#jon bringing back the late night wars

[visenyaism]

Sorry if you’ve been asked this but what do you think of all the rot in asoiaf? Obv some of it is related to the problems with monarchy but I feel like a lot of it isn’t and it just leaves me curious. Like cold hands or people killed by the others idk what that symbolizes there. Jon is in a land in which rot is in stasis from the cold and it’s creepy as shit. And then there’s stuff that could have multiple interpretations like dany by proxy of selmy experiencing bio warfare with the corpses like I know some people see it as the fall of old ghis but I wondered if maybe it was a sign to dany about breaking the wheel and doing as her ancestors did. Idk I know it’s a nasty series and sometimes grrm is just doing stuff so that it’s gross but I feel like rot comes up SO much and I people are usually talking online about like Tywin when it comes to rot.

Oh one of my favorite things about the asoiaf series is how heavy-handed george rr martin is with the rot symbolism. and (at the risk of sounding like an mfa vomited on my keyboard) the way that the political, pestilential, societal, and climatological aspects of the rot symbolism all interconnect.

In a society founded on so many feudal evils that has perpetuated for centuries, something has to give. It is a recurring theme in these books that violations of human decency under feudalism cause cataclysmic societal collapse represented through literal and metaphorical pestilence.

There’s the sociopolitical collapse in the riverlands caused by war of human decency and norms like guest right and prohibitions on kinslaying or cannibalism just dedicating away as times get hard. broken men. bodies left to rot in the sun for the crows to feast on. There’s the fermenting wildfire under every major street in Kings Landing. There’s the familial/relational decay of incest especially the targaryens and the lannisters. The people who hold power and that society rot, despite everyone’s best efforts at keeping up appearances: Robert Baratheon the “war hero” dies of a very nasty festering stomach wound he got in a drunken hunting accident, Tywin gets shot on the privy and his corpse putefies in the sept.

The climate stuff is also very salient. The series starts during late summer and as things get worse and worse in the world declines into the autumn where the summer fruit and all of the abundance is literally rotting through the hands of the characters. (see: renly’s peach vs doran’s blood oranges!) The cold up at the wall keeps the rot at bay for a while, but it does not entirely stop it. Coldhands’ hands are still blackening. Things are still unraveling at the hinges of the world. that’s pretty representative of the way that the violence of the border wall and the penal colony stationed there to patrol it are not sustainable. The decline of the night’s watch from a once proud order to a penal colony full of cruel and often impoverished convicts dropped off there by circumstance is a symptom of the society that sends people up there. But something still has to give. The wall will fall down and the existential crisis will come, it’s just slowed.

Critically, there is also the forgotten parable of Old Valyria: a society founded on extreme cruelty and slavery which eventually experiences cataclysm coming up from the very tunnels they send the enslaved into to die for the empire. A lot of what Daenerys experiences in Essos is an extension of that commentary on slave societies to me. Like. as the slavers try and reconquer places dany has liberated, people fleeing the violence, bring disease like the bloody flux with them. The rot creeps back. (important: disease and rot in the series is not always something people get for being morally bad. it often happens to people who just have no choice but to live in these places.)

But that’s why I think the way Volantis is described really ties a lot of those elements of the rot symbolism together. This is a society that has founded itself up from out of the corpse of old valyria. The city maintains some veneer of old glory, but the fountains are dry and the paint is chipping. The people there eat food that is so sweet it literally causes your teeth to rot out if you were to consume it every day. In terms of climate, I think it’s relevant that it is described as extremely, almost disgustingly, humid, and everything is excessively perfumed to cover up a tangible smell of decay.The air is quite literally cloying and difficult to breathe. You feel dirty after walking through it. The evil of slavery is rotting the city to its core in the same way that the evil of feudalism and the wars for the iron throne is affecting the city of king’s landing.

To wrap allllll this up. Rot is a signal that obviously societal collapse is coming, but it’s also transitional: the empire of old ghis brought about its downfall, and then valyria found itself on the same principles which brought about its own downfall, and then the Targaryen went to westeros and engineered their collapse in Kings Landing while the freehold did the same essos. I think the climatological and disease aspects of it are really heavy-handed symbolism that something has to give in the societies and we’re at the point in the series where that’s about to happen.

I think the ultimate arc of the series ends in some form of significant societal collapse, but instead of building upon a rotten foundation again people are going to have try and hope for something new and gather the courage to build that.,quite literally dreaming of the spring.

[pastanest]

Jon Snow x she/her!reader

warning: brief reference to attempted SA

part one can be found here

Yours - Part Two

Tension rose between the two hot-headed siblings as they discussed the plan for their future, where such a plan would take them. Sansa was set on starting a war with Ramsay Bolton and taking back their home, saving you in the process, but having already been aged by the ways of war, Jon stood to his feet.

“I am tired of fighting. It’s all I’ve done since I left home. I’ve killed brothers of the Night’s Watch, I’ve killed wildlings, I’ve killed men that I admire, I hanged a boy, younger than Bran! I’ve fought, and I lost.” He was exhausted, in mind, body and soul.

But when Sansa stepped toward her brother and held his gaze, she knew exactly what she needed to say.

“You have not lost, because she is still waiting for you. She will believe until the day she dies that you are coming to save her, because that is who you are to her. You’ve fought, and now you must fight for her.” 

Something flickered in Jon then, a spark that only you could ignite. “I have always fought for her.”

“Then do it once more. This time, knowing she is on the other side. If we don’t take back the north, we’ll never be safe. I want you to help me, but I’ll do it myself if I have to.” Sansa raised an eyebrow, seeing the fire in her brother’s eyes and knowing that you have succeeded, as you always have, in bringing Jon Snow back to his senses.

It was only then, Sansa chose to disclose the nature of your capture. With every detail, Jon’s blood boiled in his veins. Chained by one wrist to the leg of a bed, forced to live each day and night on the castle floor, in complete darkness, save for when Ramsay Bolton decided to pay you a visit for a regular beating. That particular comment made Jon visibly flinch, fists clenching at the thought of getting his hands on the man that thought he had any right to touch you. While Sansa tried to free you, the door to the room you were trapped in was locked and she did not have time to search for the key, you would not let her, instead you had been shouting for her to go, to escape to the Wall, to Jon. 

In that moment, Jon Snow knew he was ready to beat Ramsay Bolton to death. And that was only exacerbated by the raven he decided to send to the wall, addressed to Jon, regarding his sister and younger brother, Rickon, with disgusting threats. There was no mention of you in the letter, but Sansa assured Jon this was a good thing, because it meant Ramsay did not intend to use you as a bargain, he did not think you were important enough, so he would keep you alive as his plaything. Jon did not find that as comforting as Sansa had intended. 

Following Sansa’s advice, Jon arranged a meeting with Ramsay Bolton upon gathering his forces. By no means did they have enough men to truly beat Ramsay, but Jon was certain that he alone could blaze through an army, knowing you were on the other side of it. 

Naturally, Ramsay arrived late to their meeting, leaving Jon, Sansa, and their accompanying party of Lords and Ladies from the northern houses that had rallied behind them, waiting in the clear field that surrounded Winterfell until Ramsay Bolton approached on his horse with his own display of Lords.

Smiling at Sansa on his arrival, Ramsay addressed her first, then looked to Jon, seemingly bemused by the sight of him as he greeted him with far less respect, if that is what his greeting to his wife could be deemed as. 

“Come, bastard, you don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell - why lead those poor souls to slaughter? There’s no need for a battle, get off your horse and kneel. I am a man of mercy”

Jon smirked at him. “You’re right, there’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men dont need to die, only one of us. Let’s end this the old way - you against me.”

And Jon so wished the bastard opposite him would be foolish enough to agree. He could be the greatest fighter in the history of Westeros, and Jon would fancy his chances, for you.

Unfortunately, Ramsay laughed at that suggestion. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good, maybe not. I don't know if I’d beat you, but I know that my army will beat yours. I have 6,000 men, you have, what, half that? Not even?”

Jon was thoroughly enjoyed taunting such a petulant child. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you, when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?”

Ramsay pointed to Jon, laughing. “He’s good, very good. Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

It was then, Sansa spoke up. “How do we know you have him?”

And with a nod from Ramsay, one of his men threw the severed head of Rickon’s direwolf in between their respective parties.

Trying her best not to show any kind of reaction on her face, Sansa nodded. “And what of my maid?”

Ramsay shrugged. “Well, dear wife, with you gone, I will have no choice but to turn to the others at my disposal, to…serve me.” 

It took more strength than Jon Snow had ever had to conjure up for anything, to not launch himself from his horse and tackle Ramsay from his, beating him into the earth below. With everything he had, he held onto what was at stake, what Sansa had advised him would keep him safest, and held his ground, restricting his visceral response to Ramsay’s words to the slightest clench of his own horse’s reins. “I wonder, will your men want to fight for you when they find out the only women you can keep at your side are your prisoners? A man who cannot please a woman is hardly one to inspire the heart’s of men.”

Ramsay tilted his head to the side, his ego clearly pricked by the notion of being undesirable. “Do you mean to tell me, bastard, that you broke your sacred Oath as well as deserted your post?”

At that, Jon scoffed. “No man would ask such a question, but a boy would. Killing your father does not make you a man, neither does forcing yourself upon a thousand slaves.”

Ramsay composed himself, Jon only picking up on the tiniest flash of a tantrum behind his eyes. “I have heard of your righteousness, bastard. That, I suppose, is the one thing you must have received from your father, and look where it got him.”

Oh, Jon Snow knew he was going to enjoy dragging out Ramsay Bolton’s death for as long as possible. 

For the rest of the day, following the conclusion of their meeting, Jon’s mind was spinning with the threats Ramsay Bolton had made against you and your virtue. He hoped to the Gods he had not given himself away in his fists clenched the reigns of his horse, but that was the most he could do to conceal the fury that raged within him. Even during the continued discussions of the battle plan he had formed with his men, thoughts of you tugged at the back of Jon’s mind constantly. Having once again butted heads with Sansa, she began to take her leave from the tent Jon was situated in.

Turning to face him one last time, she held his gaze. “If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?”

Jon’s heart sank in his chest, immediately understanding what she was insinuating. “I won't ever let him touch you, or (Y/N), again. I’ll protect you both, I promise.”

In her angered, traumatized state, Sansa seemed almost offended at such a sincere promise. “No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.”

He dared not argue with her, but he knew that she was wrong. Jon would protect her, and you, even if it killed him. To die for someone he loved would be a better demise than his first. 

That night, Jon Snow laid in the bed of his tent and stared up at the ceiling. He knew he needed the rest, but could not quiet his mind in the wake of what the dawn would bring. A war like none he had ever faced, with you on the other side. Reaching into the shirt pocket that sat directly above his heart, Jon retrieved the folded, aged piece of parchment that was worn and faded by the countless instances of him rereading it. Huffing beside his bed, Ghost nudged the back of Jon’s hand, bringing a soft smile back to his face as he tore his gaze from the page. 

“We’ll get her back, Ghost, we have to.” He whispered, and Ghost breathed deeply in response, agreeing in his own way.

Following suit, Jon took a deep breath of his own and closed his eyes, folding the parchment back into a neat square and slotting it back into his pocket, feeling a piece of him returning as he did. He envisioned himself as the boy he once was, lying in the godswood, under the weirwood tree, with his head on your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair. If he focussed hard enough, he could almost feel your fingertips against his scalp. That was the only sensation that could bring rest to his racing mind, on the eve of war.

The next morning, the sun rose high, illuminating the field of battle as Jon rode his men to their frontline. Seeing the army that stood between himself and you, Jon began to doubt whether he really could make it to the other side. That was, until a raven flew from one side of the field to the other. Upon one of the wildlings shooting it down, Jon was handed a small scroll of parchment tied with a torn black cord, a slightly crooked sword charm hanging from it, and a strand of your hair that fell with a wind that slowed time to a stop as Jon untied it with trembling hands. Seeing red, his eyes scanned the page, the words that were written on it, and the heart that he firmly believed still resided with you dropped to the field below him.

“She screamed terribly for you when I tried to take this from her. The bastard’s common whore screamed loudest for me, in the end. But fear not, she won’t be making a sound like that again, or any other for that matter. 

I’ll let you watch her rot, if you like. 

Come and see.”

The parchment fell from Jon Snow’s shaking fists, landing on the ground atop the hair that Ramsay Bolton had ripped from your head, but the necklace stayed clenched in Jon’s fist. It couldn’t be true, he told himself, he would feel it if you were no longer there, if you were not waiting for him anymore. As hard as it hammered in his chest, his heart felt the same way it did before, that it was not truly with him. It would have returned to him, were you not there to take care of it anymore, he thought. But deep within his soul, Jon knew that his heart would stay with you long after yours had stopped beating, for his heart had been with you when it had stopped beating in his own body. He truly believed that you were what had brought him back to this life in that sense. What would be the purpose in bringing his greatest motivation for winning such a battle, leading him to the field of war and then taking you from him. It did not make sense, Jon thought, and used that to rationalize to himself that Ramsay Bolton was simply lying for the sake of distracting him. Little did Ramsay know, Jon’s mind was solely on you regardless of such a threat.

And as he unclenched his fists to tie the black cord at the back of his neck, icy gaze fixed on the form he recognised on the opposite side of the field, Jon Snow knew that he would make it through any number of men to punish the one that dared to take a single hair from your head.

The short lived hope of being able to save his younger brother, Rickon, only set Jon’s resolve further into stone. Through a sea of arrows, Jon Snow rode his horse until he was thrown from it, and then he stood. Arrows at his feet that stuck upright, having failed in harming him in a way that reassured him the Gods were on his side once more. And as he faced the army that charged towards him, a single man serving as the front line, Jon’s life flashed before his eyes. He saw your smile, and over the sound of horses and men, he heard your laugh, your call of his name. For the briefest moment, Jon swore he could see you standing at one of the windows of Winterfell in the distance, but the version of you remembered so fondly was years younger than the one that he was here to save. The emotional weight of the sword charm at his chest and your first letter to him folded in the pocket over his heart, made it difficult for him to breathe, and he knew that this was it. Nodding to himself, he unclasped the belt of his sword and unsheathed it, standing to face the wall of men that charged for him, knowing that regardless of whether Ramsay Bolton was telling the truth, you were still on the other side. If Jon Snow could not save you, he would still fight for the right to rescue what was left of you and ensure you were laid to rest in the way you deserved, with his journey’s end being at your side when this was all over. The fury with which he would fight for you was unchanged, because it was still you he was fighting for, it would always be you.

And he fought harder than he had ever fought in his life, ending more lives than he could count without any regard for the men they were, whether he had known them once. If they were standing on the path that led to you, Jon Snow did not know them anymore.

Before long, the bodies had formed a wall at his rear and a living blockade of flayed-man banners at every other side began closing in on Jon and the men that had followed him into battle. His mind raced, every step and every swing of his sword accompanied by the mantra of your name, his very reason for being. For a fraction of a second, suffocating beneath the weight of his own army, he wondered if dying for you then was the best outcome, if you truly were not waiting for him in the land of the living, it would be his one means of returning to you at long last. 

And then, the Eyrie’s horn sounded, with Sansa watching on from afar as they rode into battle for her, for you, for Winterfell. Many had told her the field of battle was no place for a woman, but Sansa would never sit back and let Jon fight for you on his own. She said she would finish this herself if she had to, and she did.

Bursting free from the trap that had been set by the enemy, with WunWun the giant on his left and his dear friend Tormund on his right, Jon Snow charged the field on foot with one deserter in his sights.

At the gates of Winterfell, WunWun took arrow after arrow, but crashed through the only barrier remaining between Jon and his home. Defeated and exhausted, the giant collapsed to his knees with a mighty yell, sharing a long glance with Jon at his side before falling forward. Wildlings rushed to surround him, protecting the giant from any further harm, and the blood soaked Snow stood before his greatest enemy.

“You suggested one-on-one combat, didnt you? I’ve reconsidered! I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.” Ramsay taunted, readying his bow.

And Jon lunged for a shield on the ground, raising it just in time to take the impact of the first arrow Ramsey fired, then the second and the third. None dared to break Jon’s stride before he reached Ramsay and slammed the shield into him, knocking him to the ground. Like a feral animal, Jon Snow jumped on him, the fury of an ancient dragon awaking from an age-old sleep burning in his veins, vision crimson with rage, knowing nothing except for your name, again and again and again, with every crunch of his fists against the red of Ramsay’s face.

It was only when Jon glanced up at Sansa that he was able to regain some composure, his chest heaving as he rose to his feet and stood over the sputtering Bolton bastard.

“You will never touch my sister again. And if you have harmed (Y/N) in the same way, if you have done her any disservice, if there is a fingerprint of yours on her, I’ll know, and I will relive the joy of your death in every dream I have for the rest of my days.” Jon Snow seethed, the flayed-man banner falling from the walls of Winterfell as its children finally returned home.

Running to his side, Ghost began licking at Jon’s palm, and Jon turned to him, crouching down and staring into the direwolf’s eyes.

“Find her, Ghost, take me to her.” He pleaded, not truly understanding how much his companion could comprehend, but knowing the second the beast took off inside the castle that Ghost understood exactly what had been asked of him.

With the spark of you reignited within him, Jon hurried after the white, blood spattered direwolf, your voice in his head calling out to him, growing more urgent with each whisper.

In the darkness of your cell, you rock yourself, your arms wrapped around your knees, attempting to tune out the noise from beyond the confinement of your cage. A large thud against the door sends a shock through your shivering form and you suck in a sharp breath, squeezing your eyes shut and focussing on the first memory you can grab at, deep in your subconscious. 

“It was only a dream, (Y/N), it’s alright.” Jon’s hushed whisper reaches you, both so much younger than you are now.

“The fire, it was so-” Your younger voice was panicked, sobs catching in your throat as Jon’s arms squeezed you.

“You are safe, I promise. I’ve got you.” 

Another thud at your prison door pulls you back to the present and you shake your head rapidly, desperate to lock yourself away in the memory of being in your best friend’s arms again, the safest place in the world that you had come to know. If you focus hard enough, you can almost feel them around you. Almost hear his soft voice in your ears, comforting you, lulling you back to sleep. 

A final thud against the door sends burning light into the room and you squeeze your eyes shut harder, shaking your head and burying your face in your knees.

“It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass.” You whimper to yourself, over and over again in an attempt to reassure yourself.

