folding before her.  “I’m with you, Jon, I am but – ”

           “Are you?  Sometimes I wonder.”  He can’t help the scoff that leaves him.  He stares at her, keeps her gaze a moment longer, and then he’s turning to the far window, a hand raking over his face.  He’s just so tired, suddenly.

           Sansa is deadly still.  So still he can’t even hear the rustle of her skirts on the cold stone at their feet – can’t pick up the scrape of air she pulls through anger-fused lungs.

           “And how is your show of the dead going with the other kingdoms, hmm?” she bites out.

           Jon snaps his head to her, his eyes narrowing so quickly she might have missed it.

           Sansa takes a step toward him.  “Are they simply jumping to aid us?  Are they gathering the entire might of their forces, marching the sum of their armies North, all on your word?”  Something sharp glints in her gaze and Jon swallows his reply back instantly. She scoffs, head thrown back.  And then her eyes are eerily blue on his – instantly staggering him.  “And have I ever demanded evidence?  Have I ever once denounced your claims of the rising dead before the lords?”

           Jon has no answer.  None that would satisfy, at least.

           Something in her softens at his silence, another step taken toward him. “I’ve never asked you to prove anything to me, Jon.”

           Jon, she calls him – always.

           (There was never anything to prove between them, after all.)

           Jon closes his eyes, takes a long, deep breath, exhales just as evenly. When he opens his eyes, she’s still there.  Still copper-crowned and winter-poised.  Still every inch his sister.

           And every inch not.

           He thinks maybe it’s a sickness – this craving of his.

           Jon steps into her, the stiff silence descending upon them like a cloak. He’s so close.  He’s so unbearably close, and even though he has yet to touch her, the heat suffuses him – a stifled winter, a burrowing need.

           He can see the way her chest heaves at the sudden proximity.

           (She’s always been his, even when she won’t admit to it.)

           Jon thrums a tentative hand along her side, fingers grazing the line of her hip.

           Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

           It’s a lost cause, he knows.  Since the moment she opened her door to him, this was only ever going to end one way.

           “I know you’re with me,” he tells her on an exhale, roiled in heat.

           She arches a single, fine brow.  “Do you? Sometimes I wonder.”  She almost smacks her lips with self-satisfaction.

           A low snarl eases from his lips, his hand bunching in her dress, dragging her to him.  She lets him, hands alighting on his chest.  He leans into her, nuzzling his temple to hers, breath ragged already.

           She makes it so easy.

           He’s already panting for her.

           (She makes it so hard.)

           “Sansa,” he groans out, fingers trembling as they reach for her laces.

           She takes his face in her hands, pulls him back until his eyes are locked with hers.  He doesn’t still his unlacing of her.  He couldn’t even if he tried.

           So unbearably close.

           (He just needs to touch her.)

           “You lose one war, you lose them all,” she tells him, arching against him.

           She’s right, he knows.  She’s right, and yet –

           She comes undone so easily in his hands – they need to stop ending their arguments this way.

           Because this – the splendid way she hisses beneath his tongue and the subtle way she arches into his hands and the ragged pant of his name (his name) along her bruising lips – is a war they can’t afford to lose.

           (This is a war they haven’t even begun to fight, not truly – not by the light of day.)

           “I’m with you,” she whispers against his mouth, and he knows.

           He knows, he knows, he knows.

           And even still –

           Some wars aren’t about who’s right.  They’re only about who’s left.

* * *

           Arya returns to Winterfell in the dead of night.  Ghost clambers to wakefulness at the foot of Jon’s bed, the sharp rap on his door jolting him from sleep.

           It’s Davos at his door.  “In the hall, Your Grace,” he says, and nothing more.

           Jon rushes from the room, following his Hand and the faint shadows Davos’ torch casts along the walls.  When he turns the next corridor, he sees Sansa emerging from her own chambers, Brienne at her side.  Her sworn shield tugs the fallen slip of Sansa’s robe over her lady’s bared shoulder at Jon’s presence, and the motion does not go unnoticed.

           “What is it?” Sansa hisses in the night.

           He shakes his head, throat parched.

           It happens moments later.

           It happens when they breach the shadowed hall.  It happens when Arya turns from her appraisal of the room, eyes a slate grey that should be comforting, familiar – but are only haunting.  She is perfectly still in the filtering moonlight through the tall windows.  She is perfectly winter-poised (an eerie reflection of the sister beside him, and distantly, he wonders if either of them knew they’d ever grow to be thus).

           It’s a crack, a fissure – a lung-scraping quake that sunders through the silent hall.  

Ghost is the first to break the stillness, trotting up to Arya with an ease that staggers Jon’s heart in his chest.  But Arya smiles – smiles – and it’s a faint curl of her lips, before she’s bending like reeds in the wind, reaching for the direwolf’s great maw and threading her fingers through his thick fur, hands gliding over Ghost’s face and ears and neck.  Something of sorrow and fondness sweeps over her face then. “Hey, boy.  You’ve been keeping watch for me?”

           Jon is breaking toward her then, something splintering inside him he hasn’t a name for, and then she’s in his arms, and he’s lifting her up, up, and up, her feet off the ground, her arms around his neck, his broken gasp of her name smothered in her hair, and he’s trembling, absolutely shaking against her, absolutely shattered – here, to be here – with his little sister in his arms.  He holds her for an immeasurable amount of time, for eons and epochs and yet he’d hold her still, if only he could.  It never seems enough.

           Jon dips her back to the floor, breathless, glancing back at Sansa, and he stills suddenly at the way she stares at them.