Large hands on your shoulders cause you to snap your head up, eyes wide and wild with fear and anger, but no tears blur them, you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“LET GO OF ME, GET AWAY!” You scream, trying to back away from him, but already having your back to the wall beside the leg of the bed that you are chained to.

The hands leave your shoulders and raise in surrender, either side of a blurry, bloody face that your terrified eyes can’t yet focus on. 

“(Y/N), (Y/N), it’s me, look at me, it’s your Jon.” A familiar voice reaches your ears, and your wild mind halts to a sudden stop, the fog clearing and allowing you to see the face before you.

Jon watches your rigid, frightened expression falter, before it softens completely, his fractured heart at seeing you so afraid, healing at the recognition now in your eyes.

Very slowly, he takes ahold of your hands and brings them to his blood spattered face, gently holding them there and staring into your eyes.

“It’s your Jon, it’ll always be your Jon.” He tells you, relief flooding through him at being able to say such a thing to you, alive and safe again. 

And after everything, after the countless days and nights spent surviving in darkness, locking yourself away in memories to avoid being mentally present in the regular acts of torture you were forced to endure, only when holding Jon Snow’s face in your hands and knowing you are truly safe, do you finally let the tears you’ve been burying fill your eyes. 

Without sparing a second, Jon shuffles forwards and pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you and softly shushing you as you sob into his chest. Covering your ears to shield them, not wanting to scare you, Jon yells out for someone, a ginger haired wildling running into the room with wide eyes at the sight of his friend, reunited with the love he had only heard him mention in moments when it wasn’t too painful for him to do so. With a nod, Tormund leaves the room and passes the order given to him by Jon amongst the wildlings, and between them they turn Winterfell on its head in search of the key for your chain. 

For the time it takes them to find it, you stay safely nestled in Jon’s arms, cries slowing to a stop, allowing you to listen to his heartbeat, a sound that you had not realized just how much you had missed. 

“D-Did…” You sigh, humiliated by your loss of ability to talk after being silent or screaming in an act of survival for so long. Jon squeezes your form gently in his arms, encouraging you to try again, he’ll wait, he’ll wait forever if he has to. Taking a deep breath, you clear your throat.

“Did you kill him?”

Jon takes a moment to reply. “Very nearly. Had Sansa not stopped me, I think I would have broken every knuckle I’ve got before I could have stopped myself.” He pauses. “The two of you should decide what to do with him, but you don’t need to worry about that now.”

Removing his arms from you briefly, Jon moves his hands to the back of his neck to untie the necklace. At the loss of contact, you lift your head from his chest to meet his eyes, and upon him opening his hand out to show you the necklace that had been so cruelly taken from you, you gasp, holding the base of your neck where it had previously resided. Turning away from Jon, he smiles softly and moves the necklace to your front, carefully tying it at the back of your neck. Feeling it back in place, you breathe deeply and settle back into Jon’s arms.

“That was all he took from me, you know.” 

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“He tried to take more, but I bit him through his trousers, so he has been…out of commission, shall we say, ever since.” The subtle tone in your voice is one Jon is so certain he recognises as smug.

Kissing your temple, he can’t wipe the smile from his face. “I am sorry that you had to do such a thing, but I am so proud of you, all the same.”

Sansa enters the room then, Ghost at her side and key in hand. She gasps at the sight of you, running to you and falling to her knees. Taking ahold of your hand and passing the key to Jon, she closes her eyes in a pained blink.

“I am so, so sorry that I left you here, (Y/N). Can you ever forgive me?” Her eyes open then, searching yours and seeing only a smile on your face.

Freeing your other wrist from the chain it had been confined in, you twist and stretch it before placing your other hand over hers.

“There’s nothing to apologize for and nothing to forgive.”

Sansa shares a look with Jon, both of them with knowing smiles, as those had been his very words when Sansa had been apologizing for her treatment of him as a child when she had not long arrived at the Wall.

“You really are the best of us, (Y/N).” Sansa chuckles in disbelief. “It’s about time we got you cleaned up and out of those rags, too. I’m sure Jon will see to that, and I’ll get a room ready for the two of you.” With a teasing smile, she rises to her feet and all but floats out of the room, leaving you and Jon with flushed faces.

Busying yourself with greeting Ghost and rubbing behind his ears, you try your hardest to distract yourself from the butterflies that have burst to life in your stomach after so many years of dormancy. 

Clearing his throat, Jon taps your leg. “She’s right, y’know, we’d best get you cleaned up. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, when you feel up to it.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, you shakily bring yourself to stand, Jon’s hands holding your waist to keep you steady. “Who?”

At that, Jon Snow gives you the first dazzling smile that you have seen in Gods only know how long. “All in good time, my Lady.”

In your attempts to take your first steps on wobbling legs, Jon swallows the lump that forms in his throat, seeing the strong person that he adores more than any other, reduced to such physical weakness. If his hands were not on your waist, they would be returning to Ramsay’s face in several more punches for good measure.

Sensing your frustration and embarrassment at your own lack of mobility, Jon doesn’t hesitate to swing you up into his arms, carrying you like the bride he had always wished was his. 

“I take it I don’t have to ask you to retract the bedding ceremony from our marriage at this time?” You tease in reference to the thought that the two of you share in being carried through the castle in such a way, bringing a laugh from Jon that he feels he hasn’t heard from himself in as long as you have.

“Even in more ideal circumstances, I’d never let that happen. Wouldn’t be right to break a man’s jaw on our wedding night.” He says, eyes never leading yours as he traverses the winding staircases of the castle he has not ventured since he was a boy, but are etched in his memory regardless.

Giggling and patting his chest, you shake your heard bashfully. “Good to know the Night’s Watch didn’t remove your chivalry, Lord Jon.” You gasp. “Gods! That really is your title now, as Lord Commander, isn’t it?”

Having not had a smile on his face for this length of time in many years, Jon feels an ache forming in the corners of his mouth, but doesn’t care at all. “Aye, I was, for a time, but my watch has ended.”

It’s then, a confused frown that Jon remembers well returns to your face, years older than he had last seen it, but no less endearing to him. “But...your watch only ends as a dead man?”

Jon nods as he descends the final staircase and kicks an all too familiar door open. “It’s a long story, one for another time.”

You want to question him further, but when your peripheral vision registers where Jon has carried you, you turn your head to look around, your jaw dropping.

Though the room is dark, you recognise every corner enshrouded in the shadows. The large and ancient communal bath that sits atop the hot spring that is Winterfell’s source of heated water, that none use in favor of their own personal baths, but had been your preferred method of cleanliness ever since you and Jon had discovered the dark and “secret” room when you were children. Placing you back on your feet gently, one of his hands on your waist and the other cradling your elbow to steady you, Jon’s gaze stays locked on your expression at his side, remembering this place with as much fondness as you do. 

“This is about to be a bath for the ages. I will stay in this water for a week, at least, ‘til I am but a shriveled prune and you will have no choice but to drag me out against my will.” You tell him, tone so serious and words so humorous they pull another hearty laugh from Jon.

“We’d best get that week-long-bath started, then. I shan’t keep you and your heart’s true desire apart any longer.” He plays along, making you smile as you step in front of him, nodding to yourself.

Taking his cue, Jon lets go of you and turns around, expecting to give you the privacy to strip free of the filthy rags you have been kept in and stepping into the water to conceal yourself, until he hears you hiss in pain.

“Jon, I…I don’t intend to make you uncomfortable, but I do not think I can take this off without help.” You admit, embarrassed for too many reasons to list. 

“It would cause me no discomfort at all, but are you certain you are comfortable with me…assisting you?” Jon asks in a soft voice, careful with his choice of words.

“Of course. You could never make me uncomfortable, Jon.” You respond without delay.

Needing no further instruction, Jon Snow takes a deep breath and turns around. With your back to him, you raise your arms and wait for trembling hands to lift the hem of your dress - if you could call a ripped potato sack such a thing - up and over your head. Dropping the fabric to the floor, Jon immediately turns around again, face burning.

“Thank you.” Your voice is meak, filled with shame over your true love seeing you bare for the first time, filthy, bloody and bruised.

All the while, Jon Snow is trying to remember how to breathe while the mental image of your naked form imprints itself into his flailing mind. The dirt had not even crossed his mind. Your injuries, of course, brought him sadness and anger, but the triumphant emotion was one he is not willing to admit, even to himself.

Taking slow and careful steps, you reach the water’s edge and lower yourself to sit on it, slipping your legs into the water and breathing a sigh of relief as the heat envelopes you immediately, inviting you in until your body is completely submerged and at peace. Every ache within your beaten body is soothed and you are quick to scrub the dirt from yourself, to be clean of your days caged and the memories that clung to your skin like the dried blood of your wounds. 

Hearing the gentle slosh of the water, Jon settles as he realizes you are no longer standing behind him. Standing up straight, he fixes his gaze on the closed door and decides that he will keep watch. As you raise your head from the water, you see his silhouette standing at the door and smile, unable to withdraw the connection your mind makes between this picture and the one you saw so many times as a girl, of a much younger Jon Snow standing as he is now, shorter then, but just as determined to keep watch while you were vulnerable in the water. 

“Y’know, you could do with a wash, yourself.” You note aloud.

Jon chuckles airily. “Aye, you’re probably right.”

Smirking in advance of your devious plan to make Jon blush again, you glide over to the edge of the water and rest your arms on the cold stone. “Join me then.”

And you watch in absolute glee as Jon’s form turns rigid at your suggestion. He does not answer.

“Jon?” You call in a singsong voice.

He clears his throat. “Hm?”

“As grotesque as my body is in its current state, I did not imagine you would ever reject an offer to join me?” You tease, only half joking.

Jon’s reaction is visceral. In a second, he is standing over you with a harsh frown, having had no thought in the effect the sight of you below him in such a way would have on him, too focussed on his emotional response to the ridiculousness in what you had said.

“I cannot even bring myself to say such a word in association to you, the thought alone would be criminal. Do not allow yourself to think that I could see you as anything less than the most beautiful person to ever exist, as you have always been and will always be to me.” 

You have never heard Jon so serious in all your life. His words and the sincerity with which they are spoken renders you speechless for a moment as you stare up at him. 

“Won’t you let me share such a view, of you, then?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And after a moment’s eternity of silence, as though practicing some ancient dance, the two of you step apart from each other and turn your backs, neither of you able to face the tension a moment longer.

The sound of Jon’s armor hitting the stone floor sends goosebumps erupting across the tops of your shoulders that peak above the water, your heartbeats ringing in your ears almost in unison. Even when you hear the splash of his body entering the water, you do not dare turn to face him. As quickly as he can, he fully submerges himself in the water and scrubs the blood and dirt from a battle won. Then, Jon Snow stands, slowly wading through the water until he stands behind you. It is your turn to take a deep breath as you turn to face him, your eyes drinking in the sight of his clean face, the scars on his chest sitting distorted beneath the water, and to take his mind away from the pain of what you assume are his battlescars, your hands lift from the water to trace the line of his beard with an admiring smile. 

“I always knew you’d suit a beard.” You compliment him, easing his nerves as he laughs, gracing you with another charming smile.

Your hands continue their journey around the back of his neck, feeling the wet, inky curls of his hair there and sighing deeply.

“Truly, you have the best hair in the seven kingdoms.”

And Jon laughs the hardest he has in longer than he can remember, throwing his head back and shaking it as though emphasizing the hair that you have never failed to shower in praise, making you laugh with him.

Taking ahold of your hands at the back of his neck, Jon brings them to his lips and places feathery light kisses against your knuckles, holding your gaze. 

“I have missed you more than words can say.” He whispers. 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that your excuse for not writing me any, then?”

Jon sighs, closing his eyes and hanging his head in shame. “I am so sorry.”

Chuckling, you lift his chin with your finger until you can see into his eyes again. “Considering you won a battle for me today, I think I can forgive you for not having time to read my letters.”

Jon smiles at you gratefully. “I read them all before coming to get you, I swear it.”

“And I believe you, as I always have. I believed you’d read them, I believed you would rescue me, and both rang true in the end. It seems my faith is safe.” You beam up at him.

“Your faith in what?” He questions.

“My Jon.” You tell him, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and the moment he hears it, he agrees that it is. 

Unable to resist you a moment longer, Jon’s arms wrap around your waist and pull your body flush against his, lips falling on yours in a kiss softer than a summer breeze. Briefly, he falters, wondering if perhaps he has acted on his instincts far too soon, but then he feels your fingers running through his curls, pulling him into a deeper kiss than he had assumed you would be ready for, but you have been waiting far too long for this. 

Only when the two of you recall the human need to breathe do you have the strength to pull away from each other. But Jon’s lips chase after you, leaving a trail of kisses from the corners of your mouth to your chin, your cheeks, your temples, your neck, with pleading whispers in between.

“Will you be mine, my wife- my queen, should the north call for a king? I cannot lose you again, I cannot deny myself the dream of us anymore.”

And in equally flustered, desperate whispers, you answer. “Yes to all and yes to any. I have always been yours, Jon.”

For a time, it feels like the two of you are the only people in existence, the world having stopped around you, the Gods having paused time to allow you to hold each other for your own eternity. It is not the time for love beyond a passionate kiss, both of your bodies need to heal and rest after the battles you have fought and won, together, to get back to each other. To simply hold each other, after so many years apart, is the greatest joy either of you can ask for.

But, time cannot be slowed forever. Soon enough, there is a knock at the door of the bath and in a wild panic that has you in fits of giggles, Jon scrambles from the water and grabs his armor, holding it over himself to answer the door to the young squire that has kindly delivered fresh clothes and towels for the two of you to dry yourselves with. Nodding and thanking the squire, Jon takes the pile from him and closes the door, turning back to face you with a sheepish expression and only seeing the humor in it when he finds you wheezing against the side of the bath.

Once dry and dressed, the two of you make your way to the door, pinky fingers intertwined between you out of habit. Until your boot steps on something that does not sound like the stone floor and you frown, bending down to pick up a folded piece of parchment, worn at the edges and ink fading in the handwriting that you recognise to be your own as you unfold it. Turning to face Jon, you meet his gaze and know you do not need to say anything as you fold the parchment back into the neat square in which you had found it and slot it the pocket of his new,  clean shirt. Holding your hand over it, you lean up to kiss his cheek and, intertwining your pinky fingers again, you ascend the stairs together and step out into the courtyard of Winterfell. There, your eyes immediately lock onto the sight of the immense form of the hunched over giant, sitting against one of the stone walls as some wildlings watch over him. The child within you gasps, your hands covering your mouth in delight as you look between Jon and the giant frantically.

Laughing endearingly at you, Jon gestures to the giant and walks you over to him. “(Y/N), I’d like you to meet Wun Wun.”

Unable to tear your gaze from the giant, you approach him slowly. “Hello, Wun Wun, it’s…it’s been a dream of mine to meet someone like you, ever since I was a little girl.” Looking over him and his injuries, tears immediately sting your eyes. “I am so sorry that you got hurt, are you in pain? I can fetch you some milk of the poppy, if you like? Or fix up some stew for you?”

Wun Wun watches you with a frown that seems to be etched into his features, curious of you. Taking a few seconds, the giant processes what you have said, looks to Jon and then back to you.

“Snow princess.” His voice is like a tumbling boulder, thunderous and without the human pitch-difference that is associated with asking a question, but Jon understands what he is asking.

“(Y/N) would be my queen.” Jon clarifies, and Wun Wun blinks slowly.

“Snow Queen.” He attempts to maneuver his large form, but roars in protest at his own injuries.

Raising your arms, you attempt to stop him. “Please, don’t hurt yourself further!”

Jon remembers how Wun Wun had acted towards the Princess Shireen and takes a step forward. “You don’t need to kneel to us, Wun Wun, you are our friend, our equal. You bow to no-one, not anymore.”

Your eyes widen in realization of what the giant had been trying to do as he slumps back down with a large thud against the ground. 

Breathing deeply, Wun Wun looks at you. “Snow Queen.” He looks at Jon. “Snow.” Then lifts an arm and loosely gestures to both of you. “Friend.”

Jon scoffs playfully. “So (Y/N) is Queen, but I am just Snow?”

You grin at the giant, who acknowledges your expression with a thunderous laugh that is so loud it would hurt your ears, were you not enamored by the creature it comes from. 

“If she is not my queen, who’s queen is she?” Jon asks, bemused and hoping to catch out the giant, who considers the question for only a second before responding.

“Wun. Weg. Wun Dar Wun’s.” And despite how long it takes the giant to speak his full name, the impact of his own punchline hits just as hard, sending you into another wheezing fit of laughter while Jon shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Well, it seems both Wun Wun and I are yours, now.” Jon throws up his hands in dramatic surrender, causing you to laugh harder, the giant smiling at you fondly and Jon watching you with an adoring gaze, so relieved to see you relaxed and safe enough to laugh again.

When Jon asks you if you feel ready to eat, you nod, but request that you eat together, with Wun Wun, to ensure he eats and gains some energy to help his body heal, too. Naturally, Jon does not deny you of the endearing request and the two of you return to the giant with your own bowls of fresh stew and an extra large one for your new best friend. The three of you sit and talk, taking time to listen to Wun Wun’s responses, which take a lot longer than general conversations with a human would, but you don’t mind one bit. With every word he speaks, you are utterly mesmerized, having already pinned the creature as every bit as incredible as the giants from your favorite tales as a child. 

Though it is not late in the evening by the time you finish your supper, you are too exhausted from the events of the day to stay awake much longer. Having not walked around for any length of time in so long, your limbs are too weak to stand on your own again, Jon having to help you back to your feet with an arm around your waist.

Waving to Wun Wun, you give him a tired smile. 

“Goodnight Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, I wish you pleasant dreams.” 

The giant gives you a smile that Jon has not seen him give anyone else. “Friend. Sleep good.”

With that, Jon begins leading you back into the warmth of the castle, walking you along the path to what had been his bedroom as a boy, without thinking of what the room could be now, his direwolf trailing behind the two of you. Thankfully, it seems that Sansa was thoughtful in the room she requested be prepared for you all, as Jon’s old bedroom door is open, displaying the candlelit room and the freshly made bed. The two of you share a chuckle in disbelief as you enter the room, Ghost instantly finding a patch of rug on the ground to curl up on and Jon walking you over to the bed to sit down on it before he leaves you to close the door and draw the curtains. 

Falling against the mattress, you groan. 