           Arya keeps a hand at Jon’s elbow, her smile receding.  A soft, keen quiet overtakes her.  Her eyes shine with tears.  “Hello, Sansa.”

           Sansa takes a step, hand outreaching, and then stops herself.  She takes a sudden breath, and Jon is too overcome to think much of it, so he braces a hand at the small of Sansa’s back, urging her toward their sister.

           He doesn’t catch the way Arya’s eyes trail the intimate motion of his hand.

           “Arya.”  Sansa’s voice catches, and then she’s stumbling into her, arms wide, drawing her little sister to her chest.

           Arya’s eyes shutter closed for a moment, breathing something of relief against Sansa’s breast, her hands fisting in her robe at her back, but then she’s blinking those grey, haunting eyes open to Jon.

           He feels cracked open.  Bloody and bare.  Jon swallows the trepidation back.

           Their sister is returned.

           His hand burns beneath the memory of Sansa’s heat at his fingertips.

* * *

           Arya knows.

           She knows, Sansa thinks when she catches the derision in her little sister’s eyes from across the courtyard.  Somehow, she knows.

           Sansa steps purposely away from Jon as they walk together below the ramparts.

           He furrows his brows at the motion, a hand going to her elbow.  “Sansa,” he begins.

           She huffs her frustration, staying his hand.

           He’s always been terrible at pretenses.

           “Our sister is watching,” she mutters beneath her breath pointedly, and she can see the way his spine straightens, the way his shoulders stiffen.

           She is Sansa Stark.  And he is Jon Snow.  And not for the first time has she lamented this – though perhaps not so much as now.

           Now when he is close enough to touch and yet the chasm widens ever farther.

           This chasm called honor.

           (But there is nothing honorable about the ways in which he touches her in the dark of night.)

           Jon is silent for long moments, before he comes to an abrupt halt at the edge of the courtyard.  Sansa turns to find him staring at his boots, brows furrowed.  He heaves a sigh, a calloused hand wiping down his face, and then he’s turning swiftly, walking back the way they came.  Sansa watches him go, something constricting in her chest not unlike grief.  She looks back across the courtyard to see Arya still watching her.  Her jaw locks, her barred teeth caught behind perfectly poised lips.

           There are some things Arya will never know, she reminds herself.

           She will never know the way Jon’s eyes grow dark by candlelight, or the way his throat flexes beneath the press of her tongue, or the tremble that racks through him when she slips to her knees at the edge of his bed, bracketed by his thighs.

           And perhaps there is something secret and selfish still living in her. Perhaps there is a part of her that revels in the knowledge that while she may not be the favorite sister, she is the only sister who can drag such whines from his throat, who can reduce him to pleading, who can have him panting and desperate as he throws his head back, hand curling in her copper tresses as he pushes her mouth down on his length, hips thrusting shallowing up to meet her.

           No, Sansa reminds herself.  Arya will never know the dark visage of Jon when the last of his control snaps, when he’s pouring filth from his mouth too base even for brothels, when he’s rutting into her mouth like something feral, spilling hot and frenzied down her throat as he growls her name through clenched teeth, over and over and over again.

           No. Arya will never know the way he looks at her in the aftermath, the way he curls a quaking hand along the curve of her jaw, thumb brushing over her mouth in something perhaps too feverish to be called tender, but just as searing.

           She thinks this when she departs from the courtyard.

           She thinks this when she feels Arya’s gaze following along her back.

           She thinks this when she closes the latch behind her to Jon’s door that night.

* * *

           “You’re our brother,” Arya says like a demand.  “You’re her brother.”  It comes out slightly searing this time.

           Jon grips at the mantle over the hearth, his back to her.  “I still am.”

           “How could you be?”  Her scoff is lined with something faintly like disgust.

           Jon closes his eyes at the sound.  He draws a deep breath in, lets it to air.

           Arya shifts somewhere behind him.  “Robb would never have touched her so.”

           “Aye, and Robb isn’t the brother she begs for at night, is he?” he spits just as harshly, whirling on her.  He realizes what he says a moment before he catches the look that passes over her face.

           It’s not a look she’s ever directed at him before.

           Jon swallows thickly, the words dying in his throat.

           Arya looks away, lips pursed tight.  She’s so utterly still.  This whole while, her entire time at Winterfell, she’s been nothing but stillness.

           Jon wants to shake her suddenly, just to know she’s still there.  Just to know he isn’t the only one missing what they used to be.

           He has to tear his gaze from her – has to focus on the lick of flames in the hearth, the flare of copper too familiar to cool this rancid heat in him. “But I’m not Robb, am I?” he whispers, almost like regret, almost like penitence.

           (Almost, but not quite.)

           “No,” Arya answers, so low he might have imagined it.  “No, you’re not.”

           He isn’t sure what it is he hears in her voice, and he doesn’t have the heart to turn to her then, to see for himself, to know the damning censure of her gaze, even when her voice is indiscernible.  

           She leaves him then, the heavy door of his solar sliding shut with a nauseating finality.

           She doesn’t even leave a shadow.

           (But he thinks he should have expected this.  He thinks he should have expected a lot of things.)

* * *

           Jon has known the permanence of betrayal, the way it sinks into your marrow until you are rife with it, until the sharp tang of it has festered long and sour beneath your tongue, until it is behind every look over the shoulder and every false greeting.

           Jon sneaks a glance at Sansa beside him, catches the upturn of her chin while she listens to Lord Glover in the Hall of Lords, the resolute crispness of her blue gaze as she sits regally at the head table.