“I think this ordeal has aged me 20 years and perhaps it is time we retire. I could finally let Sansa teach me to sew and you could herd sheep with Ghost, what do you think?” 

At the mention of his name and in confusion at your suggestion, Ghost lifts and tilts his head to the side.

Jon laughs as he joins you, landing on his back beside you, the mattress bouncing slightly beneath you. “I think that sounds like a wonderful plan. Only, I’m afraid, my Lady, there is another war to be fought.”

You turn your head to face him, seeing the simultaneous amusement and seriousness playing in his eyes. “Surely, you jest. Against who?”

Jon sighs. “An ever growing army of the dead, unfortunately.”

Throwing your arms up and against the mattress above your head in a dramatic display of defeat, you scoff. “But of course! Winter is coming, I should have known.”

Jon smiles at you, having never felt so at ease when discussing the threat that looms over the entire world as he knows it and marveling at the wonder that is you. “Aye, but for now-” He stands to his feet, swings you up in his arms, kicks the bedcover from the mattress and lays you down on the sheet. “-we are free to rest.”

Shuffling to remove your boots and watching as Jon removes his to nudge them under the bed, you use the last of your strength to move over and allow space for him to slide in beside you. 

Turning to face each other, you snuggle beneath the bedcovers and share a smile, like the giddy teenagers that had been lost in your memories until now. 

“When is the wedding due, then, dear almost-husband?” You ask, amused but genuinely curious as to when the two of you will have the chance to arrange such an event.

“Whenever you like, dear almost-lady-wife.” Jon laughs airily, taking hold of your hands beneath the covers and staring into your eyes. “How do you feel?”

You take a deep breath, knowing that the time to set aside your humor would come soon enough. “It is…difficult to put into words. Deliriously happy to be with you and Sansa, to have our home back and to be safe again, of course, but there is still a dark cloud that looms over me and I cannot ignore it. At any moment, I feel as though the rain could start to pour and I could drown in it, lose myself to the fear. In truth, the thought of trying to sleep is terrifying.” 

Jon nods slowly, understanding you completely, as he always has. “However dark that cloud gets, however hard the rain falls and however scared you are to sleep, I will be here. To show you the sun again, shield you from the rain and guard you through your dreams, I will be right here, and I will never leave you again. I swear it, by the old Gods and the new.”

Tears threaten to blur the perfect vision of the candlelit Jon Snow, but you are quick to blink them away, removing your hands from his to run your fingers through his hair and pull him closer, until his forehead rests against yours. “And in return, I swear to protect you from whatever horrid memories plague you from the time when we have been apart, to hold you through them and remind you that no matter what, you are a good man, the best man, and the man that I love more than anything.”

Closing his eyes, Jon Snow takes a deep breath, and you do the same, sharing the silence and darkness in a peace that neither of you ever thought you would find again. 

“Can it be that this night, I’ll dream of you and wake to find you here?” You whisper.

Jon sniffles, having not let his relief and love for you truly overwhelm him until now. “Aye, this night and every night thereafter.” 

Gently tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb, you lean forward to close the space between your lips. “To be yours is to live nothing but a dream, Jon Snow.”

And for the second time since reconnecting to the rest of his soul, Jon Snow loses himself to you, falling into you and cradling every part of you with such care, having craved every second of these moments with you that he never thought he could have beyond the land of dreams. The two of you had lived separate lives for long enough, the Gods had no choice but to force you back to each other in an act of fate that defied everything Jon thought he could believe in, except for you. Every foe he fought, every task he took on, his first thought would be that in some distant way, he would be saving you from something, because he would be doing so from the frontline of your heart. To be yours was the only victory he truly felt. 

——————

taglist: @otteropera @neymarjrrwife @oliviabelova @nyotamalfoy

[moonlight-stalker]

# 107 DcxDp

The new boy is sitting at the table that Damian and Jon sit at, Damian is going to tell the boy to pick a different table but Jon walks up to him and starts talking.

They learned his name was Daniel (Danny) and is from a small town known as Amity Parker he had moved to Gotham with his godfather after his family had died. Damian and Jon have learned that Daniel likes space and making things, over the next couple of days Damian starts to notice things like how Daniel will often come to school injured and will not eat anything during lunch. Every day Jon offers to share his food with Daniel, and he always refuses saying that he can't take Jon's food. This went on until one day Damian brought an extra lunch with him gave it to Daniel and told him to eat it or he would force him to, Damian had done some research and found out that losing someone can cause a person to lose their appetite.

This routine went on for a couple of weeks before he and Jon found out how bad it was, Daniel had come to school late with bandages over his head and many new injuries and had claimed that he had fallen down the stairs before leaving his house, neither Jon nor Damian believe it but let it be. At lunch, Damian had Daniel his lunch and he ate in silence, he had decided that he needed to research Vlad Master and figure out if he was harming Daniel. After finishing lunch they all went to throw away their trash when Daniel tripped, Jon helped him back up, and once Daniel was up he told them that he was going to the bathroom before class and left. Jon pulled Damian to the side and told him that he thought that Daniel's injuries were much worse than they seemed and explained that he had heard several snapes that he thought were stitches.

Damian told Jon that he would go check on him to see if he was okay, When Damian got to the bathroom he heard Daniel throwing up, and when he opened the door he saw Daniel on the floor holding his side that was bleeding.

As halfas Danny and Vlad still need to eat human food but it needs to be infused with ecto. If they try to eat food that's not infused then their bodies will reject it and if they force themself to keep the food down it will start to rot and make them sick, and weak.

They can't eat out in public/front of people because the amount of ecto they need is enough to bring the food to life, and it can be extremely toxic to humans.

So the night before Damian found Danny throwing up and bleeding in the bathroom was the day that his and Vlad's food had broken out of its containment and started a war with them both that went on until morning, by the time Danny and Vlad had won and had both treated the injures it was time for them to go to work and school neither had time or energy to get more food to prepare and eat. So when Danny tripped he not only ripped some of the stitches but also almost caused himself to throw up the food he was trying to keep down.

[sailorshadzter]

some soft jonsa.

set before jon leaves for dragonstone, as you all know thats one of my fave timelines hehe

When the knock comes to his door, he’s halfway into bed, wearing nothing but his breeches and a rumpled white shirt. He thinks, for only a moment, that he might ignore such a sound this late into the night, he’s weary after all, not to mention there is a long day of traveling ahead of him, but, he sighs and rises back up anyways. Thinking it will be but a servant with a message, he opens the door, quite surprised when he finds it to be Sansa standing there. 

She knows she’s come too late, that she should have come hours ago, if not at all. But, she can’t let him go, even if she knows he must go. She hates to be left alone here in their home, the one he’d fought to get back, the one they’d risked everything for. She hates to be without him, in truth, n0thing more and nothing less. “Sansa,” he speaks her name in a way that sends chills down her spine and she smiles apologetically, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, silent. “Come in,” he says next, stepping back to allow her entry, his rooms as warm and inviting as they always have been. “Are you alright?” He asks as the door swings closed behind her, his Stark colored eyes full of concern, his mouth twisting in a frown. It takes all of his self control not to reach for her then.

“I am…” She speaks slowly, softly, something like a lie. Jon regards her quietly and she knows he knows she doesn’t mean what she says. “I just…” The words are there on the tip of her tongue, yet she cannot bring herself to speak so freely to him. Not in this way. 

“Sansa…” His tenor vocals speak her name once more and she turns her eyes back to him, willing herself to find the courage to tell him the truth that she’s carried within her heart all this time. “Tell me…” He encourages softly, finally reaching his hand out to gently brush away a stray lock of her hair, falling unbound around her shoulders. She’s come to him this way before, yet never at all, with this new look upon her face. “Please, Sansa… Tell me what bothers you.” 

“I am afraid for you,” she’s reaching for him then, hands taking hold of the front of his shirt, drawing him in close to where she stands. “I am afraid you will go and never return.” There, she’s said it now, and to her surprise the ground has not opened up and swallowed her whole. “I know you must go, but I do not want you to,” she whispers, tilting her head back so her blue eyes can stare into his Stark gray. “I am afraid that you will go and leave me alone.” 

He softens at her words, the rush of his feelings leaving his every limb tingling. “I will come back to you,” he swears, one hand sliding into place against the curve of her cheek. She closes her eyes, against the tears, and he leans in so he might press his forehead against hers. “I promise you, Sansa. I will never leave you alone.” Her eyes open and his thumb swipes away the tears that fall, still so close that he can feel the curve of her lips when she smiles. “Have I let you down yet?” He asks next and she chokes, shaking her head- no, no he hasn’t. 

“I dream of dragonfire, of war,” she whispers, not quite ready to accept it so easily anyways.  

“Nothing could keep me from coming back to you,” he says back, pulling back simply so he might gaze into her blue eyes. Jon knows it is wrong, these feelings he has, but at this moment, nothing has ever felt more right. “Not dragonfire, not lions, not even the undead.” He would come back to her, simply because she was what he fought for, what he sought to protect. She was his reason to live and his reason to keep on fighting, even when giving up seemed like the easiest of answers. “I will come back, Sansa, and we'll be together again.” No matter the cost, he would stand at her side once more. 

She’s sinking into him then and he’s wrapping his arms around her, her warmth seeping into his bones like the fire from the hearth. “You swear it?” She’s so close now, Jon can feel the twitch of her lips as she tries not to smile. He nods. “I’d like something to remember you by…” She says next and Jon sucks in a breath as he twists his arms around her, drawing her in. Everything he’d been taught told him not to do this, but everything his heart felt told him he’d should have done this ages ago. And so, he kisses her, willing every unspoken thing into it, hoping she understands, hoping she feels everything he’s trying to say to her.

And she does.

The moment his lips touch hers, she’s kissing him back, her hands threading themselves into his unruly curls. It’s a feeling she’s longed for all of these months, in truth, wishing for his soft touch and warm kiss when she’s beneath the covers of her bed late at night. “Jon,” she gasps when they break apart, holding one another at arm’s length, both smiling, both laughing, as if this was a moment they’d both been waiting for. And really, when they both thought about it, they had been waiting for it. They had been hoping for it.

His hands draw her in, closer and closer until he’s sinking onto the edge of his bed, the furs pushed aside from when he’d risen up just a short while ago. She’s standing between his knees now, her robe long since discarded, the thin white material of her nightgown giving him but a glimpse into what he might have. He reaches out, to undo the ribbons at her throat, allowing the nightgown to slip further down, past her shoulders, revealing to him the expanse of her throat and collarbone. He’s never seen this much of her. But there beneath his gaze he sees the faded white scars of a knife, the torture of a life she’s long since let go of. Leaning in, Jon presses his lips against a scar, wondering if she remembers each moment as he recalls his own. “I…” He cannot speak those words, the ones he’s held close all this time, the ones that would change everything.

“Say it,” she says as she steps from the gown, leaving her naked before him.

Jon catches his breath, one hand on her hip, the other at her breast. “I love you,” he says, the words he’s held onto all this time. The ones he’s wished to say time and time again, the ones he’s had to keep to himself. But her smile lights her up from within, perhaps giving her the courage she’s needed all along, the words she will carry with her as she’ll carry this very moment. “I love you, Sansa,” he says again, the way he speaks her name sending chills down her spine. She’s sinking into his arms now, legs hooked around his hips as he draws her down and in, her weight soft and warm against him. Face to face, she’s smiling still, radiant in the dying firelight, more beautiful than he thinks he’s ever seen her. 

“I love you,” she whispers back and that’s enough, that will always be enough.

[buttertheflame]

Open Call for Feedback 🔎

Hi Jonerys lovers, I’m a fic writer who’s been on hiatus for a few years and I’m back. Check out the prose. Does it drone on? I’m in the editing phase…

A Normal Family

4k words, Jon x Dany, Dany POV, post-ADWD, TWOW-speculation

(excerpt from chapter 1 of a 5-part au fic, sequel to A Long Way Home)

Castle Black

Present: 302 AC

Winter

She knew it was a dream when she felt the heat, for in Volantis, the air was hot and dewey—the evening almost as sweltering as the day. At first, Daenerys thought she was breathing fire—it was such a beautiful thing—as the oily Black Walls of eastern Volantis’s old blood gained a vermilion glow in the night. Within, a labyrinth of palaces, cloisters and temples burst into flame. Then out of the ashes came waves of slaves of every designation, crying, The Princess Who Was Promised! There were dozens. The dark eye has begun to lift from her! There were hundreds. The minions of the night will lose their temples of deceit! Then there were thousands. She will bring an endless Summer, and those who die fighting her cause shall be reborn! And tens of thousands. She is Azor Ahai reborn! Wait! Wait for the return of the blazing comet! Lord of Light, herald her coming! 

“Yes!” she cried in ecstasy, carried by their fervor. “Yes!” 

Daenerys could not even search for her sense of shame, for her Lord would not allow it. Not even when the great river westward then rushed to meet her, and took her through valleys at the feet of countless mountains. Far ahead, the Rhoyne broke into three different tributaries, causing the air to cool with them. Below, a field of poppies dotted the earth. It is the Trident, she realized, and settled herself further in the saddle upon Drogon’s back. She remembered. Her foes would appear, armored in ice, and she would burn them all. 

Instead, a lone rider came upon a hill. The red helm of a two-headed dragon took shape, dotted with four rubies for eyes. The black visor was lifted. Daenerys did not wish to see her beautiful brother die again, so she opened her mouth to warn him, but she would not be heeded. Rhaegar turned to face the antlered yellow and black rider who had trailed behind him, thus revealing an infant in his free arm. She startled as the babe, held tight to his black gleaming breastplate, gazed at him in wonder. His buoyant laughter mingled with Rhaegar’s soothing voice. The father’s lips pressed to the soft infant crown, from which sad and sweet notes rose. 

“He fixed himself wholly

And laid in the earth. 

Then fashioned his crown

From a field of dirks.” 

Daenerys mustered up a sob so strong it caused her to wake. 

After a choked beat, she found Jon Snow next to her, his back also flat to the feather bed of their private room, his face turned to train dark eyes upon her, in the gloom of the very late night or very early morning. She had not wanted to look too closely at the red priests of Essos who had called her this promised prince. It was a legacy she did not want. When his fine hands reached her face, Daenerys’s mind grew desperate. I must pursue the Iron Throne. Jon wiped away her fresh tears then drew her into his arms. 

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.” 

She nodded against his chest, but failed to shake the tension from her belly and limbs. Her heart quivered with guilt for keeping this from Jon, and fear, over what he had revealed to her last night. I could have become one of them, he had told her, a week ago back in Winterfell. As she wondered why hadn’t he become one of those vicious wights when his body had lain cold for two days, the guilt that followed and her grief for Viserion stayed her tongue. Then he’d promised to give her the realm and afterward settle them on Dragonstone, once the wars were won. She couldn’t help but hold onto his promise. 

A family and the realm. Surely, they could have both? But given the fresh news, she wondered…could hers and Jon’s children be safe with him? Could their line be safe with him? Could she and her royal consort truly achieve this goal? A family and the realm. 

She thought of the cautious, wise and bold Ser Barristan Selmy, the Commander of her Queensguard who had lost his life half a world away fighting the reignited war against the Essosi slave cities. No more than a hundred days prior, it had been in a moment of relative peace, while the killings and slayings of her people were still going on: as she considered marrying the snake zo Loraq to broker peace, Ser Barristan had cautioned against marrying for political gain only, but to also consider love. He said that her grandsire Jaeherys had commanded his children to wed, for a woodswitch long favored by her grandmother had visited the Red Keep to prophesy that the prince was promised would be born of their line. 

Daenerys jerked, then pulled away from Jon. 

If this prince is what Jon said it meant…perhaps he had been born to die. The thought incensed her. Did Rhaegar really do this? Could he and Lyanna Stark have been so cruel? 

Moreover, if the followers of R'hllor thought Daenerys was this promised prince…had she, too, been born to die? 

Another sob rose…and the contents of her half-digested dinner followed. It stunk the frigid air, but her disgust wasn’t great enough to cause her to stop; her muscles took command, demanding that she retch until there was nothing left. It took her to the edge of the bed, where she groped blindly until she found a metal sheet and brought it forth. She was dimly aware of Jon moving to stand on the stone floor. He ran a soothing hand along her back and stopped to catch her hair, as she retched into the bedpan.

“Leave me!” she gasped, mortified. “Jon, please.” 

He hushed her. “Daenerys, please do not be ashamed! I’m here. Do not ask me to leave. I’m here.”

He moved the hand on her back faster and focused on the span between her shoulders, trying to coax the tension out of her muscles. Chagrined, she took his other hand, which he squeezed. It was bone dry and warm, a solid comfort she was distantly aware of, and no more.

Jon passed a hand through her hair one last time, pulling her from her haunted musings. She huffed, licked the acidic grit from her teeth, and then pulled herself back up to lay down on her side. When Jon pushed the bedpan aside to kneel on the floor, a realization came. Words are wind, she had thought, for so long, especially the prophecies among them. Yet so much had happened since the maegi tricked her in the Plains of the Lhazarene. Now that she was here beside her lover, pondering all they meant to the greater world, it was so clear to her now. There was something to Ser Barristan’s words that he and I could not have foreseen. Does everything happen the way it must? Some called it fate. Her wheezes were the only sounds as the sickness left her in a slow drip. They eventually slowed to a halt and her breaths returned to normal.  

The outlines of Jon’s handsome face came into view, his dark brows pulled and lips pouting with worry as he seemed to search her eyes. She cupped his cheek weakly, and smoothed her thumb along his stubbled jaw. Weary though she was, she would not be able to return to sleep. 

Leaning forward to press his lips to her forehead, Jon whispered, “That’s good. You’re alright. It’s alright, now, Dany.” 

He swept the hair from her face, stroked her neck, brushed her shoulders then eventually palmed her waist. She shivered, delighting in his much needed closeness. Then he kissed her forehead again. He climbed into bed again and gently drew her into his arms, encouraging her to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder. He rubbed light, soothing circles on her belly for many long, peaceful moments. She felt like a rock tumbling in the flow of a river’s current—unable to see yet unable to distrust its strength. What was this? Undeserved peace? 

When she followed its source, she found herself musing once more. 

Many ran to and fro to search for the one who was promised. Somehow, in all the Known World, the two bearing the designation had met and were in this bed, at this Wall. The Lord of Light had called upon Jon to continue his fight and gave him renewed life. Of course, of the stories she’d heard, none who had been given the kiss had been half as worthy as Jon…but perhaps His grace covered all of mankind. For, when asking R'hllor to give them a glimpse of His chosen, the red priests had seen her and him—their deeds and the shadows they cast—in the flames. 

What, then? Was He faithful? Had he held her life in His hands the way a hen huddles chicks beneath her wings? Had he watched her all this time, patiently waiting for her to acknowledge Him? Was He as good as His word?

Her soul had quieted some, enough for her to sense an answer…

A whisper upon the wind.

____________________

Jon had sent for the maester. Once he returned, he helped her to finish building a fire in the hearth, with good humor and quips that no queen should ever tend to such a task. Much needed light and warmth filled the air and brought her once more into his arms. In a quiet voice, he suggested they speak as little of Samwell Tarly as possible, for it was likely that he would send word back to the Citadel about him, the novice who had fled with stolen items of knowledge. Though Archmaester Theobold had no proof, he certainly suspected Samwell. Daenerys was certain that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch would be furious with the ordeal. He did not strike her as one who enjoyed dealing with the unexpected. In some moments, neither did she. Especially today, it would seem.

“Your assessment of Dolorous Edd is correct,” Jon chuckled. “But why should he enjoy it?” 

“He seems quite good at it, to have lasted longer at his post than you,” she teased. “We should all enjoy what we are good at.” 

“We should. But we don’t.” He did not jest as she thought he might; instead, a frown had taken his features. “Our Sworn Brothers once called him Sam the Slayer. He was training under Maester Aemon as a steward; I sent him to the Citadel to forge a link or three, not to become a stealer. But I suppose Euron Greyjoy’s threat to Oldtown convinced him to return quickly. This matter…it is something the Lord Commander will have to deal with.” 

“With your help, I am sure. Those letters of yours must be invaluable to him.” 

His frown deepened, brought on by some aggravation unknown to her. Did he still feel guilty for giving counsel on the Night’s Watch operations? Perhaps his discomfort was prudent. He allowed her to part from him with some reluctance. She could feel his gaze upon her back as she moved to the small table near the lone glass window, musing. In Winterfell, Samwell had told her that her great uncle Aemon Targaryen had loved her, that he had wanted to help her, but he died once their party had docked at Braavos. With her chin in hand, tears blurred her view of the dark courtyard far, far below. Would this great uncle of mine have known Rhaegar? Did they somehow discover his prophecy together? Did he approve of his designs on the realm? What even were they? It was still early enough that dawn light was still hours away.  At its appearance, their task to march their army of two-thousand men to fortify their designated castles on the Wall, would come too soon. 

“My love…I have never seen you so ill! Did last night’s turnip stew somehow disagree with you? I know you prefer simple dishes.” 

Jon knew she desired some space. He had moved to the desk on the other side of the room and leaned against it. Despite the brief respite of earlier, her mood had soured with the taste of bile in her mouth. She raised one shoulder in answer. “It was simple enough.” 

“Your dream. Do you want to tell me about it?” Growing irritable, she sighed again.“What I said last night, of my mother’s line…it upset you, didn’t it?” She startled at his accuracy, and his voice rose again, now tremulous. “Was it a dragon dream you had?” 

“I…” The babe in Rhaegar’s arm flashed before her eyes. Her heart quickened. “I don’t know.” 

The silence that followed was just as painful. 

“I am so sorry, Daenerys. I will be more careful.” 

“No,” she said quickly. “No, Jon. Don’t be sorry for anything. I need you. Don’t hold anything back from me.” 

Not again, she thought. Never again. 

“Sweet Daenerys, don’t be afraid. You have me. I’m yours.” He tracked slowly toward her. “I just���I cannot hurt you again. I will not do that again. I would rather die.” 

The sudden knock at the great door announced the arrival of Buford of House Belmore. Jon reached her, and passed a soothing hand down her back, then casted pained looks at her even once they turned to scour through their chests to make certain their clothing was decent enough for company: Daenerys in an ankle-length undersilk below a wrapped woolen shift which she tied at the waist, Jon in an undertunic and leather breeches. Once their boots were on, she soothed his pain with a kiss on his cheek and enjoyed his small smile. Then he opened the door and allowed the maester of Castle Black to enter. The other man was overly tall and not yet aged, with light brown hair turning gray at his temples, thin locks cut neatly across his forehead and around his large ears. Eight chains formed a rather tight link around his neck and brown rough spun robes, but they did not weigh him down. Carrying his medicines in a hide, he tucked it under his shoulder then bowed to the Dragon Queen and her royal consort, the King in the North. A steward training under the maester came behind him with a contraption that folded out into a table. As the maester rested his hide and rolled it out on the table, the steward asked for the location of the bedpan. Once he had it in hand, he exited the room and closed the door. Maester Buford thanked King Jon for sending for him so quickly, then sat down to work. 

It was a stilted conversation—not much was said, for which she was pleased. Daenerys wanted to get through his examination without any more shame than she was already feeling. He felt below her jaws to test her glands, then asked her to open her mouth of which he looked inside with a small candle, finishing with a check to her pulse at the wrists, then testing the tension of her belly. The maester did not know them, so after concluding that all was well initially, he spent the next few minutes choosing an herbal potion for her to drink over the next fortnight. Once the small vial of purple liquid was in her palm and she was chewing a piece of sourleaf to cleanse her mouth, he looked between the young rulers and folded his palms in his lap. 

“If I may ask, your grace…when did your moon blood last come?”

She could not answer the question directly. “It comes in fits and starts.” But he merely blinked at her. “My cycle is not regular.” 

“Has it always been this way?” When she would not respond, he said, “Forgive me, Queen Daenerys, but I have heard the story of your previous pregnancy, some years ago, in Essos.”

“My son is not here with us, is he?” she snapped. “Forget those stories—I tell you now, he was not viable. That is what the healers said. He could not be carried to term.” 

“I…see.” He trembled, as if afraid. “I am truly sorry, Queen Daenerys.” 

Jon shifted on his feet, but said nothing. He squeezed Daenerys’s fingers. 

“Forgive me, Maester Buford.” She swallowed the remains of the bitter leaf. “Already, it has been a long morning. And the blood of the dragon runs hot. You see, I often wish my son could have come into this world to experience it for himself.” 

Jon sucked in a wet breath and snuck a hand into the nape of her hair; something far too intimate for their guest to see.

But his touch was grounding, and preceded a memory that followed on the heels of her shaky gratitude. It was like standing on the shifting grains of Dragonstone’s cold beach. There, many weeks before they had discovered the island’s northern caves, she had shared with Jon the tale of her dragons’ births upon Drogo’s funeral pyre, as the red comet had passed from west to east. His quizzical requests for more details made her overcome with grief, and so with sympathetic lines around his eyes, he had beseeched her. Say anything about your past, and I will not turn away. Tell me everything, and I will not turn away. The salty Autumn air had filled her tongue, as Rhaego’s name lingered among the virulent waves. She could almost see Jon’s stunned features, sense the comforting strength of his arms around her, and catch the scent of his borrowed furs. It was the first time she had cried in front of him. 

Now, she covered her hand with his, when it found rest on her shoulder. 

“I understand, your grace,” the maester replied. “It is a great shame. But from what I can see, you have done well to carry on, for which we who aim to fight the dead are grateful. Perhaps the Gods will grace you once more.” He passed a glance over to Jon, and then gave her a small smile that almost reached his eyes. For all intents and purposes, the examination of this maester was not as cold as she had feared. 

Curiously she asked, “Do you have any gods, Maester Buford?” 

“I follow the Old Gods, your grace. Like my father before me, and his father before him.” 

“The Vale is your home,” Jon said, speaking for the first time. “Your brother Lord Benedar holds Strongsong…and has stayed in Winterfell to support my sister Sansa for many moons, now.” 

“Aye. But I must correct you, King Jon. I have no brothers but those in black.” 

Jon paused, and then he chuckled. 

The maester continued. “Perhaps Benedar would have left me as castellan instead of our cousin, but I am already a maester, and I am quite comfortable here at Castle Black. It is the lot that life has cast for second sons and such. But you, King Jon, have risen above all odds.” 

Daenerys understood why this maester thought such a notion would be appreciated by Jon, but she knew it was another matter he must worry about. She gestured for him to make himself comfortable, but he gently refused and continued standing at her side. 

“All odds.” Jon seemed to weigh the words. “I didn’t do it on my own, ser. Neither did I seek it. If any of our—your brothers ask, please relay that message to them.” 

A wrinkled brow relayed the question, Why should it matter? But the maester was wise not to speak so insolently. Ponderously, he shifted his hands on the makeshift table. He could sense that he was being dismissed. 

“Very well, your grace. Queen Daenerys, you should eat smaller meals with greater frequency, if the sickness returns on the morrow.” 

She eyed him warily. Did he, too, think she was with child? Could he sense that she wasn’t yet certain if she wanted to be? 

He moved to his feet, then inclined his head to her. “Only if. In any matter, the vial should be consumed once daily for a fortnight, as I have said. It was a pleasure to have your private audience. I look forward to serving you both in this Great War.” 

Somehow, Daenerys doubted that. He did not seem as single-minded as Jon and Samwell’s stories of Maester Aemon. If anything, he seemed to be all talk with little bite. Perhaps it was the least one could hope for, to make one a good maester. As she mused with an absent frown, Buford Belmore rolled the hide holding his vials and instruments closed, then bowed to them both. Daenerys thanked him with as much sincerity as she presently could, as fear slowly snaked around her heart. 

Once he neared the door, Jon called after him. “Maester Buford, as you are aware, Queen Daenerys and I are not here to take a tour of the Wall. I hope that when our army has finished its task, we will meet with you again, and discuss other matters with Lord Commander Tollett. Until then, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.” 

Though Buford Belmore’s brows rose to his neat fringe, he obeyed at once, bowing again to them. At the opened door, the steward fetched the table, folded it up and then followed him out. Once the door shut, the crackling fire in the hearth resumed its prominence. 

“Why did you say that?” Daenerys asked, craning to meet Jon’s eyes. 

“He should know that I will be thinking of him. I do not want him to be the cause of Samwell’s downfall. What will we do if the Citadel found it within them to track Sam down and try him?” He shook his head. It was growing light outside; light enough that his black curls looked less like one mass, and revealed their individual beauty. “I am always thinking of you, as well. Do you really think you could be with child, Daenerys?” 

Her gaze turned even softer, eyes tracking the hope and fear lining his face. She had once bared her shame to him and watched with tearful awe as it fell into his hands. What would he say now, that he was called to share this burden once more? She pulled him close by the waist, then tilted her head back until he kissed her. Relief loosened her tongue. 

“I hope,” she whispered against his mouth. “And yet I do not hope. I do not think I would deserve something so beautiful.” 

“Deserve?” He pulled away, with gentle fingers at her chin. “You are the most deserving! You are the most patient, the most kind. You have never tried to stop understanding me.” 

“It is easier than you think, Jon Snow.” 

“So you say.” Ignoring her evasion, he  gave her a tremulous smile. “My brother and sisters say I am a pain. But you…are a rare, unearthly thing.” 

She turned her profile toward him, yet he followed on shifting feet; beautifully quiet, always quiet and thinking. She tried to brace for what would come next, but when he spoke softly, as if to avoid spooking her, she was caught away again. 

“Daenerys, what do you think Rhaego would have wanted from you? He would have not wanted you to be ashamed. You were tricked into losing him.” A sob came up her throat, just as wet as the one that had preceded her episode. Unperturbed, Jon drew his arms around her. “I know it is hard, and you have been so brave to have come so far. But I believe you will have to become braver, to bring a child into this world.” 

“Bravery has nothing to do with it.” She hesitated once the words were out, although she couldn’t quite call it a snap, weary as she was. Jon did not take offense, nor did he judge. In fact, the preserverant brightness in his eyes carried her gently down that river.

“Forgiveness, then. Rhaego would have wanted you to forgive yourself.” 

“He…” Daenerys hiccuped.

“He would have wanted you to be happy. Isn’t that so, my love?” 

After a beat, she nodded against his chest, for the second time that morning. It was absurd. Despite being so unceasingly vulnerable on the morning of a march, this was too important to dismiss, delay or bury. Jon knew it well. Now, it was he who hesitated.  

“I should have told you this long ago. If you would like…he could be as much mine as he is yours. My sweet Daenerys…” He brushed her silver-pale hair behind her shoulders, trailing the fingertips there as he went. He whispered in her ear, stirring her aching heart further up and up. “He should not be mourned alone, nor remembered alone. I can bear this pain with you. Please, let me.” 

It was madness. Although there had been the recent loss of her dearest child Viserion, Daenerys had all she wanted. Across Essos, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people whose chains had been broken; their cries of freedom reached the ears of each and every god, as they worked with each other to keep it so. A place to vie for in the hearts of the men, women and children of Westeros; and in that place was a war to fight and people to bring peace to. In Jon Snow, a friend, family, a lover—and at his side, home. She had leaned on the certainty of these things for so long…had made herself content with them for so long…that the slim possibility of bearing a living child for him—while Mirri Maz Durr’s impossible prophecy echoed in her ears—caused Daenerys to snap shut upon herself like a timid creature in a shell. It was a misguided try at protection. It was not her nature, for she was blood of the dragon. In fact, she knew she was hurting herself, hurting them. But he was wrong. Her cursed womb was still barren, and was not his burden. Nothing had happened to not make it so. 

“Jon, what if…what if there is nothing but pain in store for us? Nothing but grief and blood and smoke?”

He surprised her again, and immediately calmed the tempest. 

“Then I will ask you now, of myself.” His sudden smile was brilliant. “Who could love a dragon?” Her wide eyes gave answer enough. He understood her, then. Of the two of them, it was hard to say who had doomed their line more. “Daenerys, even if there is only you and me…then every moment with you is one I will cherish.” 

“Even now?” she asked quickly, greedy. That too, she would need to hear again.

“Especially now.” 

It was a vow. Even if her bout of illness was a fluke, or if she couldn’t bear a living child, or if they failed to ensure Winter gave way to Spring… They could still be happy. At her stunned silence, he squeezed her once more, then gently pulled away, to trail his hands down her waist and land at her hips. Her softly trembling arms came around his shoulders and she felt utterly safe. Through the lone window, dawn light cut across the floor and landed at their feet. Time slipped away more quickly, as they shuffled to their feet. The fullness of their dancing hearts could not be contained, and so they touched foreheads, swaying in the incandescent beam. 

“It is something to think on, while we are separated. I will wait for your answer,” he murmured, then smiled again when she kissed his cheek as a prelude, lips lingering on his stubble, hands finding purchase on his arms. “This, you should also know before we march. After we left the outlaws in the Ice Cells yesterday, I spoke with Edd. I am not yet certain our men will be safe with the Watch.” 

She swallowed thickly. Indeed, his long-standing discomfort was prudent. 

“What is this about, Jon?” 

His face grew long and sullen, and he worked his mouth - as if holding back a scream brought on by a haunting specter. Peace, her lover had found, yet rest, he had not. 

“Me.”

.

.

.

to be continued

If you’ve read this far, thank you. You don’t have to have read the first fic, A Long Way Home, to give an opinion on the prose. The prose in that fic was more succinct. Now my muse is calling me to meander through Dany’s introspection, since there’s extremely personal stuff going on…on the morning of a military march. I worry that the inner monologues drone on for too long. Thoughts?

[bluebellhairpin]

Please use this as an excuse to ramble and talk about your got oc and Sannem!

An excuse to talk about Sandor and my selfship oc? You don't have to tell me twice! (BEWARE. I DIDN'T HOLD BACK LOL)

They're both actually so special to me, but I haven't given myself a chance to really think about them. I do know that their relationship doesn't change the plot a whole lot - however because all my oc's are female I like having them do something to further the plot. I just haven't decided what exactly that is for her yet.

Well I do know one thing, but I'll talk about it later. What I'm mostly trying to get at is I know more fixed lore about the oc than the relationship she has with Sandor. A lot of it is still up in the air lol.

Over the course of her life she gets four nicknames. They progress from The Mouse -> The Thousand Times Bitten -> The Bitch -> The Untouched. (Link are to other post's I've made about why she's called that, and at what point she gets them. BUT THIS IS GOING TO GO WAAAAY MORE INTO THAT.)

I think I mentioned it in the description for The Mouse, but if she was in the show we'd first meet her at Winterfell. She runs errands, and her manner is likened to a field mouse. She knows the Starks, and probably would be around the crowd feasting when King Robert Baratheon visits. I can imagine her catching Sandor sometime then, and perhaps also on the road again a bit later - something clicks and they're friendly enough for acquaintances.

I can imagine her turning into an envoy for Robb during the War of Five Kings. She knows all the routes everywhere, especially in the North and around the Vale, and knows how to keep hidden - whether it be in crowds or empty spaces. It would be this envoy work that leads her to the house of Ramsay Snow. She's caught there, unable to leave. Eventually Ramsay chooses to hunt her, and she almost makes it out of the woods when his hounds get her. She bares her back to the dogs. When the others find her, they leave her there, saying that if she survives the night on her own, she'd be The Thousand Times Bitten.

She does survive, or at least that's what's told since the next morning she wasn't where they left her. Really she was picked up by a farmer and his wife who were coming home late. They nurse her back to full health over the next few weeks, however she cannot stand hounds anymore.

Eventually she leaves. She refuses to be a burden to the family anymore, intent to meet up with Catelyn and Robb Stark. Really though she wanders for a while instead. Eventually she meets Sandor again, and sees Arya. Right as they meet, Arya said that her mother and brother both died the night before, and seeing as she has nowhere else to go, she joins them both. The trio get along well, but during this time is when she starts being called The Bitch. Time with Ramsay has caused what once was sweet to turn bitter, and while before she might have laughed off curse actions and comments she becomes more violent, lacking in self preservation. This and her fondness for Sandor, and his fondness for her, garners her a new name.

She travels with Sandor and Arya until they all meet Brienne of Tarth. She gets lost among the fight. She finds Arya walking towards the road and asks what happened to Sandor. Arya replies that he's dead (at least to her), and she believes it. She's unable to bring herself to go see for herself and instead makes her way back North to the Wall. She meets Jon Snow, who is Lord Commander of the Watch, and uses that time to be taught how to fight properly.