           His hand strays to the ends of her furs hanging over the arm rest.  He catches the material between his thumb and forefinger, a small comfort.  An anchor in the storm.

           He glances back out across the hall.  All eyes are on Sansa.  All but a lone, accusing pair.

           Jon catches Arya’s glare from across the hall, nearly missing her lithe frame amidst the shrouding shadows of the Stark banners.  The flicker of torchlight is not enough to obscure her frown.

           His hand slips from the edge of Sansa’s furs beneath the table, his throat dry with an apprehension he’s never felt before.

           They sit staring at each other for long moments – everything and nothing passing between them – the lords airing their complaints and their needs like a fog around him.

           “Do you agree, Your Grace?”

           Sansa’s voice comes to him like a gale.

           Jon snaps his gaze to her, blinking rapidly.

           He suddenly remembers.

           He remembers that Sansa has seen the evidence of betrayal marring his skin. She’s seen the gashes along his chest and not withheld her touch.  She’s smothered his sobs of recollection to her breast when he’s recounted the nooses – the way their feet swayed in the wind like a condemnation.

           Sansa has never been party to his betrayal.

           Sansa will never be his betrayal.

           His fingers search for the ends of her furs once more, gripping tightly beneath the cover of the table – no longer an anchor, but the thing that drowns him.

           “Aye,” he agrees, never needing to know what he agrees to.

           Sansa eyes him with something of sharpness.

           Jon looks back across the hall.  Arya is gone.

           He does not relinquish his hold.

* * *

{“Why did you bring her here?”

           Bran looks up at Sansa’s question.  It is a face she used to know once – but not anymore. She holds tight to this image of her brother like sand sifting through her fingers. She wonders if it is not perhaps easier to simply let him fall.

           She looks away finally, her hands gripping at her skirts.

           The hearth spits another log to cinders before them, and she thinks he means to keep this damn silence always, until, “Because she is needed.”}

[xxlittle0birdxx]

WIP: Jaime leaves Winterfell

Just trying to salvage that absolute mess of a scene and episode.

It was fully dark before he emerged from the tower.  The yard was quiet. Everyone must be inside eating their suppers, he thought.

‘Ser Jaime.’

Nearly everyone.

Jaime turned.  Bran sat in his wheeled chair, framed by the gate into the godswood.  ‘It will make no difference if you go.’  Jaime felt a shiver run down his spine.  The boy stared at him, his face preternaturally calm and serene.  ‘The city will fall, but you do not have to fall with it.’

Jaime gulped.  ‘You can see the future?’

‘I see the possibilities,’ Bran corrected.  ‘But the only thing I know for certain is your presence in King’s Landing will not make a difference.’  Bran met Jaime’s eyes and and Jaime got the distinct impression Bran knew exactly what he was thinking.  ‘Unless it’s only to salve your own conscience.’

Jaime’s lips pulled back in a parody of a smile.  ‘Most people would say I don’t have one,’ he said in pathetic attempt to make a jest.  Bran only gazed back at him.  Jaime nodded once toward Bran and trudged into the warm hall, brushing snowflakes from his hair and cloak.  He wound his way through the tables to the one on the far side where Brienne sat with Podrick.  They had saved him a seat.  Podrick stood and snagged an empty bowl.  He began to ladle stew into it, then set it at the empty seat across from Brienne.

Jaime dipped his spoon into the bowl and stirred it, trying to identify the contents.  Carrots and potatoes.  Onions, Turnips.  Parsnips.  Barley.  No meat, but who knew how long winter would last?  They could always grow more vegetables in the glass houses.  The few mouthfuls Jaime attempted to eat stuck in his throat.  He shoved his bowl toward Podrick.  ‘Want this?’ he asked.  ‘I’m not very hungry.’

Brienne reached across the table and touched the back of his hand.  The concern on her face was unmistakable.  ‘Just tired,’ he told her.  ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’  He grinned at her with a hint of his old roguish charm.  ‘Care to join me?’  He must not have been completely successful in concealing his feelings.  She looked at him with more than a little suspicion before rising.  Brienne didn’t look at him and only took his hand as they left the hall and turned down the corridor to their bedchamber.  

[a-maimed-man-and-bitter]

Closed starter for @oathkeeperwench

There was shit on his face. Actual shit. 

Dried on - it had been there some time, smudged down Jaime’s cheek and into his beard. Crusted and dried - he’d only noticed it because he’d happened to walk past the mirror in the hall while carrying the laundry, four soft toys and a changing mat. 

He dumped the lot at his feet and groped around frantically for a baby wipe. Scrubbed hard at his face. He would need a shower, but that was a dim and distant hope, at least until Brienne got home from work.

Besides, he still had the laundry to fold, the bedroom to tidy, a spilled box of Lego to pick up and dinner that was bubbling on the stove.

“Renly!” he called to his eldest son, who was parked in the study practically plugged in to the PlayStation. He didn’t hear him. He had super noise-cancelling headphones on, his ears full of whatever game he was playing with his friends.

Just then, the twins, the practically feral Dayna and Tyri, charged past Jaime, both screaming at the top of their lungs as they attacked each other with foam swords. Somehow in the mellee, they had both torn their clothes.

“Calm down!” Jaime yelled. It was never long before one or the other of them hurt themselves when they were behaving like this. They ignored him.

Jaime trudged upstairs. Threw the laundry on the unmade bed in the master bedroom. Damn but those pillows looked inviting right now. He suspected that if he lay down, he could be asleep within seconds.