She offers to join Jon on the trip to Hardhome, but he denies saying that she isn't experienced enough, and won't risk her life there. She spends all that time training more, to prove she could've gone. During this time she discovers a fondness for using two blades which are slightly smaller then swords. These become her weapons of choice.

When Jon dies at Castle Black, she is one of the people drawn outside by Ghost's howls. After he's brought back to life, she chooses to join him in leaving as the Wall was never a place for a woman. This plan is foiled when Sansa Stark shows up. In the days the follow, a letter comes from Ramsay goading them to fight him for Winterfell. She is eager to join in, having sworn to see Ramsay die for what he'd done to her, and now to Sansa - and threatened to do again.

She fights at the Battle of the Bastards, and lives without a scratch on her. The training from the Watch paid off. She rises that day as The Untouched - a name garnered from her days at Castle Black, since the moment training moved from pretend swords to real ones, no one could land a blow on her - and now a name solidifying her into a battle legend.

Staying true to her promise, she watches as Sansa sets Ramsay's hounds on himself. Sansa walks away, but she stays. She promised she'd see him die - really she wanted to do it herself, to feel his blood warm her hands, but watching the life leave him was really the only thing she wanted to do before she died. Now her life was no longer in service to herself. Now she was ready to serve someone else again.

Lo and behold, once again there is now a King in the North.

AND THAT'S ALL I HAVE SO FARRRRRRR <3 (I could write more, since I have seen a few more seasons since I decided on all this, but this post is getting loooooooong. So if you've lasted this long I'm giving you a nice cup of tea and/or hot chocolate and kissing ur forehead THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU <3333)

[ungvargr]

there's years of history between the two. years of growing together as brothers. chasing one another in the courtyard of the keep of winterfell. spending late nights unveiling inner secrets about one another. years spent learning to be men together. a brother just as much as jon , bran , and rickon ever were. someone he loved as family. the situation bringing theon to his family might have been lost on the boy who seemed only happy to have a friend his age ... but to him , that had been enough.

there was also enough to put up a guard around the young wolf that he never expected to. the war had taught him one thing for certain. anyone , could betray you. but this was theon. perhaps , that was why this was all so hard for the now young king to process in one sitting. there was much to process ... remembering the way his soul crumbled when he first heard word of his brother's supposed death. he'd never felt such betrayal in all his life.

❛   i never realized how much i needed you until you weren't there.  ❜ @athasliath .

yet , at the same time ... this was theon. the same boy he and his brothers had grown up with. and in the end , with his brothers in fact not dead , robb felt himself torn between what to do. most kings would send him to the wall , but he'd spent enough time away from him. and while he wasn't sure if he liked it or not ... he couldn't bring himself to send him away , or execute him.

' i share this sentiment with you , theon. you should have been at my side through it all. ' perhaps he would have been able to make robb see the signs before it had been too late. before he had narrowly escaped that trap with his life. perhaps , he could have prevented whatever had caused theon to feel the need to put such acts into place. ' and what happens now? what would you have me do? huh? ' his question is pointed , but it's obvious the king in the north is not yet done speaking. ' shall i send you back to the iron islands? perhaps send you to the wall? swear your sword to me? '

that last part sneaks out before he can stop himself? but it was out now. out in the open of the room they had closed up in to talk.

[hraeth-ethile]

Enochian aliens are the preeminent group of extraterrestrial beings observed mostly in conspiracy theories, but feature greatly in media, literature, and science-fiction. Known also as Boeotians and Dippers, they are most commonly referred to as Greys, or The Greys, and are often described as being very tall, without fur, tails, mouths, or ears, with bright white or light grey skin, and three long fingers. Their heads are teardrop-shaped, with large, totally-black almond-shaped eyes.

Their name is derived from an encounter with 1604 English fox philosopher and natural scientist Morris Hyde. Morris, while walking home with bread and wine after visiting a friend late at night, observed strange but very small red lights in the sky that were moving slowly and erratically. In his writings, he tells the story of how one of the lights broke away from the others and followed him home, where he said he was visited in his bedchamber by an angel from heaven. This angel, according to Morris, did nothing but touch his chest and leave back into the sky through a tunnel of painfully-bright red illumination.

In 1860, in the Boeotian town of Petra, a plea was made to the royal government in Athens to assist with a possible murderer or dangerous animal after four women and two children go missing within a two week period. On August 7th, a representative of the king, the lion Ioanna Rallis, comes to Petra to investigate, only to disappear herself on August 9th. On August 11th, she's found naked, confused, but unharmed, by sheepherders atop Koufospíthari - a large nearby hill. She tells the townspeople that "ancient Boeotians" stole her from her bedroom and took her to a strange and terrifying city deep within Koufospíthari, but because she could not communicate with them, she was ousted by these people. When she returns to Athens the next day to bring her report to the king and his court, she can no longer remember what she had to say. The disappearances in Petra coincide with her departure, and while no one has been reported missing in Petra since that early August, the four missing women and two missing children were never found.

In 1950, war veteran Jonathan James Arbuckle, a calico cat from Los Angeles, observes a red light in the sky that seems to fall in a steady pattern towards the coastline during his drive up from Santa Barbara to see his sister's family in Big Sur. He watches it disappear into the mountainside. Compelled by a strong desire to investigate, he takes a long detour into the mountains to see if it might have been some kind of falling aircraft or discharged weapons system.

As soon as he parks along a steep, old, forgotten dirt road, he steps outside to look around for any debris or signs of fire, only to watch in horror as he's taken up into the sky. In his written account of the event, Jon Arbuckle says that he was taken by an alien race from somewhere in the Big Dipper constellation of stars and returned to Earth with no memory of how he was taken, where he was taken to, or how long he was gone - just that the first thing he remembers after being taken was sitting in the driver's seat of his car after parking in his sister's seaside Big Sur home, where she came to greet him as if he'd just arrived at her house. His sister Adrienne and her husband Chance said that they observed nothing out-of-the-ordinary at all about his arrival, only that he appeared to be "… in a confused and shaken state," and was stricken with an intense hunger that took three portions of a large dinner to finally sate.

The Enochians have been named by each of these individuals, either at the time or many years later, as the beings responsible for their visitations. Since the Arbuckle Abduction in 1950, Enochians, fuelled by the Morris Hyde Visitation, the Boeotia Disappearances, and several other historic eye-witness accounts (such as during the Battle of Orleans in 1356, the Nod prairie incident of 1975, and the Abduction of Arturo Salvacion in 1977), have become an immensely popular subject in media fiction and as a key subject in conspiracy theories.

The theories vary greatly, and have become intricately woven into the fabric of modern society, with the town of Roswell, New Mexico even putting the image of an Enochian on their city seal after the infamous Roswell Crash was blamed on an Enochian vessel. The descriptions of the vessel's occupants match the common appearance of the Enochian.

UFO sightings are often attributed to Enochians, with most UFOs suspected to be designed either by Enochians themselves or as a joint effort between them and the United States government.

A fringe theory that nonetheless remains popular in certain circles, especially those in fox, rabbit, and feline cultures, hold that the Enochians are evil and extremely dangerous, with very religious foxes, rabbits, and felines even comparing them to cultural monsters or part of Lucifer's fallen angels. The event these fringe theorists often cite is the Järvenpää Event, which happened in 2008, where a hybridae man and his entire family were allegedly murdered and meticulously dismembered by Enochians. The Finnish town of Järvenpää, however, says that no such event ever took place, with the mayor of Järvenpää, in 2010, even holding a public press release on the internet rumour, which he believed was bringing distress to the residents of his town. In the release, he says that "… the last noteworthy thing to happen to this town was an orgy, and even that was cited as being 'boring' by the people involved."

[hewantshisbrideback]

Jonrya AU: Other Engagements

Summary: The remaining Starks gather some time after the Long Night is won to discuss possible plans for marriages and alliances. With Jon crowned King of the Wall, ruling under Daenerys, High Queen of Westeros, discussion of who will reign by his side as queen over the north is paramount. But Jon is not the only wolf for whom a match must be made.

“Proposals," Rickon groaned and tossed back his head, auburn curls glinting. "My spear is still crusted with blood, and we're already talking of politics?"

"And how long a grace period were you expecting?" Arya snorted, shaking her head. Her dismissive words were born partially of relief. 

She had been speaking with the washer women when Jon found her and pulled her away. He had lead her to a small, stony room, recently rebuilt, containing only two windows, a small side table of wood, and her siblings gathered around in a semi-circle as if for a ritual. 

Her hackles had risen in an instant, but Bran had quickly laid her greatest fears to rest. There was no new tragedy to break their hearts, no new disaster to ravage their land; only the tedious intricacies of a civil society.

“A longer one,” the boy groused. Arya imagined that in his mind, there was likely no tragedy more agonizing than such tedious complexities.

“Oh? Are you inconvenienced?” She tilted her head at him. "Shall we postpone rebuilding the kingdom until the armory's polished nice and new?"

"Can we?" He asked. For a moment it was difficult for her to tell whether he was serious. Maybe the boy didn’t know himself. She cuffed him lightly over the head with a scoff just to be safe, and the grin that broke on his lips was wild.

Still, she had to admit he wasn’t exaggerating. Hardly a moon had past since the last dregs of the Others had been sighted, had been felled, and already there were talks of contracts, engagements, and promises between names she recognized only from war letters and fireside whispers.

During the blight, there had been hurried ceremonies in Great Halls, like that between Princess Val of the Free Folk and the gentle Willas Tyrell. However, there was no need for hushed vows in torch-lit gatherings anymore. What was left of the nobility, and whatever names had been gilded by the Long Winter, would want feasts, balls, parades through the streets.

Arya thought she almost preferred a quiet cloaking in the night. Perhaps that was only natural. After all, she had been present for the wedding of Val and Willas, and no better a pair had been made than they.

She recalled what a sight they’d been: the free woman’s flushed cheeks painted orange with firelight, the lord of the Reach’s nervous brown eyes pinned to his bride’s easy smile, rapt and adoring. They had danced for only a short song, but they had whispered all throughout, and had been whispering to each other ever since whenever she saw them.

The warrior princess and her lord of roses. She could count at least three songs that had been written of them since, the battles the lady fought and the bed of flowers her lord laid down for her, but none of them noted how they made each other laugh, how they sat at each other’s side like old friends.

"Bran is right,” Arya blinked from her thoughts in time to see Sansa grimace and continue, “We may have put aside our differences to face a greater threat, but that won't make for a lasting peace now that the threat is extinguished.”

"Fine," Rickon groused, then pursed his lips, surveying the room sullenly. "So, we're looking to pick up a queen already?"

Arya flinched, eyes snapping to Jon. Perhaps Rickon had been right to moan and whine. She knew her cousin would be married off eventually, now that he'd had a crown foisted onto him, but the idea of helping select his bride settled like shards of ice beneath her ribs. She cursed herself. How selfish she was. Finding a queen for the North was in the best interest of all who inhabited it, and here she was, unable to look at this as of yet faceless woman as anything but another competitor for Jon’s attention.

"A queen for the North?" Sansa contemplated, sounding as equally troubled as Arya felt. Her hopes that Sansa might object in her stead were dashed in an instant. "I suppose it bears discussing--”

"We can't," Arya blurted, panic coursing through her like lightning. Her siblings turned to stare at her. She flushed under their baffled eyes. Swallowing her shame and clearing her throat, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. "Well, we can't. We can't start making decisions yet. Not on our own. The dragons. They have a stake in this, too."

Jon lingered on her for a moment. She held her breath, brow cocked defiantly, but he made a noise of agreement that showed she need not have worried. "That's true. I'm heir, second to Aegon. Daenerys lets me keep my name, but she will want a say in who shares our blood all the same."

"You're right. It may be one day that the children of your union and hers are married themselves," Bran conceded. “It won't do to decide without her.”

Her sister nodded, expression poised and thoughtful. "That’s true. I suppose there should be some talk between us and her, even Aegon perhaps, before we think about who would be a suitable choice.”

The ice in Arya's chest melted, soft like relief, but colder and heavier, and she made an effort to ignore the stab of resentment at her sister’s next words.

“Jon, you can send her a message, invite her to share her thoughts. Of course, you could always visit her in person as well, if she prefers it.”

Jon's jaw ticked as he nodded, eyes flickering towards Arya, only to snap away as if it burned when she returned his gaze. For a moment, she was petrified. Had he noticed? Had he noticed how upset this talk of queens had made her?

"Alright," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I'll draft a letter after supper."

His words were disappointing, and his tone was resigned, but it was also familiar. She felt her heart calm. It was no use to fret, over any of it. They were close, and given all that happened, it only made sense for her to be worried. She shouldn’t be afraid for him to see it. 

And at least the decision itself had been delayed some, Arya thought, staring at the ceiling, even if only until Daenerys had enough time to consider the best use of her nephew.

"Great!" Rickon looked around at each of them. "That's that, then, isn't it?” Sansa tutted at him for his impatience, and Bran shook his head, and Rickon threw up his hands. “If we can’t do anything without the queen’s say-so, why stand here brooding over it now? Just wait until she tells you what to do."

“She’s not just going to tell us what to do.” Arya tried not to quibble over semantics with Rickon, as he was still learning the world of kings and courts, but she couldn’t stop herself this time. “Daenerys isn’t a tyrant. No doubt she has prospects in mind, but the choice is ultimately Jon’s.”

“Which is why it’s worth going over the options now,” Sansa added on, “to prepare ourselves for when we do make that decision.”

“And we will,” Bran intercut, "but we can afford to set it aside today. There are still some other arrangements we need to consider.”

“What arrangements?” Jon rumbled, but the stiff set to his jaw and the scowl inching onto his lips made it clear he had some idea and, evidently, disapproved already.

If Bran sensed his ire, he ignored it. “Arrangements for the rest of the Starks."

Arya blinked. She had seen the eyes of visiting nobles and their kin lingering on her brothers and her sister. Even she had received some curious glances. But somehow she’d still managed to overlook the obvious, managed to fool herself into thinking that they had more time.

“Are we really to be parted from each other so soon?” she murmured.

Bran gave her an appreciative glance tinged with grief, and in that glance she felt all those lonely years already spent apart, a splintered pack. After spending this many fighting so hard to reunite, she felt sick imagining any of her family leaving Winterfell. No wonder Jon was on edge.

“I don’t like it,” Rickon grumbled in tandem with her thoughts, and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, they weren't the only ones. 

Sansa had folded in on herself, a brooding edge to her perfect mouth, but with Rickon’s complaint, she moved beside him, tucking his stray red curls behind his ear, a gesture that smacked of their late mother to a degree which hurt.

“Nevertheless,” she muttered after a moment, hand retracting and interlacing with the other, but she could not bring herself to follow through and continue the thought. No one could.

The room was still and heavy with preemptive sorrow, until Arya could bear it no longer. What would they do, sit in silence in this room until the fire dwindled and the sun set? There were meals to be had and men to appease, even just this evening, and waiting wouldn't stall the inevitable. Bran knew that. They all knew that. Sucking in a solemn, silent breath, she asked, “So then which of us is to be married first? And to who?”

Sansa opened her mouth, face wilted with regret, but Bran shook his head dismissing her, and the rest of them mirrored him. There was no need for a defense to be made.

“I’m well aware of the union between you and Sandor Clegane,” Bran assured her. “I would never ask you to break your vows. Aside from this, your first two marriages would have diminished your prospects regardless, one of which still needs to be annulled. Sansa is not an option. I mean you no offense, sister."

Sansa did not look offended. If anything, her expression spoke to some small, secret amusement. Arya was just glad that she wasn't weeping.

“No,” Bran continued, “by now, the attention of our allies has wandered to our other sister, Princess Arya.”

Arya was still beneath her brother’s cool, blue stare. She used to squirm whenever someone referred to her title aloud. By now, she’d nearly grown used to it. After all, she’d answered to far too many ill-fitting names to abandon Arya Stark for her accompanying titles, so she wasn’t left with much choice. 

Now, something in her felt hollow, as though if the wind began to blow, it would whistle through her insides, and she’d be able to hum without using her mouth.

“They intend to offer their sons to Arya." Jon's words were slow and pointed and metered all the way through. “Have they no daughters for you or Rickon?”

“I did not say that they are not looking out for their daughters as well,” Bran reasoned, just as slowly and emphatic as his cousin had. “But of the three of us, Arya is the most attractive option. She cannot give them a royal title, but it’s no secret what she means to you, and the North at large, or that she’s earned the favor of Daenerys. Every wifeless heir on the continent will be interested.”

She must’ve imagined the way his fists clenched. Jon was smart. Men underestimated him, always, but he was smarter than all of them. He should've expected this, even if, somehow, she hadn’t. Of course suitors would seek a princess’s hand. It would not matter to them whether that hand was supple or calloused. Jon knew that. If he didn’t, he should’ve.

If the world had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing staves the ambition of powerful men. Not even death. Not even ugliness.

“Good.” The word startled her, even more than her sister’s soft hand suddenly pressing to her cheek. But she smiled, albeit with closed lips, as Sansa's furrowed gaze swept over her features like she'd never seen them, like she was trying to absorb all she could for safe keeping. “You’ll have your pick of the lot.”

“Septa Mordane would be quaking to hear such talk of Arya Horseface,” Arya snorted in response, provoking a wry smile from Bran, an expression she sheepishly mirrored.

“Be serious, Arya,” Sansa huffed with a noble frown, hand falling from her face to clutch her wrist in earnest. Arya adjusted her clasp so that they held hands instead, and Sansa's thumb swept the back of her hand in search of comfort. “That silly, old nickname couldn’t be more ill-fitting. You’re quite pretty now.”

Jon made an ill-tempered rumbling noise, and Arya wanted to press him, but refrained in front of the others. He’d been reserved since he was a child, but ever since the Long Night began, he’d been downright secretive. She wouldn’t pry, at least not until she’d gotten him alone.

“It’s true," Rickon cut in, offering a rakish grin. “You should hear the free folk talk of you, sister. They say such things I’ve had to threaten to gut near half of them. They might’ve tried to steal you already, if they weren’t so frightened of Jon. And me, too, of course!”

The others stiffened, but Arya saw his assurance for what it was and spared a moment to thank the old gods for her littlest brother. Though her gratitude didn’t prevent her from rolling her eyes.

“The freefolk have a might different set of standards than the noble lords of Westeros. I can only hope that my reputation is not too far spread. It’s too much harder to see a she-wolf wed than a proper lady,” she drawled, letting go of Sansa as she paused and turned to him with a shrug. “Though I suppose in another world, a marriage with some wily freefolk warrior might've suited, and done well to unite the North.”