Just as he folded the first clean towel (never easy with only one hand), baby Sel toddled in.

“Thanks for the shit on my face,” Jaime muttered to himself. But something caught his eye.

Sel had something in his hand. A strip of blue and white plastic. He was chewing on the end.

“What have you got there?” Jaime asked. He tugged it out of his son’s hand. Turned it over to look at it. 

He felt the blood drain from his face. “Where did you get this?” he asked. Hoping against hope. But of course Sel couldn't tell him.

Jaime poked his head out of the bedroom - judging by the puddle of unrolled toilet paper on the floor, Sel had been in the bathroom. He’d upended the waste basket too - Jaime suspected this had been in there.

He looked down again at the object in his hands, scarcely believing it was real. But no, there it was.

A pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test.

Just then, he heard Brienne’s key in the front door.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Cold tears lingered on my cheeks as we hiked downhill through ankle-deep snow, icy wind gusting up from Kootenay Lake and flowing full in our faces. We trudged from one streetlight to the next, squinting into the swirling darkness, lurching unsteadily. There were four or five of us migrating from a house party further up the hill, and none of us were dressed for this sudden blizzard. Paisley had me around my hips as she took careful steps down the sidewalk, and I pulled my coat tighter around my face. I’ve always been a wuss when it comes to winter, having grown up on the west coast, and I was contemplating a U-turn towards home—it was almost midnight and I knew Muppet and Buster were waiting to be cuddled. 

Since the beginning of our relationship neither Paisley or I had done much partying, as we’d settled into an increasingly cozy home life, but over Christmas we found ourselves navigating increasingly bombastic social scenarios that left us feeling like clueless ancients. Before we’d been feeling bored and under-stimulated, staying home all the time to order takeout and re-watch the Harry Potter series, but now we had the opposite problem—we were scrambling to keep up. As we crossed through the final intersection and rounded down to Front Street I wondered if there was anything at this upcoming party that could compare to luxuriating in a hot bath.

“I’m starting to ponder the nature of suffering here,” I said. “I’m like one minute away from dying in a snowbank.”      

“We’re almost there,” yelled back our friend Caelynn. “It’s right up in that building, the Hall Street Emporium. Like only two blocks further.”

“The party’s in that building? The one with the new pot dispensary?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s the one that’s putting it on.”

“Who?”

“The main grower, Niles. Apparently he’s handing out a bunch of free weed.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“That’s what my friend texted. She said there’s like 50 people there.”

I’d been keeping a close eye on the cannabis scene since the municipal election, but hadn’t actually pulled the trigger on any Star stories after the pushback I received from management over the Sensible BC thing. I didn’t want to come off to the community as overzealous, too pot-friendly, but marijuana seemed like the main Nelson story that wasn’t being told. There was a long-standing culture of silence around the controversial plant, of secrecy, but with legalization coming I felt like it wasn’t necessary for everyone to hide anymore. Paisley and I had checked out the new place a few weeks earlier, when gossip reached us, and we’d been surprised by how amateur the operation was. It was being run by a 24-year-old former forest fire fighter named Marv, and he’d essentially dragged a glass countertop into an empty room devoid of decorations and proceeded to sell weed and a variety of edibles to whoever walked through the door—he didn’t even check for ID. 

I figured it was only a matter of time before the police intervened.

“That guy Marv is such a heat score,” I said. “It’s like he’s daring the police to raid him.”

“What are they gonna do?” Caelynn asked, defiant. “It’s gonna be legal in like a year anyways, right? Fuck those pigs.”

“They may not be able to do anything right now, but he’s still going about this the wrong way.”

“What’s the right way, then?”

“People appreciate some professionalism. I mean, once legalization comes everything’s going to be so different, above board, and there’s not going to be room for people like him.”

“You wanna put money on that?”

I thought about it for a second. “I bet you 50 bucks he’s shut down within three months.”

Caelynn smiled. “Three months from today? 50 bucks? I’ll shake on that.”

A few minutes later we reached the party, and noisily banged the snow off our boots as we entered the building. The first thing I saw was a baby, unattended, crawling across the floor. Mounted speakers blared Shambhala-style EDM, there was a table crowded with ravaged grocery store appetizers, and a whole variety of bongs and smoking apparatuses surrounding a trio of leather couches. In the corner was a pile of air filtration tubing, attached to a heavy-looking appliance the size of a dishwasher, but none of it was turned on. Marv was drunkenly circling the party, taking pictures, and wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was scrawny to the point of looking emaciated, and his thin moustache was dusted with white powder. He careened across the room to embrace Caelynn, then fished a joint out from his toque and held it out in my direction. 

We lit it.

“Newspaper dude,” he said, taking a toke. “You’ve got a pretty fucking cool job.”

“It’s Will, and this is my partner Paisley.”

“Your partner?”

“I always hated the term ‘girlfriend’, and we’re not married, so…”

“You are fucking beautiful,” Marv said, as he shook her hand. “Don’t mind me, I’m really fucking high right now. I’m actually totally harmless.”

Paisley laughed uncomfortably. “It’s all good. Thanks for having us.”

“It’s not me, man. It’s all Niles. Have you guys met Niles yet?” he asked, his eyes darting. “He organized this whole shindig, he’s the guy. Hey Niles, Niles! Come here, man.”

Niles shook his head apologetically to the people he was standing with, then sauntered over. He was in his early fifties, with a Swayze-esque mane of golden hair, wearing a baby blue suit. His walnut brown tan made his eyes seem supernaturally white, his golden bowtie was comically oversized, and he even kept a chained watch in his side pocket. It almost looked like he was in costume, like he could be tea partying with the Mad Hatter himself.

“The Kootenay Goon,” Niles said. “It’s an honour. I’ve been reading your stuff for months now, wondering when I would get the chance to meet the new shit disturber in town.”

I shook his hand, half-standing from the couch. “Yeah, shit disturber’s about right.”

“And here we have your lady love—Paisley, right?” he said, turning to her. “That was one of the first articles I read by you, Goon, the column you wrote about her. I remember thinking: ‘people should write about love in the newspaper more often’! I thought ‘when was the last time you saw someone fill two pages of a community newspaper with an ode to his girlfriend?’ I find kids think it’s cool to be nonchalant these days, to never emotionally commit to anybody or anything, and I ask you: what ever happened to true romance?”

Niles sunk down on the couch beside us, crossed his legs and began bouncing his foot in the air. Paisley and I shared a quick glance, acknowledging his Shakespearean flamboyance with secret smirks. He took a few tokes from the joint and passed it to Paisley, then draped his elbow on my shoulder. There was an instant familiarity there, a comfort level I wouldn’t typically have with a stranger, and pretty soon our conversation had veered into philosophical territory. He asked me if I believe in pure, unadulterated love. Did it really exist?

I sat forward, tugging at my beard thoughtfully. “For me, there’s just so many things I’ve lost faith in — like I used to be a hyper-Christian teenager and then I ditched on the whole God thing — and love, like human love, is one of the last things I actually believe in, you know?”

“You were a Christian kid?”

“Totally. Worked at a Bible camp in the summers, did missionary trips, the whole deal.”

“And what ended things for you?”

“My youth pastor was arrested for molesting a teenage boy down in Mexico, summer of 2005, during a missions trip. He was a father figure to me, so I started questioning: if I can’t trust him, and he taught me about God, then how can I trust what I know about God?”

“What a funny word, God.”

“I thought you guys would get along,” said Marv, stumbling off. Niles whipped over to a nearby fridge and returned with three beers. We clinked them together and took long pulls as a handful of party-goers began to dance around us. I felt a pleasant heat in my eyeballs. It was starting to get crowded, and loud.

“The vision I have for this place, Goon,” Niles said. “This wouldn’t just be a dispensary. It would be a smoking lounge, a social club … I was thinking maybe massages too, like a spa. Maybe a counsellor, mental health coach, that sort of thing.”

“I’ve heard that there are multiple new ones getting ready to open. The Green Rush, they’re calling it.”

“Yeah, but everyone’s too chickenshit to pull the trigger because they don’t know which way city hall will swing. They let Phil run his club because he keeps things below the radar, but nobody’s really tried strutting out into the light with their balls out yet.”

“Well, except for you.”

He smiled humbly.

“Well, Deb Kozak’s supposed to be more pot-friendly than Dooley,” I said. “That could make a difference in how things go down.”

He sighed. “They’re all the same. All three of them. There was no real choice there. It’s not about their opinions on cannabis, or their public stances or whatever. At the end of the day it’s about the money, and when the time comes they’re going to want their cut. Doesn’t matter who’s sitting in the big seat. They’re all so full of shit.”

He paused for a moment to take a thoughtful pull from his beer, then continued.

“I mean I’ve lived here since 1976, and there’s never been an honest politician in this town. Not once. They’re all lizard-fucking slime bags, all of them dirty in one way or another. You can’t trust a single word they say, remember that. It’s all the same pablum bullshit they’re force-feeding everybody. They say they’re going to act, they have all kinds of pretty words, but what do they actually do? What do they actually accomplish?” he asked. 

“Nothing.”

After chatting intensely for twenty minutes, Niles circulated off to the rest of the party and Paisley and I found ourselves awkwardly clutching our half-finished beers. Caelynn pulled up a chair, sat down on it backwards, and we re-started an earlier debate on the moral standing of Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. I engaged hard. Paisley put her head on my shoulder and we accepted another joint that was being passed around, sitting comfortable in the rolling fog of bong smoke. My consciousness began to fuzz.

“Oh, I love him,” I heard Paisley say. “What’s his name?”

I tried to locate my partner, distinct amidst the chaos of bodies around me. There were lots of colours. She was down on one knee, laughing, as a German shepherd took happy tongue swipes at her face. Brutus. I looked beyond her to where Snapper stood, leash in hand, wearing a sleeveless jersey that nearly reached his knees. He said something to Paisley, and she said something back, while I tried to maneuver into a standing position. I tried to take a swig of my beer but found it empty. When did that happen?

“Oh, that was tragic,” said Blayne, appearing beside me. She was wearing a bright red jumper, and had her hair braided into pigtails. “You should’ve seen the look of disappointment on your face.”

I smiled. “All these beers keep ending up empty.”

“Funny how that works.”

“I was just heading over to rescue my partner from Snapper before you showed up.”

“Oh, come on. He’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” I laughed, and then I doubled over and laughed some more. “Not that bad! Not that bad!” I knew my reaction was disproportionate, maybe nonsensical, but it was just one of those evenings. Blayne had her hand on my shoulder, trying to pull me back under control, and she was laughing now too — but she was laughing at me, laughing.

“You can be kind of an asshole, huh?” she said.

“I’ve made peace with that, yeah.”

“What’s Snapper ever done to you?”