Rickon puffed up with pride, though on behalf of whom she had no idea.

“You can’t be serious,” Sansa huffed, then turned an admonishing glare on her brothers. “I know that you have all grown quite fond of the wildlings, having spent so much time with them, but however helpful they’ve been, there is hardly a suitable match for a lady amongst them.”

“A princess, now,” Bran reminded her, and Sansa nodded firmly.

“Suitable how?”  A sneer curved on Rickon's mouth. “I’m not the one who wants to marry her off, but a free man can be good as any lord of Westeros. It wasn’t a wildling who tortured the poor girl in Arya’s stead, was it? And your good Joffrey was a prince. It seems that didn’t stop him from being vile.”

“Rickon!” Arya snapped in warning.

The youngest Stark stared her sister down, burning as remorselessly as the sun, but Sansa’s face was stone and her eyes blue flint.

“That is not what I meant,” she amended calmly. “Of course, the wildlings are no more capable of cruelty than the rest of us. That being said,” her words sharpened to points, like they were her talons, "the lords of Westeros will not stand to see one Stark sister married to a former knight and the other to a wildling. Not when order has just been settled and peace is still in question. If we marry Arya to a wildling, we spit in the faces of our Northern lords and our Southron neighbors both.”

“Aside from that, we don’t need another tie to the free folk,” Bran noted mildly. “With Tormund in our council, Val in the reach, and Jon their chosen king, their loyalty is as guaranteed as we could hope.”

Arya shrugged. “Well, as far as I've heard, if I were to be stolen, I'd hardly be in a position to refuse."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think Jon would be all too pleased to wake up and find you stolen by one of his subjects." Bran was watching Jon as if it were his sole, solemn duty. "I imagine they'd only get so far before he stole you back."

Jon flinched violently and it was a shock, how pale and harrowed he looked. 

"It’s not like anyone could ever steal me away in the first place," Arya reminded him quietly, and when he looked at her, his mouth was pressed into a bitter facsimile of a smile.

“Unfortunately,” Rickon mumbled, and when Sansa and Jon simultaneously turned to glare, he merely scuffed his foot against the ground defiantly. "I mean it. At least then she could've stayed in Winterfell.”

Ridiculous boy. Arya nearly pulled him into a hug, but Bran interrupted her before she could move and his next words kept her still.

"It's not entirely out of the question,” he professed. “It’s possible she’ll find a suitor who will be able to reside in the North."

Arya felt her heart stutter. “You mean, like someone who’s not an heir?”

“No,” Sansa asserted. “If you snub the heir of one house for another’s second son, their entire territory will take it as an offense.”

“No, I was not specifically thinking along those lines,” Bran amended. “There are those with other circumstances under which you may be able to remain.” His eyes slid curiously to one of the windows as he tilted his head. "Ned Dayne, for example. We’ve received word that he intends to act in service to the Queen’s Greater Westerosi Council. You get along well, don't you?"

Jon stepped forward before she could reply, straightened to his full height. His stare was locked on her, stark and unyielding against the pallor of his cheeks, like stones atop snow dunes. "How do you know the Sword of the Morning?"

Arya felt apprehension tighten like a cord around her throat.

This had been the way since they’d reunited.

When Jon introduced her to his allies, she’d beamed like the sun. They had delighted her, despite her jealousy, for all the years she’d spent apart from him, that he’d been with them instead. The jealousy didn’t matter as much as the relief that he’d found friends. She took them as her own. She had been excited for him to do the same with hers. She had been so sure he would, it hadn’t even felt like hope. She’d just known.

But when she brought Jon to Gendry, explained who he’d been to her, he met the smith with suspicious words and a dark glare. When she told him of Hot Pie, or Lommy, or Weasel, or any of the number of sailors and whores from Braavos, he answered only with sarcasm and silence. And the Hound...

Now she’d be the first to point out that Sandor Clegane had not been her friend, or her ally, when they first travelled together. But she would also admit, begrudgingly, that he’d become something close by the time he accompanied her to the Wall with the Brotherhood. Jon had known that. Still, when Sansa brought the Hound into their home as her husband, Arya had heard the King of the Wall bellowing his objections from the other side of Winterfell.

"We travelled together, for a time," she replied carefully. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth. "Not very long.”

“When?” he prompted impatiently.

“When I was with the Brotherhood,” she confessed, “back when it was still lead by Beric Dondarrion.”

“You didn’t say anything.” In other circumstances, these words might’ve been a mere observation, or even an expression of concern, but here and now, they were an accusation.

He had mentioned the Sword of the Morning to her before in passing, but by that time, around the time poor Morgan Umber started running away whenever she waved in his direction, she had heard just about everything he had to say about her friends. So she had decided not to mention it. That would be easier.

Except now it looked like she’d been keeping secrets. She cursed the gods and all they stood for. “He wasn't the Sword of the Morning then — just a boy."

"Oh, just a boy," Rickon snorted. "Just another boy, you mean?"

Jon glowered but said nothing.

"That's right," Sansa tittered, with a sudden little smile. "You’ve collected so many. The blacksmith, the baker. Even that boy from House Umber. And now, the heir of Starfall."

"Gendry wouldn’t be a bad match either," Rickon piped up, a grin forming. Like Jon, he had been wary of the smith when Arya first introduced them, but unlike Jon, that had since changed. There was a higher degree of respect between the Free Folk and the Brotherhood than between either of them and any of the other factions. They worked together more easily, and more often, and Rickon was always with Osha and the free folk. Between this growing familiarity and Gendry's formidable reputations both as the Bull of the Brotherhood and the Arm of Stoneheart, a friendship had formed.

Her sister, on the other hand, had been entirely lukewarm when it came to the blacksmith. It was clear she saw him as beneath Arya’s station, but he was useful and she’d kept any complaints to herself, likely as recompense for Arya’s support for her and Sandor. This worked in Gendry’s favor as Sansa hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, only saying, "Who knew your habit of collecting strays would come so in handy?"

Arya's cheeks warmed. "They're not strays."

Rickon shrugged. "Not anymore, I suppose.”

"They're allies!” She insisted. “They're vital allies."

This time, Bran shrugged. "They can be both," he suggested innocently.

Arya growled and whacked his shoulder gently, turning to Jon for even a drop of support, but the only thing she found was frustration marring his brow. They were stalling again, wasting time. Arya sobered. She felt a bit like a child, finding Jon so troubled and having been so oblivious.

"Jon?” she ventured. “What are you thinking?"

He was quiet for a moment and she thought he might scold them, but instead he responded, "It's as Sansa said before. A knight is hardly a suitable match for a princess, let alone a smith."

Arya prickled at his words. True as they may be, in the political sense, the insinuation that her friends were somehow beneath her would never sit well with her. She knew that Jon was just being practical, that he had too much sense to hold a man's status against his character. 

But then, he seemed to make many exceptions to sense when it came to those she cared about. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry Gendry, but she knew she’d prefer him to most, and she wasn’t about to let Jon discount him without objection.

"Gendry isn't just a smith.” She reminded him stiffly, fighting to remain civil as he huffed and turned away. "He leads the Brotherhood without Banners. He has earned the respect of Westeros.”

"And the smallfolk adore him. He's not just some war hero to them," Rickon added eagerly, looking to her, and she nodded him on. “He means something more. The whole Brotherhood does. They love them.”

"And he may not be a lord, by his own choice," Arya concluded, "but he is a Baratheon. That could mollify at least some of the lords."

"And would it mollify Daenerys? Or Aegon?" Jon snapped. "When it was a Baratheon who killed their family and sent them into exile in the first place? I may be their kin but I can only do so much to protect you."

"I thought that Daenerys granted immunity and legitimacy to Robert's children in exchange for recognizing Targaryen rule?" Sansa asked, hands moving to her hips. "Even Edric Baratheon has bent the knee."

"So how do you think she feels about Gendry, then, the only bastard to refuse her offer of a title and land? And the leader of a band of fools," Jon spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, "who reject the authority of anyone who wears a crown?"

Why Jon was suddenly spouting hostility at the Brotherhood he'd vocally appreciated during the war, Arya wasn't sure, but as much as she took issue with his slander, it wasn’t the time to bring it up. "If Daenerys does see the Brotherhood as a threat, then a marriage between us could be a means of establishing peace before a conflict breaks out...”

The look Jon gave her was that of a wounded animal with its prey cornered. She forgot what she had been about to say.

"If you think," he hissed, "that I'm going to risk your life on the premise that it might prevent disputes between that menace and the Crown, then I am going to have to disappoint you."

"And what of Edric Dayne?"

Arya could only watch as Jon turned away to face her sister, whose chin jutted out defiantly at the king. That imperious timbre sent shivers down Arya’s spine. She hadn’t heard her sister take such a lofty tone with Jon in ten years.

Jon, on the other hand, just sounded irritated. "What of him?"

"As a candidate for Arya's husband,” Sansa deadpanned, as unamused with him as he was with her. “Is something wrong with him?"

"Is this not the boy that used to traipse around with the same Brotherhood?" Jon enunciated his words as if he was speaking to someone extraordinarily slow and particularly annoying, and if his goal was to offend, then by the way Sansa bristled, he had succeeded.

"His involvement with the Brotherhood was minimal, contingent on his position as Ser Dondarrion's squire, and has already ended," she pointed out hotly. "It would have to, either way, seeing as he's not just a lord, but the heir to Starfall." 

"And you think as the heir to Starfall, he and his bride will not be obligated to return to Starfall?" Jon replied just as impatiently. "He could afford to pick up the mantle of Sword of the Morning and run around the continent as a knight during the war, but do you truly think he will forfeit his responsibilities at the behest of a girl he knew when he was a squire?"

"But what if he forfeits his claim? If he intends to work for the council, he will."

"Then there is no guarantee he settles here."

“Oh,” Sansa made a cruel, ladylike sound, something like a laugh but not. "Is that all?"

The whites of Jon’s eyes had never been so visible. "Is that all?"

"Is that all, that she may have to leave? Is that your only qualm?"

"He offers her nothing!"

"He's a lord. He's an heir." Sansa lifted a finger with each point she made. "He's a war hero. He's a celebrated ally to the Martells, and to the Targaryens!"

Jon scoffed, loud, and so unlike him at all that Arya's jaw fell a little. "If a king with Targaryen blood is not enough to guarantee peace with the Targaryens, then a marriage to Edric Dayne will do no better! He offers her nothing!"

"He offers her security and kindness!" Sansa roared, calm breaking like the sea against cliffs. "He and Arya are not just familiar with each other — they're friends. Do you understand how rare and precious it is? As far as safety and happiness can go, there's no better assurance than that."

"What of our assurance?" Rickon snapped, stepping into line with his cousin, opposing Sansa. "We can offer her better than that."

"Exactly, Rickon!" Jon crowed, towering above them all even as he leaned in to emphasize his point. "Her family, in Winterfell, is better than that."

Her sister sputtered at his malice, turning to Arya, but she could only stare back, face still slack with surprise. Helpless, Sansa seethed, shaking her head at them all. "And so, what? She will never marry anyone?"

"I don't see why she has to," Rickon grumbled, but Arya barely heard him as Jon crossed over to her, took her by the shoulder, and tucked her into his side. "At least right away.”

"She doesn't," Jon agreed, gaze soft and raw, as if he’d been stripped bare and bleeding before her and didn't mind at all. What was she supposed to do? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Time? But then he said, “She won’t.”

Sansa shrunk back as if slapped and Arya stilled under his arm. This was a voice she'd only heard him wield on the battlefield, or in court, deep as a wolf and imperious as a dragon. He had never been the king with them, not with his family, no matter how they'd fought or what over. But now, he’d raised his head to look at Sansa with narrowed eyes, and did not seem to see a cousin at all.

He continued steadily, "We have every right to keep her."

Sansa’s teeth were small and peeked out from her mouth like she wanted to run but when she met Arya's gaze, her mouth shut. She straightened her posture, her chin dipped low and humble this time. "You are a Targaryen king, but you're not her head of house. You may have a say, but the final word is Bran's."

Jon’s grip tightened and Arya winced as he positioned himself between the two sisters, almost as if to make sure Sansa wouldn’t reach out and grab her.

"Oh, did you forget?" she asked, so elegantly applying salt in the wound.

"It seems Bran has," Arya interjected. "Surely he has something to add?"

She looked to her brother, silently imploring, but he merely made a contented hum. Part of her wanted to tear her hair out, another wanted a go at his. She did not see what was so amusing about their siblings spitting and hissing at one another over her marriage prospects. Jon and Sansa were volatile enough as it is, some days managing genuine cordiality and others only just barely maintaining a facade of civility. This couldn’t help.

"Bran will do what's best for Arya," Jon spoke on his behalf, drawing her even closer, so her chest was pressed to his ribs. His heat warmed her like a furnace. "I trust him with that much. He loves his sister."

"And I don't," Sansa inhaled, eyes wide and stepping back. "That's what you mean, isn't it? Be honest with us, Jon. Arya and I have made our peace and moved past our childhood quarrels, but clearly, you haven't. You still hold them against me, don't you?"

"It's nothing like that," Arya assured her with a furrowed brow, gesturing for her cousin to corroborate. Jon didn't say a word.

Sansa looked down at her and soon deflated. "What would you know? He's an entirely different person to you.” She turned back to Jon, her voice low and scathing. “You’re making me look like a villain for suggesting she marry at all, but I’m just trying to find her someone who will be good for her before it’s too late. I will not allow her to suffer like I did.”

"No, you would just exile her from her home, to live with strangers.” There was no room for argument. There never had been. “Arya has been away from home long enough without you sending her away once more."

"Away from home, or away from you?”

She might’ve said more, she must’ve said more, and Jon must’ve said more too, but Arya couldn’t stand to hear another a word of it. What was the point of this bickering and bullshit? All the while Bran just sat there with that inscrutable certainty as his eyes trailed after Jon, and what did any of it matter?

“Enough!” she howled, pushing at his chest and ripping out of Jon’s reach.

His arm hung in the air for a moment, expression hurt, but she didn't have the time to be sorry.

"Were either of you going to ask me what I thought? Or are you two happy assuming you know what's best for me, as well as the North, and the rest of the kingdoms?" she snapped. Sansa, Jon, and even Rickon all began speaking at once, but she'd had enough of listening for an entire week. “Shut up! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all of you.” She sneered. “What a waste of time.”

Sansa objected, and Jon tried to defend himself, but it had been, nothing but a waste of time and a strain on their throats. If this was the way things would go, she was better off being stolen by the free folk. She was half tempted to leave her window open in invitation. They might not even have to bind and carry her.

"We are not going to make these decisions in a single evening," Bran's voice raised now, cutting through the clamor like a sword through cloth. "I knew that when I brought it up. Although, I had thought we'd at least get the chance to discuss some of the prospects for Rickon and me. But that can wait for now. We have other engagements to attend to.”

"Right," she croaked. Meals and men. Meals and men. She was supposed to meet with Ser Davos and Lord Manderley. Through the window, the sky was orange. She swallowed, but her throat kept dry. "I'm already late. I have to go.”

She moved to leave, and Jon moved to follow, but Bran called out and asked him to wait as the door swung shut behind her, and that was the last she allowed herself to hear before breaking into a sprint.

X

@mysticalmuddle This isn’t the fic I was talking about before, but I thought you might like to be tagged anyway, seeing as you’re basically the sole reason I ever post my fics! Thank you for all your encouragement, you are amazing.

[lunnybunny12]

Sandor Clegane x Reader (Wildling)

A/n: The reader is a wildling in this story and has never heard of the hound before. 

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death and no fluff

Word count: 1338

Master List

The East watch had been getting colder and colder as of late. The winds would whistle through windows and the snow would pile against the black, stone walls.

"It's your job to talk him out of stupid fucking ideas like this, Davos," Tormund said.

Jon had just returned from Dragonstone with both the dragon glass and the "stupid fucking idea" of getting a white walker to Kings Landing. It was a ridiculous idea but you understood where Jon was coming from. If he was going to get Cersei's army to fight against the night-king she'd need proof.

"I've been failing at that job of late." Davos joked in return.

The table was quiet and had a few new faces.

One was a young man. It was clear that he had never set foot in the north before, and you knew that the second you saw him walk through the gates. His cloak was pulled right up to his nack and his hands were violently shaking due to the lack of gloves. As far as you knew he was a bastard like Jon, but a southern bastard... one of the water.

The other was an old soul, he had walked the earth for a long time and he had the scars to prove it. He was clad in silver armour that was made to fit, a clock with a thick collar of fur around it and a big fucking sword. A Targaryen guard maybe?

"How many queens are there now?"  Tormund asked.

"Two" Jon answered

"And you need to convince the one with the dragons or the one who fucks her brother?" Tormund asked.

"Both,"

You shuffled in your seat a little bit and sighed. "How many men did you bring?"

The men at the table look quick glances at each other, answering your question quite clearly.

"Not enough," Jon said quietly.

"The big woman?" Tormund asked earning a chuff from you. He always did have a knack for liking women he couldn't have.

When a deep voice emanated from the Targaryen guard, you all turned to listen.

"We were hoping some of your men could help." The man said gently and Tormund hummed in thought.

"You really want to go out there... again?" You asked, looking Jon right in the eye.

When Jon gave you a silent nod that he did indeed need to go past the wall, Tormund leaned over the table to look at the men in front of him.

"You're not the only ones."

"What?" you asked in clear confusion.

"The scouts found them a mile south of the wall," Tormund said, guiding you all down to the cells.

"And you didn't think to tell me of this?"

"You just got back from castle black a day ago and I have people to look after so forgive me for letting some prisoners slip my mind," Tormund answered a bit too quickly for your liking.

You growled in anger and then lingered behind the men as they continued walking.

The cell was colder than you expected it to be. With the little light that managed to come through the window, you saw 3 men. 2 of them were small, huddled together in a corner, clinging to whatever warmth they could, while the 3rd was large, wrapped in a thin layer of fabric and splayed across a bench.

"You're the Hound" Jon breathed. " I saw you once at Winterfell"

The Hound clutched his fabric closer to him as he pulled himself to sit properly on the bench. On closer inspection, he had a scar that took up almost half of his face. His eyes met yours and stayed there for a while with the same mix of annoyance and curiosity yours did.

You had seen bigger men than him, stranger and scarier men... so why were you looking at him?

"They want to go beyond the wall too," Tormund said to Jon before being cut off by another one of the men.

"We don't want to go beyond the wall we have to. Our Lord told us a Great War was-"

"Don't trust him" The bastard of the water (who you found out was called Gendry) growled.

"Don't trust any of them. They're the brotherhood... and the last thing their Lord told them to do was sell me to a red witch to be murdered."

"Thoros... I hardly recognised you" The Targaryen guard said to one of the men, who leaned forward to get a better look.

"Ser Jorah Mormont, they won't give me anything to drink down here. I haven't been feeling like myself."

At hearing the name Mormont, you and your brother snapped your heads to the guard. He was a fucking Mormont?

"You're a Fucking Mormont... like the last lord commander?" Tormund asked.

"He was my father-"

"He hunted us like animals" You seethed.

"Any you returned the favour as I recall" Jorah retorted calmly.

A moment of anger passed the 3 of you before the one-eyed man broke the silence.

"Here we all are... at the edge of the world, at the same moment, heading in the same direction for the same reason."

You turned to the man and looked him dead in the eye.

"Our reasons aren't your reasons"

"It doesn't matter what we think our reasons are, girl. There is a greater purpose at work, and we serve it together whether we know it or not..." By that point, he had stood up and made his way to the front of the cell.

"We may take the steps but the Lord Of Light-"

"For fuck sake shut your hole. Are we coming with you or not?" Said the hound looking at the group.

"Don't you want to know what we're doing?" The Mormont asked.

At the back of the cell, Thoros piped up.

"Is it worth us sitting in a freezing cell, waiting to die?" Thoros smiled.

It was true, regardless of the reason you all had the same goal of stopping the walkers.

"He's right," Jon said,

" We're all on the same side... were all breathing."

And with that, Tormund slapped the keys into Jon's hands and the men went to collect their weapons and clothes for the wall.

-------------------------------------------------

You all exited the wall about half a day ago but it didn't feel that long.

Not all wildlings did well in stone walls and you were one of them. You were a hunter at heart and you always had been. Going out of the camp and getting a rabbit or rogue deer to feed your people, was what you lived for and the walls of castle black made you feel trapped.

"It's rude to stare, dog," you said tying your bootstrap with shaking fingers.

"Piss off. You looked first." The Hound replied, kicking up snow as he walked.

He walked right up to you and got in your face. He was easily a foot taller than you, his hair was frozen to his face and his beard was littered with snowflakes.

"What are you trying to do here?" you asked  

"What?"

"You know, getting close enough to my face that I can smell the last dick you sucked in your breath so YOU piss off" You laughed and pushed past him towards the rest of the group.

The hound grabbed the hood of your fur jacket and swivelled you around to look at him with fire in his eyes.

You just laughed at him and said "Ooo, You southern men, so stoic. Even your women, you'd think that they had their cunts sewn shut,"

He never said a word to you and usually just a glance his way would send people fleeing like children but you were laughing? He had you in his hands and you weren't scared?

You saw the confusion in his eyes as you freed yourself from his grip.

"I've seen bigger, killed stronger and fucked scarier men than you, dog. If you want to scare me you're gonna have to do better than that."

[supercorpkid]

Extraneous Variable 2

Error: n2.

Supercorp, Kara Danvers x Daughter!Reader, Lena Luthor x Daughter!Reader, Alex Danvers x Niece!Reader, Brainy x Reader.

Word count: 2520.

“AAAAAAAAAAH!” You yell when you realize, and you look at Kara on the other side rushing to open your lab door to understand why you’re yelling. “DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR!”

You look at the clothes they put next to you on the floor and sigh. They are not going to fit your very big and masculine body. And oh no, you have that between your legs.

“What’s wrong with your voice?” You hear Lena’s voice from the other side and look at Kara lowering her glasses. Oh no. You cover your very strange new body part, without touching it, and it’s Kara’s turn to yell.

“She’s a boy!” Kara screams covering her eyes. “My beautiful, beautiful baby girl is a boy now!”

“AND SHE’S NAKED!” You yell at them.

They all have different expressions. Kara looks terrified, like she just saw someone dying. Alex is laughing so hard next to them. Brainy looks like he’s doing some calculation to see where it all went wrong, and Lena is just shocked.

“Can someone get me some clothes?” You beg, trying not to look down at yourself.

“Go buy her something.” Lena says handing Kara her card. Kara flies away and comes back not long later with some bags.

“I’m going in.” She announces, like she’s going into a war, and you hide yourself behind a chair, like she couldn’t see more if she wanted to. “Oh, Rao. My poor little daughter.”

“Can you just toss me the bags and turn around?” You ask and she does exactly that. You’re into boy’s clothes in no time. “Ok, I’m decent.”

“Ok, ok. No need to freak out. We can reverse this.” Kara says and you look at her. She is clearly freaking out. She must be talking to herself.

“Yeah. Sure hope so.” You go to your lab door and open to everyone on the other side.

“My baby.” Lena touches your face, with tears on her eyes. “Oh no, you have a beard now.”

You touch your face and feel hair on your chin. This is worse than being a baby. Much, much worse.

“No.” You feel tears coming up. You’re the largest, tallest person in the room, and yet you feel so tiny and small and sad! “Mommy.” You turn to Kara. “I have a beard.”

“Oh, my poor sweet girl.” You have to bend yourself to fit into her arms, and it is still weird.

“I should’ve stayed a baby. Why are our lives so weird?” You mumble between your tears and feel Kara’s hand easing up your tense shoulders.

“We’ll figure this out, my love.” She passes her thumb on your forehead, then kisses it. It’s instinct, getting your bangs out of the way, before kissing your forehead. They’ve done it all your life, except now you don’t have bangs. You barely have hair if you’re being honest.

“You know what? You look handsome as a boy.” Aunt Alex jokes and you roll your eyes at her. “What should I call you? What name would you like to have if you were a boy?”

“Well, I would very much like not to be a boy right now!” You wipe your tears but see on her face that she’s trying to ease the mood. So you lean into it, otherwise you might just cry non-stop until you’re back into your old self. “But for now, just call me…” You look around trying to think. “Brainiac 6!”

“That’s funny.” But Brainy doesn’t look amused. “As a matter of fact, there is a Brainiac 6 in the family. I’m not quite sure you would like him.”

“Oooh, family drama!” Alex jokes and you smile.

“Who would think Coluans had such a dramatic background?” You add.

“Everyone?” Brainy misses the sarcasm on your voice, making you and Alex laugh harder.

“Would the three of you stop being funny and transform my babygirl back into a girl?” Lena asks. The three of you lower your heads, feeling embarrassed that Lena had to scold you. You all turn back to the computer and the alien tech in front of you.

“Oh no!” You look at the name on your phone, currently ringing. “It’s my girlfriend! I can’t pick up!” You give your phone to Kara. “Here, you answer!”

“Me?” She holds your phone like it’s a bomb in her hands. “Why me?”

“Because I can’t talk to her with a man’s voice, and if I don’t answer she’ll worry. So just make something up!”

“Then have Lena answer!” She tries to pass the phone to Lena, who ignores it.

“Momma, please!”

“Oh boy.” Kara complains, accepting the call, and slowly putting the phone on her ear, like it’s about to explode. “Oh, hi Maya. It’s, um, it’s Mrs. Danvers! So sorry, she can’t talk right now. No, no, she’s fine. She’s just…” She looks around trying to come up with a lie. “Grounded!” She yells, and you furrow your eyebrows at her. “Yeah, I-I had to ground her, ‘cause she…” Kara is hyperventilating in front of you. “Did something bad. Anyways, I had to take her phone away, so you won’t be able to talk to her for a while? I don’t know how this thing works, but yeah. Ok, have a nice day! Bye!”

“Really? You grounded me?” You take the phone from her hands and put it back in your pocket. “Couldn’t have thought of a more believable lie?”

“It’s believable!” Kara says, getting an eyebrow rise from everyone in the room except Brainy.

“Hardly.” He says, instead. “It’s 10% believable. If you had, however, said that Lena was the one who did the grounding, the lie would’ve been 85% believable.”

“Whatever.” Kara huffs upset, crossing her arms. “I’m so going to ground you someday just to shock everyone.”

“Mhm, honey. Sure you will.” Lena shushes her, and you turn your face to the other side to laugh at her. Kara is such a dork.

You’ve been at it for a while now. Brainy seems to have understood the logic of the alien tech, and then misunderstood it a few times by now. You also don’t have any idea of what was done and how the hell you were turned into a freaking boy.

“I need, um, help.” You whisper to Kara and point to your new private part with your head. She looks down on it with furrowed eyebrows.

“Can’t help with that.” Kara tries to move away from you, and you hold her arm, pulling her back to where you’re standing.

“How do I pee with this thing?” You whisper, terrified someone else might be able to hear you.

“You hold it, aim, and shoot.”

“Are you sure you’re not thinking about a gun?” Kara holds her laugh at that and pulls Lena until she is in front of you.

“Ask your mom, I have to be anywhere, but here.”

“What’s wrong?” Lena asks and you look down on your body. Why does it feel so weird to talk to Lena about that? Maybe you should just google it.

“Besides the fact that I’m a boy now? Nothing. I’m fine. It’s fine.” You walk backwards, cursing Brainy for messing with the alien tech and not being able to bring you back.

It’s late at night when they all decide they are done for the day. You try to protest, spending another day on a boy’s body sounds terrifying, but Alex and Brainy don’t give in and Lena looks scared to touch the tech that wiped her memory. You also think it’s best if Kara doesn’t try anything. So you accept your fate and go home.

“It’s not that bad.” Kara says, lifting your chin up, and you roll your eyes at her. “It could be worse.”

“How? I look like a blonde version of Superboy.”

“Good thing your girlfriend is pansexual!” Kara smiles at you, trying to find the silver line. There is none.

“She’s not going to see me like this! I don’t even want to see myself like this. I have been wanting to go to the bathroom for hours now, and there’s no way I’m going to shower with this whole thing happening down there.”

“Just tuck in and sit.” Lena says coming into the living room and you nearly vomit at the thought.

“Ok, I don’t want to know how you know that.” Kara says and you hold your laughter.

“It makes way more sense than ‘hold, aim and shoot’.”

“What do you think it is? A gun?” Lena asks and you point at her with a victorious smile on your face.

“That’s what I said!”

Lena and her impressive power of reading your mind.

Turns out peeing is not as bad as you thought, at least not now that Lena told you that you don’t have to touch it, and you can sit down while doing so. Still, you don’t shower. That’s next level weird and you’re not ready for it yet.

It’s morning and you’re in the kitchen with your moms and it almost feels like your typical routine. It’s only when you talk and your voice startles them, that you realize none of this is normal. You can’t wait until you’re out of this body.

“Alex said she and Brainy are on their way to L Corp for an early start. Do you mind going there and letting them in your lab?” Kara asks and you stand up right away.

“Are you kidding? Do I mind? I might kiss them when I get there!” You rush to the door, ready to fly away. The good thing about being a boy is that you don’t have to hide your secret identity. This might as well be one.

You open the door and look at Maya on the other side. You see her finger hovering the bell like she was just about to ring it.

Oh no, this can’t be happening! Maya is not supposed to be here! She is not supposed to see you like this! No one is supposed to see you like this.

“Hi.” You try, making your voice sound lower than it already is. Which is damn stupid because she never even heard this voice before.

“Hey! I’m-”

“Maya, yeah, I-I know.” You blink at her while she looks at you very confused. Her eyebrows are pinched together and she’s biting her lower lip. “Oh!” You scratch the back of your head. “I’m-um-I’m, you know it’s a long story. But I’m-”

“She’s my-I mean-he.” Kara looks at you with wide eyes. “He is my nephew! Yeah. Jon Kent.”

“Oh, right. Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” Maya raises her hand, and you grab it, giving the weirdest handshake in history.

“I’m sorry to say that your girlfriend is still pretty much grounded.” Kara says, giving Maya a smug smile. “Because you see, I can ground her too! It’s not just Lena! I’m strong enough to do so and I know it sounds surprising but-”

“You know, I don’t think she is surprised.” You stop her, before she blows this for you. “She grounded her own daughter. How crazy, right!”

“Yeah. Wild.” Maya laughs with you. You see a little tinkle in her eyes and you’re almost sure she can see right through your manly body. “I just stopped by to give her this.” She hands Kara a bag with a smile. “I’ll see her when the grounding is over!”

“Which, by the way, I don’t know when that will be. Because I’m still pretty mad at her.” You look at Kara, looking everything but mad, and you sigh.

“Nice to meet you, Maya!”

“Nice to meet you, Jon.” She narrows her eyes at you. “Jon Kent.”

You feel like the collar on your shirt is suddenly too tight around your neck. You try to breathe, but why is the air of the world suddenly gone?

“See you later, Mrs. Danvers.” Maya shrugs and turns around. You’re almost breathing again when you hear. “Tell my girlfriend I’ll wait for her.”

You and Kara look at each other with wide eyes and mouth agape.

“Will do!” Kara says, waving at Maya. “This can’t get any worse, right?” Kara whispers through her smile while still waving at Maya who is not even looking at both of you anymore.

“Sure it can. Just give yourself a minute.” You pat her back and get inside the house. “Why did you tell her I was Jon? What will happen when the real Jon Kent comes to visit?”

“Well, I don’t know! I’m not good at lying on the spot. Neither are you, by the way! You looked like you were about to combust into flames!”

“Next time, I’ll just ask mom! At least she can lie better.” You point at Lena, who agrees with her head without looking at you.

“Yes, Luthors are great at lying and, the ones who are blessed with, also have great hair.” She smiles looking up and gives you and Kara a few minutes to recover from the burst of laughter. “Can we go now?”

“Only if you tell Alex that joke.” Kara agrees and Lena smiles, much too content with herself.

You get to your lab faster than Kara and Lena, and at the same time Brainy and Alex get there. Brainy thinks he’s got it, so you stay by his side for moral support.

You hear a click on your back, and you look behind you to see aunt Alex with her phone pointed at you.

“Jamie was curious.” She explains and you roll your eyes. “Can you turn to me so I can send one of your face?”

“Are you guys serious right now?” You ask and she shrugs.

“It’s not everyday you get turned into a boy, kiddo!” She jokes and you turn to the camera and give her your best smile. She sends the picture to Jamie and giggles at her phone. “Kelly and Jamie said you’re a catch!”

“Ugh. Go faster Brainy!”

Lucky for you, he indeed knows how to reverse it. Or he looks like he knows. You guess you’ll see. Kara and Lena get there, and you feel confident in trying now.

“Should we leave the room?” Kara asks, and Brainy denies with his head.

“I believe I mastered a way of only affecting the man in the room, so you three can stay and I’ll step outside for a minute. Alex?” He calls and she comes closer. “Just press this when I’m out of the room.”

“Got it.” She gives him two thumbs up, and you watch Brainy making his way out of the room. “Ready, babyboy?”

“Ugh, just go on with it already.” You beg and it doesn’t take her much more to press the button Brainy told her.

The room flashes blue, and you stand in front of a mirror excitedly. You see your image changing from boy to girl and you almost jump in excitement.

“YES! IT WORKED!” You yell, so damn happy you actually jump and squeaky. “Guys! I’m me again!”

You turn around to look at Kara, Lena and Alex.

“AAAAAH!”

“WHAT!”

“What the actual FUCK!”

Notes:

Another funny prompt by @oncemoonie I’m having way too much fun with this series.

[zafirosreverie]

Hi I was the one who asked about the Daenerys fic if your ok with it would you be ok with doing one where reader was riding the dragon that the night king shot down. And dany had to watch them fall but reader didn’t die and ends up coming back with the dragon and saves dany from the night walkers during the fight at winterfell. If your uncomfortable with it then you don’t have to I will understand. Love your writing by the way.

Here it is hon! As i said, i haven't watch the show in a long time (and it's my first time writting for her in a almost a year) so, I'm sorry if Daenerys feels ooc or if i got something wrong.

I hope you like it!

Fly again (Daenerys x reader)

You didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. 

You had gone with Daenerys to rescue Jon Snow and the others, fighting against this...thing called The Night King. You really didn’t understand why Dany would care this much for the man, but you didn’t question it either. It was Daenerys, your khaleesi (and a little more)! You would always be by her side, no matter what.

You were so fortunate to have her trust and love. By the time she found you alone, she was already a widow. She took you under her wing and kept you by her side, allowing you to grow closer to her and her children. She would do anything for you and you would die for her. 

Seemed that the universe thought it was a good time to prove it.

When Dany decided to go help the men, you quickly offered to go with her. She smiled and kissed you softly before she told you to go with Viserion.

Viserion. Your lovely boy.

You loved the three children of Daenerys, as if they were your own, and they seemed to accept you too, but Viserion was always your secret favorite. He was often left behind in the sake of Drogon, who was stronger and fiercer, or for Rhaegal, who was much calmer and serene, always at the orders of his mother and brother.

But Viserion was always in the middle ground. Not as strong as Drogon, but much more naugthy than Rhaegal. And you loved it. From the time when he was just a baby, he would often sit on your shoulder, or curl up on your lap, pulling on your clothes to have your attention. When he growed up a little and was learning to hunt, he would often bring something for you, from a single fish or a whole goat. It was so cute of him. 

Dany would joke about how you stole her place as his parent. 

And maybe you did. Not fully, of course, but this was your baby too.

And now, the two of you were falling. Falling from the fucking sky. It hurted you to know that this was the end, that you couldn’t save your boy, that you would never see your other children. But most of all, that you wouldn’t kiss Dany or hold her in your arms ever again. 

“I’m sorry, boy” you shushed as you and the dragon kept falling, some of his blood in the air “I love you” you whispered for both him and Daenerys. 

The last thing you felt was something strong and rough wrapping around you, before the darkness swallowed you. 

Daenerys watched in horror as The Night King shot her son and made him fall. 

“Y/N” she whispered. You were there, you were on Viserion’s back!

The shock made her freez and she couldn’t move as she watched you both falling to the ground. The dragon curled up as he fell, but you weren’t nowhere to be seen. The world disappeared for her. 

She didn’t feel the men getting on Drogon’s back, or Ser Jorah calling her name, telling her to fly. She just couldn’t feel anything as she watched Viserion disappear in the cold water. When Jorah put his hand on her shoulder, she snapped out of her shock and ordered Drogon to get them out of there. 