I looked over to where he was chatting with Paisley. I didn’t like how close he was standing to her. She glanced over and made eye contact with me, then looked away again. I’ve never been a particularly possessive boyfriend, but something told me I needed to keep her away from him specifically. I turned to find Blayne blinking up into my face, because I’d failed to answer her.

“He hasn’t done anything to me, I just don’t like his energy.”

“He’s actually a really generous person. You guys could be friends, if you gave him a chance. You’d just have to stop being such a fucking snob.”

“I’m not a snob.”

“No? What are you then?”

Blayne and I sat back down on the couch, still bickering. Dru and Cy were sitting on the couch opposite from us, hand-rolling cigarettes on the coffee table. The music had a pulse, like a heartbeat, and I felt time melt. What was this sensation? I lifted my hands and marvelled at how the blood pulsed into my fingertips. My gaze settled on a dude wearing a psychedelic hoodie, on the sunburst erupting from his armpit. Wow. A woman walked by with a toddler on her hip, her billowing brown hair interlaced with red highlights, beads and little scraps of leather. I wondered what was going on in the minds of these strangers, if they were experiencing a fraction of what I was. This was one more moment, in this interminable line of moments, and who could say if it was any more special than any other? I wondered if anyone else were to tell a story about this moment, would it be different? What were they feeling, what did they see?

The Kootenay Goon

[nonameinanytongue]

Review, Game of Thrones 7.07: The Dragon and the Wolf

“And when it came at me I didn’t think about the world. Not at all. As soon as it opened its mouth the world disappeared for me, right down its black throat.”

‘The Dragon and the Wolf’ is the show’s longest episode to date, but it doesn’t feel it. From the all-star meetup at the Dragonpit, the ruin where the dreams of the Targaryen dynasty withered away to nothing, to the tender fairy tale sex scene between Jon and Dany, it moves with understated grace toward its appalling, inevitable conclusion. Along the way, it lives where the show has always lived: in conversation.

Seeing nearly every one of the show’s main players gather together to hash out the fate of the Seven Kingdoms (AND FUCKING CONFIRM CLEGANEBOWL) is a real joy. Daenerys’s entry on dragonback feels sadly prophetic as Drogon sets foot in the place where his last stunted ancestors lived and died, and the looks of terror on the faces of Westeros’s great and powerful at their first glimpse of a wight feel like a bitter condemnation of all the backstabbing and bloodshed that filled the series’ first six seasons. Here, finally, is the enemy. It’s a somber moment.

Even Cersei is shaken to her core, which makes her false pledge to march north and her lunatic unwillingness to listen to Jaime’s pleas to honor it all the more sickening. With nothing left but an empty dream of power and one last child to ruin, she chooses to turn her back on the only war that matters and keep playing the dismal, ruinous power games that have already cost her everything. The horrible moment in which she debates unleashing ser Gregor on her twin and lover feels like watching something vital break, like a green branch splintering and twisting. Whatever genuine love existed between them, it’s dead now.

Lena Headey has always been one of the show’s strongest performers, and her portrayal of Cersei as a damaged, vulnerable woman emulating the system that broke her has never felt more timely or more poignant. Her childlike chant of “I won’t hear it, I won’t hear it!” when Tyrion tries to offer his condolences over the deaths of her children is as bottomlessly sad as anything the show has delivered to date. I don’t think it’s much of a reach to say that to Cersei, sold to a drunken rapist by her father, tortured and humiliated by the church and her subjects, stripped of the children into whom she poured all her love and hopes, the act of accepting another person’s feelings as real has become something dangerous, an invitation to loss and the helpless terror of love.

In the North, Sansa and Arya confront that same terrible void and choose to trust in one another rather than turn their backs on reality. The buildup to Littlefinger’s groveling, miserable death in the great hall of Winterfell feels, in total, needlessly complicated and obtuse, full of feints and double-feints and resolved by Bran at an arbitrary moment, but the emotional material along the way has been strong and the conclusion is ugly and difficult to look at. Littlefinger was perhaps the show’s most emptily ambitious character, a man for whom power and status were an end unto themselves, whom nobody liked or trusted, who envied everyone, coveted everything, and nursed a hollow place inside himself until it grew to fill his entire being. Watching his long and terrible game, the source of so much of the series’ bloodshed, implode in the space of moments is like watching the pus ooze out of a zit ignored for too long. In the end, he was so much less than the sum of all his scheming.

The rapprochement between the sisters Stark is a breath of fresh air. The easy chemistry between actresses Maisie Williams and Sophie Turner makes the whole muddled story feel worthwhile as two people who might easily have been led into conflict by their traumatic pasts take a long, hard look at themselves and choose another path. It’s that kind of relief that gives the finale, with its comparative lack of spectacle and chaos, so much power. Consider Bran’s vision of Rhaegar and Lyanna, so clearly and so tenderly in love, marrying in secret by the riverside. The grisly casus belli that sparked Robert’s Rebellion is transmuted in an instant into a symbol of hope.

And speaking of hope, life, and love, Jon and Dany finally fuck. Bran’s narration of Rhaegar and Lyanna’s story over the moment they lock eyes across the threshold of Daenrys’s cabin has a raw, almost elemental power. “He loved her,” he says softly, “and she loved him.” There, in Daenerys’s bed, among the twining limbs, is the antithesis to the threat from beyond the Wall. Stopping the dead might require an army, but what binds people to fight for their comrades, their country, their families against such an abomination is love. The world of the living has to be a place worth, well, living in.

Which brings us at last to the arrival of the army of the dead and the Night King’s destruction of the Wall. Think back for a moment. How many episodes, how many seasons have ended with a triumphant, awe-inspiring shot of Daenerys and her dragons, her armies, her fleets? The choice to end this one on a gruesome mirror image can hardly be an accident. As Tormund and Beric flee the ruination of the great barricade which has kept humanity safe for millennia, as the reanimated Viserion soars above the icy wreckage, the Night King on his back, and the numberless dead trudge into Westeros, how do those stirring spectacles of Dany’s military might transform?

Perhaps this horror, in the end, is what we’ve always been cheering for.

[anonwriter27]

Chapter 5

“No!” “It’s really not that bad…”

It was Tommen’s first visit to the North and Myrcella hadn’t been entirely honest about her living conditions during their phone calls.

“Dear God no!”

He had walked the perimeter of her apartment and repeatedly said ‘no’ to everything he saw. Myrcella wished she hadn’t invited him to see her place. He was going to head back South with more worries than he arrived with.

“Okay! Well I need to drop some stuff off at work, wanna come?” “Anything to get out of here.” He said and made his way to the front door. “Actually… maybe we should take the fire escape.”

Tommen looked at her pleadingly with his eyes, she simply shot back a look that said ‘please don’t ask.’

They walked to Winterfell Estate, trudging through the snow that went past there ankles. It was a Sunday and she hoped the Starks didn’t mind her dropping off some books for Robb.

As she entered the house Tommen relaxed, “Now I’d be quite happy if you lived here.” He said, and he had a point. Winterfell was beautiful; old oak furniture, bay windows, warmly lit chandeliers, it was the ideal house. Her home in Kings Landing had been updated every summer to keep up with the latest interior design trends; it would probably be unrecognisable to Myrcella now.

She walked across the hall to drop the books off on the side table with a little note saying ‘for Robb.’ As she turned to leave she saw the man himself in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick.

“Myrcella?” “Hi! Sorry! I was just dropping off some more books for you.” “And on your day off, thank you” he smiled at her. “Oh it was no problem.” She said and the two held each others gaze for longer than either of them noticed.

Tommen, however, did notice and cleared his throat in an attempt to break his sister out of whatever trance she had been put under.

“Oh! This is my brother Tommen, Tommen this is Robb my…. Um, well…” “Myrcella helps me out around here.” he said and shook Tommen’s hand. Tommen looked at Myrcella the same way Jon had looked at Robb, both men seemingly aware of something their relatives had yet to figure out.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Myrcella has told me a lot about you.” Tommen pointed out, enjoying his fairly level headed sister squirm and blush.

“Has she really?” Robb asked, intrigue and hope etched on his face. “I haven’t told him ‘a lot’ about you… I mean I see you a lot and you’re a big part of my life… I mean because I see you a lot, so really it would be weird if I didn’t tell my own brother about you right?” She finally finished her rambling.

The two men looked equally confused, however Tommen also looked amused.

“Well we better get going” she’d had enough of Tommen’s mocking. “Well it was nice to meet you Tommen, I’ll see you tomorrow Myrcella.” Robb began to walk into the study leaving the siblings alone. “Yes, tomorrow… I’ll see you…then.”

Tommen looked between Myrcella and the space where Robb use to be. A grin spreading wide across his face.

“Let’s go.” And so the Baratheon siblings left Winterfell, both happy but for different reasons.

Tommen left Monday morning before Myrcella went to work. She loved having her brother here and watching him leave had her brushing away a few stray tears. When she came in to work Robb new instantly something was wrong. Her clothes weren’t melancholy exactly, but they were plain, no animals or peculiar detailing; it was simple, something rarely seen on Myrcella Baratheon.

“Let’s go outside today.” He suggested. “Outside? It’s snowing.” “And?” She thought about it, “okay.”  

They walked a decent way away from the house and the snow was getting heavier the further they went.

“Favourite colour?” “You want me to pick one colour out of the entire spectrum? That’s just cruel.” She answered with a teasing lilt. “Okay, favourite gift?”

Myrcella became all giddy, “When I was little I was obsessed with Harry Potter.” “You don’t say.” He chuckled referring to the movie collection she had insisted they watch.

“You laugh but I was one of the many children waiting by the door for my Hogwarts acceptance letter. Anyway, one day Joffrey was in one of his foul moods and said I belonged in Slytherin. Looking back now it was a ridiculous thing to cry over, but at the time I took it to heart and locked myself in my room for days. One day my uncle Tyrion came to visit, he came in my room, handed me a box and said ‘if I was the sorting hat you’d be a Gryffindor,’ and he left.  Inside the box was a Gryffindor scarf and I felt like the most important little girl in the world.” She smiled blissfully at the memory.

“So what happened to this wonderful scarf?” He asked, curiously getting the better of him. “My mother confiscated it. She said I had to grow up and focus on my studies, not fantasise about being a witch.”

They walked on further in comfortable silence, but Robb noticed the shadow never left Myrcella’s face.

“So I’m guessing Tommen has gone back home?” “Yeah, he left this morning.” She confirmed and buried her face in her scarf to keep him from seeing her sad face. He noticed though.

“Maybe he can come up and visit again soon, me and Jon were saying we should all have a meal together. You know you, me, Jon, Ygritte, Bran, and Tommen if you like?” She smiled that beaming smile at him, the one that made him feel special for causing it. “I would love that! Thank you.”

They decided to head back to the house, the snow was coming down really heavy now and Myrcella was scared for Robb walking in thick snow. Then she realised something, he had walked this entire time without her assistance, just his walking stick.

“Hey!” “What?” “Your walking on your own!” “Well I’m using my stick…” He said, but she could see him smiling. “This is great!” She said and she hugged him.

It was the first time she had ever hugged him, when she realised she jumped back and apologised.

“It’s okay.” Was all he said, he smiled at her and they walked back to the house.

When they got in they were greeted by an open fire and a boiled kettle. Myrcella turned to see snowflakes melting in Robb’s hair.

“I’ll go get a towel.” She said laughing and Robb couldn’t help but join her.

She began to towel dry his hair as gently as she could. His hair was drying even curlier than usual and Myrcella was trying to untangle each strand.

It was then she noticed how close they were; her face inches from his. She couldn’t stop her mind from going into overdrive. Is this okay? Does he mind that I’m here? Should I step back? As she went to put her last thought into action she felt Robb’s hands on her waist. She stopped moving the towel and looked into his eyes. She didn’t know what the look they shared meant, but it was intense and it drew her closer to him.

They were so close now, seconds away from changing what they were into something so much more. However they were interrupted, embarrassingly, by Robb’s mother.

“Ah there you two are! I was beginning to…”

The two broke apart as quick as they could but it wasn’t quick enough to escape Mrs Starks knowing gaze.

“Your both soaking! Myrcella go upstairs, third door on the right, you can borrow some of Arya’s clothes.” She offered kindly.

Myrcella thanked her and quickly went upstairs, leaving Robb with his mother.

“Nothing happened.” “I see.” Was all she said but he could tell she was thinking much more.

“Well I better get back to work. I’ll email you the partnership documents tomorrow, you deserve a night off.” And she left, Robb shook his head at her antics.

When Myrcella came back she was wearing an oversized jumper and leggings, and to Robb she looked adorable.

“I better head back home.” She said, though the snow hadn’t stopped and she was a little nervous about going outside.

“To Wolfs Wood? You’ll freeze, you can stay here tonight.” He offered. “I couldn’t do that, I don’t want to be an inconvenience.” “Well your in my wing of the house, and you do all the cooking  and cleaning, so your not really an  inconvenience to anyone.”

She thought about it for a while, “You’re sure?” “Positive.”

They’d just finished watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban when they decided to switch off the Tv and just talk.

“My mother tells me that my little sister has a crush on Gendry.” “What?” “She’s been visiting the building site where he works more often than usual, they’ve been having lunch together during his break.” “I wonder why he didn’t tell me” she contemplated, it was unlike Gendry to keep secrets. “Probably the same reason Arya didn’t tell us, the merciless teasing.” They laughed together and she knew he had a point.

Myrcella thought back to the day Robb got to know her and realised she had not shown him the same courtesy. Would that be okay though? They’d comes a long way in their relationship and she didn’t want to overstep any boundaries that would cause him to shut her out again.

“So what’s your story?” She asked, once she’d finally plucked up enough courage. “My story is depressing, far less riveting then yours.” “Mine was not riveting. Besides you got to know me, can’t I know you?”

He appraised her, wondering if his story would push her further away.

“ I joined the army when I was twenty two, I was put in the front line against the Walkers. Me, Jon and our friends Sam and Theon all joined together. Heroes of Westeros, that’s what we thought we were; but we weren’t prepared for the Walkers. How do you win a war against people who don’t care whether they live or die, that have no rational train of thought?”

Myrcella was hooked on every word. Uncle Jaime never spoke of the war and she had always wanted to know what happened but never dared to ask.

“Jon and Sam were relocated to The Wall, they were watchers trying to decipher the enemy’s next move. Me and Theon were left on the front line. We saw things you couldn’t imagine, suffered things you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.” He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the memories of what he’d seen.

“I got hit pretty bad, my right shoulder got the worst of it and I couldn’t breathe. They took me to the wall to recover and I was put on bed rest. The wall was where all our letters were sent to. While I was there I heard that my father had passed. I knew he was ill before I left but I didn’t expect it, I wasn’t prepared. My grief consumed me and I refused to get better. Jon and Sam eventually snapped me out of it but my recovery had been delayed, which is why I’m in the sorry state I’m in now.” He said lightly but Myrcella could see the pain in his eyes and the anger he felt towards himself.

“When the war ended I came home and everyone was the same, and I resented them for it. I wanted to be the same, but I wasn’t, not after what I’d seen. So I pushed them all away and handled the family business on my own. I think Sansa and Rickon are still pretty pissed with me about that, but Jon, Bran and Arya, they wouldn’t stop pushing me. Eventually I caved and let them visit and over time I let Jon help with my recovery.”

Myrcella wanted to assure him that his siblings would understand what he’d been through, but she’d never met Sansa or Rickon, and it wasn’t her place to assume.

“I was getting better, until I heard what had happened to Theon.” “What happened to him?” Myrcella found herself asking. “That’s the thing, I don’t know exactly, he went missing and no one has heard anything since. Perhaps if I’d been there with him…” “You were hurt, your not to blame Robb.” “I’m sorry, I’ve rambled on about the most depressing things.” “Don’t apologise. I’m glad that you shared this with me.”

There was no need to say any more or push for details. Myrcella knew more about the man in front of her, and her admiration for him only grew.

They fell asleep next to each other on the sofa, and it was the best night sleep Robb had had in a long time. Jon and Mrs. Stark found them the next morning, before they quietly left the estate deciding to let the pair sleep in.