As they flew away, she glared one last time to the broken ice. She knew her other two children felt the same pain as her. They lost you both.

_________________________

You didn’t know how much time you were unconscious. You gasped for air when you woke up and quickly watched around. You were lying on the snow, but couldn't see anything beyond a meter. Something covered you, enclosing you in a kind of cocoon. It took you a few moments to recognize the warmth around you.

"Viserion" you whispered.

The dragon was hugging you, protecting you.

You carefully pushed one of the wings and walked outside your cocoon. You heard the dragon groaning as you walked to his head, patting it. Viserion slowly opened his eyes and you sighed in relief when you noticed they were still green. He was still your boy. 

“Good to know that the night king didn’t take you from me, boy” you said as you kissed his head. 

Your second thought was Dany. She probably thought you were dead. Damn it, not long ago you thought you were dead yourself! The simple thought of her mourning you, mourning for Viserion, was too much for you. You wanted to go to her, to hug her and kiss her. And Drogon and Rheagal! They were your children too, and even if your bond with them wasn’t as strong as your bond with Viserion, you knew they loved you as much as you loved them. And they lost a brother too. God, you wanted to comfort them all. But you couldn’t with Viserion in that state. 

His wound was still open and it broke your heart. He saved you. Saved you from the fall, saved you from drowning, saved you from the cold. He protected you even when he hurt himself. It was your turn to take care of him, and you swore to all the gods you knew that you would see him fly again. For him, for Drogon, for Rheagal and for Dany.

_____________________________________

“Watch out!” you yelled and Viserion dodged a tree, making you laugh. It felt so good to fly again with him.

The past months were a nightmare for you. It was extremely hard to take care of a wounded dragon, and even more when you were in the middle of nowhere. Finding food was a hard task as you were recovering too and Viserion couldn’t move too much. The cold was often a pain in your ass as you couldn’t even see too much because of the snow. 

That and you also had to hide from the night walkers. Apparently, The Night King thought you were dead too, and wanted Viserion on his army. Hidding a fucking dragon was probably the hardest thign you have ever done. But the love you had for Viserion and the hope to see Daenerys someday again, kept you alive all this time. 

You knew the Night King had a plan and knowing Dany, she would be on Winterfell when the night walkers invade it. So you didn’t have much time. You had to train with Viserion to be ready for the war. 

It made you feel guilty, making him fight too soon after his recovery, but you didn’t have other choice. You had to do it, for Dany.

___________________

Daenerys looked around, trying to find someone to help her or something to defend herself. The night king made her fall from Drogon and she was alone on the battlefield. 

It was her fault, really. She has been blinded by the rage. It was him who took it all from her: her son, her partner, the love of her life. Everything she loved! And she wasn’t known for forgiving someone who hurted what was important to her. 

That’s why she risked herself and attacked him alone. She was sure Drogon’s fire would be enough to kill him, but the bastard just walked out of it as if it was a simple breeze. Now she was alone, and pretty sure she would die. 

At least...at least she would see you again. 

The night walkers approached her from all the angles. She was surrounded, without escape and without a weapon. Although even if she had one, she still would not have been able to defend herself, she had no combat experience.

And then, she saw it. 

A fireball coming from the sky, forming a barrier in front of her and burning the night walkers. What the hell? When she looked up again, she gasped. It couldn’t be. 

You were on Viserion’s back, with fire burning on your e/c eyes. You were smiling. And alive. You were pretty alive.

Viserion landed a few steps from Daenerys. You got off his back quickly and ran to her. Surprise filled her beautiful face.

"Khaleesi" you said, smiling at her and waiting for her to recover from her surprise. You knew that you would have to move fast, to help in the battle, but at that moment, the only important thing was that she was there, in front of you, beautiful as always. You had missed her so much. 

“Y/N?” she whispered, not sure if her mind was playing tricks on her. She prayed it wasn’t the case as she threw herself at your arms.

You were there. You really were there. You were alive. And Viserion too!

“How-” she couldn’t finish because you pressed your lips to hers. 

It felt so good kissing her again. She was shocked, but quickly kissed your back, letting all her grieve fade away, replaced with relief and happiness. She thought you were dead, she had mourned you! 

“Viserion saved me” you said and smiled. Dany blinked and couldn’t help but to feel grateful and proud of her son. 

The dragon growled when more night walkers appeared. You took Daenerys’ hand and helped her to climb onto Viserion’s back. You wished you had more time to talk, to hug and kiss her. But it will have to wait. 

For now, you have ice asses to kick.

[sailorshadzter]

Before parentage reveal and during S8, Jon and Sansa realize they love each other romantically. They have a heartbreaking conversation about duty and love which is vaguely about them confessing their feelings. Then Jon's parentage is revealed, and they give in their feelings.

thanks anon!!!

send me prompts

He finds her there beneath the heart tree, the first morning of his arrival home. 

“Have you come to pray?” He asks as he approaches, her head looking up as a smile spreads slowly across her rosy lips. As he figures, she shakes her head, though she pats the space beside him, as if she’d been waiting for him there all along. He does, sinking into the place at her side, their shoulders brushing as he shifts to face her. There, he finds her blue eyes are already staring back at him, poised as if they mean to speak, but thinks better of it. “I’ve missed this place,” he says instead of what he means and she softens, as if she knows, as if she understands, her hands twisting in the folds of her black wool gown. 

“It’s not felt like home without you here,” she replies with a tilt of her head, red hair falling across her shoulder, the honesty falling free before she can stop it. Then again, perhaps she doesn’t want to. “Ghost and I have missed you.” She thinks of the many nights she’s slept tucked against the wolf, wishing it to be his master. There’s a part of her that knows the truth- that this could never be, even if Jon wanted it too, but somehow that doesn’t make it any less painful. 

“Has he missed me? I’ve not seen him once since my return,” he laughs, thinking of the wolf he’d found snoozing in her bed the night before, when he had peeked into her rooms hoping for a moment with her, but instead watched her sleep for a moment before he was gone, returning to his own lonely rooms. “From what I’ve heard, he’s as good as yours.” It’s her turn to laugh, though she’s shaking her head, as if it’s not true. “But I’m glad for that.” He recalls the last moment he shared with the wolf, when he’d asked him to look after her for him, to keep her safe when he could not. It certainly seemed as if the wolf had been good on his word, if not better than good. 

For a long moment, they shared nothing but a smile and silence, eyes staring into one another’s, and for that split second it was almost enough. “Sansa…” Her name is on his lips, familiar and warm, as his hand reaches out to take hold of hers. Jon doesn’t know what he means to say, what he means to do, but the feel of her skin against his brings him a sense of peace he’s not felt since the last time he held her in his arms. “I’ve missed you,” he finally says, the truth, or half of it at least. Her cheeks are pink but not from the cold and she slides her other hand into place over his, a tangle of fingers. 

The truth was, he loves her, and he loves her well. 

He loves her in a way a brother should never love his sister- but try as he might, he cannot escape the feelings that live within his heart. It was she that brought meaning back into his life, it was she that renewed the warmth in his heart, in his soul. It was for her that he went to war for and he knows that he would do it again, without a single doubt. Sansa was the light in his life, the warmth in his soul, but she could never be his… Not truly. Perhaps in another life, in another world. 

There is just something utterly tragic about the moment and Sansa closes her eyes against the tears welling up within. But then, it’s his hand against the curve of her cheek, guiding her back into the moment, and so she opens her eyes simply so she might gaze into his perfect face. “Jon…” She speaks his name, soft and slow, in a way only she ever can, and Jon feels the chills race the length of his spine at the sound of it. “I was afraid you might not return to me,” she says softly, daring to speak of the fear that kept her up late into the night while he was away. 

“I promised I would, didn’t I?” He asks and she chuckles softly, nodding her head. His hand slips from her cheek but she catches hold, giving it a tender squeeze. “I always want to be at your side, Sansa,” he admits without fear, without hesitation, though he longs to say more. To do more. Her smile wanes, her blue eyes glistening with the unshed tears she’s tried so hard to keep at bay. 

“I know,” she says, knowing the truth as well as he does.

But it could never be, would never be. 

[ x x x ]

It’s the evening after the reveal.

He stands at her doorway, torn between knocking and walking away, as he’s been many times before. But then, before he has a chance to do anything at all, the door opens, and she’s standing there in the doorway, looking bemused at the sight of him. “Jon,” she greets, stepping back to instead allow him entry. “I was just coming to find you,” she admits as the door swings closed behind him. “But here you are.” It was as if he was attuned to her every move, her every thought.

Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to say, nor what to do.

This was a moment he never could have dreamed could happen, not in all of his life. The only thing he once wanted was to be a true born Stark, but now, he’s jubilant with the knowledge that he was not. He thinks back to every moment that had led them to this one, the ones with one another, and those without. He thinks back to how every moment without her, he’d only been wishing to be with her. “Sansa…” Her name is soft on his lips and she’s smiling as she takes a single step closer, so close now he can smell her familiar scent of rosewater and Ghost. Everything led to this one moment. 

This one that would change everything. 

“Just say it,” she whispers as his arms come around her, head tilted back so she can look up into his face. His lips are so close, she can feel the curve of them when he laughs, can feel the heat of his every exhale. “Say it…” 

Jon leans in and just before he captures her mouth, he whispers the words he’s held onto all these long days… “I love you…” 

[magalidragon]

solitude | a when the sun sets in the east drabble

Hahaha here it is @youwerenevermine and also @aenarsnow since his naughty drabbles inspired the ask for #22. “You can scream if you want.” Enjoy!

“Fascinating,” she murmured, observing the white stone etchings on the dark wall in front of her, lifting her torch higher to get a better look at the drawings the Children of the Forest had done ages before. Her fingers lightly touched the marks, glancing sideways to her husband, who was watching her, eyes hooded and dark. She arched her brow. “I would have wondered if you’d done these, if you had not already gone and fought them.”

He smiled, the barest ghost of it, and reached for her hand, guiding the torch further, to point out some more of the drawings he’d discovered in his island wanderings. “See these?” he asked, showing her more. “Look at that.”

To her surprise, there was a drawing of a beast with wings, with lines coming from its mouth. “Dragons,” she breathed; her lips pulling to a smile. “They must have flown from Valyria over this way…wild dragons.” The idea of it was so foreign. She turned the torch towards the cave, peering deeper inside of it, at the shiny dragonglass that remained, although most of it had been taken to make weapons for the Northerners to use to fight the Others.

She had seen them herself, briefly, when she’d ventured North just once, to confirm what her husband told her. She wanted to see them for her own eyes and she had. Evil, terrible magical beings. They were gone now; the North was safe. She had another war to fight on the southern front now, against Cersei.

“What is back there, do you think?” she wondered. She knew of the hot springs, the volcano that gave Dragonstone its constant fog and mist, the vague sulfuric and ashy smell, and its soft black sand. In her dreams she heard the dragons of old crying out. She wanted to find them. Their skeletons or their eggs, maybe.

“Animals maybe. Come.” He offered his hand, and she took it, noting to explore later. The torchlight bounced off the shimmery cave walls, damp and chilled, but she was warm. Not just from the fire on their torches, but from being in his presence after so long without him. She leaned against his arm, their fingers clutching tight.

They emerged from the cave, to see the sun peeking from behind fading storm clouds, the three dragons wheeling in the sky, elated to be together again. They had not stopped crying out, no doubt Drogon and Viserion telling Rhaegal all that he had missed, and Rhaegal sharing his experiences in the North, fighting Others and burning down Boltons. The stories Jon had told her, of the faces on the Northmen, when he had returned, she wished she could see it. She wanted to see the faces of his enemies when they caught sight of him atop Rhaegal, flying into battle.

Her lips twitched, her skin warming further beneath her black coat dress. It was the most clothing she’d worn in his presence and even beside her, she noted how comfortable he was now in his Northern gambeson, quilted tunic, and thick woolen trousers. “Will you ever wear your Dothraki clothing again?” she mused, walking along with him towards the water’s edge.

“I imagine I will, in Essos. It is a bit too cold here for that.” He smirked. “Or would you have me freeze my stones off?”

Her hand shot down between his legs, grasping the stones in question, as best as she could with all the clothing between them. He gasped, his eyes blackening, and she tossed the torch into the sand at their side. Hands free completely, she murmured, moving them up towards his belt. “No, I would never want that, a travesty it would be. I quite like your stones.” She rubbed her mouth over his, purring. “I like your cock a bit more.”

His breath was hot, mingling with hers, opening his mouth wider over hers, his tongue slipping free to touch hers, the kiss filthy, sloppy. He groaned, her fingers diving between the gambeson and tunic folds, slipping into the breeches. He was hard as steel already, thick, and she moaned into him, giving him a few pumps in her small hand, her fingers slipping over the length and running her thumb over the tip, wishing it was in her mouth. Or cunt, that would be nice too.

He whined, when she flicked her tongue against his, mimicking the motions of her thumb on him. He grappled for her wrist, squeezing gently, warning. “Dany, no, not like this.”

“Please,” she whispered, eyes flicking up to him, her brows arching. “It’s been so long…I need you Jon.”

“Here?”

“Here,” she confirmed. It was secluded; no one would find them. She turned them around, pushing towards the crevices the large, jagged rocks created on the shoreline, spinning and hopping backwards onto one of them, leaning backwards and allowing her legs to fall open, her hand still inside of his trousers, refusing to let go, literally leading him by the cock. “Jon please, I’m fine…it’s been enough time.”

They were normally so exhausted, the last month and a half with their beautiful baby girl rather challenging, but she would never give it up. They were learning to be a family, balancing need for sleep and feeding a newborn with ruling and battle plans. Most evenings she fell asleep before she could say good night, grateful to be in his arms again.

It was just of late she found her fingers wandering over her belly, skimming over her small clothes, late at night as he slept beside her. The war council meetings found her staring at him longer than considered appropriate, her throat parched and her body quivering, wishing she were the wooden figurine he was fiddling with while Tyrion droned.

She needed him, she thought, desperately pulling the leather ties at his neck, loosening the tunic, her skin itching, wanting to touch him, press to him and indent his heart on hers again. “Jon,” she panted, their kisses furious, her legs rising to cradle his pelvis to hers, bringing his length ever closer to her cunt. it pulsed for him, aching, empty. Her fingers tore at his trouser ties. “Hurry.”

He nodded, understanding, and his hands ripping the clasps on her coat apart. The cold wind from the sea stung her blazing skin through the thin material if her underdress. He tweaked her nipples through the materia, lips dropping from hers to wrap around the protruding tips, mouthing them through the material.

Her breasts ached, had been for months now, and she tossed her head against the flat rock ebjnd her, sobbing. “Jon, careful, no…”

Understanding, he pushed up her dress, groaning frustratedly when he found her leather leggings. “Dany,” he warned, his voice thin, barely in control. It was how she wanted him, her Khal Verro, losing himself.

Especially if he was losing himself in her.

She silenced any further hesitation from him in a searing kiss, one that shot adrenaline straight down her spine to her cunt, jerking her hips towards his. He got the point and with a loud grunt, tore down the front seam of her leggings.

It lit the fire already stoking in her and she released a desperate cry, echoed by the dragons above, finally freeing his cock from the many clothing layers. “I hate these clothes,” she complained, about to say something else about them, but then he slipped one long finger between her slit, another joining and she choked, trying to silence a cry in his shoulder.

“You can scream if you want,” he husked, rasping an amused chuckle. “It’s not like you’ve ever stayed quiet before.”

She screamed; a release from deep inside her belly, coiling out of her in the same high pitched cries of her sons flying above. It had been months in the making, missing him, needing him, and worrying if she would ever see him again.

He worked his fingers furiously inside of her; there would be time later for slow teasing, right now she wanted that fiery explosion and he knew it. He coaxed her with breathless whispers, asking her if she wanted more, knowing she could give him everything so why was she holding back? She groaned, one hand trying to clutch the smooth rock under her and the other scraping the back of his neck, latching him against her mouth.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Tell me.”

“Your mouth,” she begged. She laughed and cried out when he pulled his fingers free if her clenching cunt, the emptiness ringing hollow. She did not have long to fret, because he replaced them with his tongue, falling to his knees in the sand, one hand pushing her thigh up to give him greater access, the other returning to slipping along her folds, his thumb roughly circling her clit.

Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, each gasping breath exhaling as a cry. She forced her eyelids open to gaze down at him, his dark head working furiously between her thighs. She lightly pulled on the knotted bun, tilting his head enough so she could meet his eyes. He smiled against her, tongue not stopping, and she shook her head, anxiously crying out. “Now Jon, please, now!”

He tore away, beard damp from her desire, which slipped down her cunt and into her arse cheeks. She pressed her thighs together to keep the pressure going, nodding furiously when he arched his brow to ask if she was sure. Her hands tore at his trousers, returning to his cock and he pushed the waist down enough over his slim hips to free himself.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, head slamming against the rock behind her, the cold jaggedness scraping against her coat, snagging at her dress. He slid his cock through her folds, gathering wetness, and the fat head of it bumping her swollen clit. He chuckled into her neck, finding her hand and squeezing. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bloody tease. “Jon fuck me,” she begged. The heat and pressure built inside her to dangerous levels, threatening to explode. When she did, she wanted him with her.

His hesitation was obvious, his kisses bruising, but his shoulders tensing. Her palm curved on his jaw, her hips rotating up to slide along his length, eliciting a soft groan from him. Whispering, she met his gaze, his pupils wide and drowning the gray. She smiled, lips curving up at the same time she lifted her brows. “You won’t hurt me.”

The only time it had ever hurt to be with him was when he was gone. That had been a necessary pain, one she hoped they would never have to endure again. She lifted against him again, crying out at the tortuous, pleasurable pain. Her cunt pulsed, her muscles quivering, anticipating.

He slammed his mouth on hers, tongue spearing between her teeth to gapple with hers and he grunted at the effort, swallowing her scream when he hooked her knee over his elbow, grasped her thigh, and punched his hips into hers, the force of his thrust so strong it pushed her up on the rock face and tore her leggings further, her free leg flying to the side and knee almost banging her shoulder.

She screamed, Valyrian curses, encouragement and his name. Jon, Jon, Jon, a prayer and a chant, with every thrust of his body into hers. It was tight, his cock splitting her, dragging in and out of her body, her cunt grasping him, refusing to make it easy. The initial pain she’d felt at his first entry eased quickly. It was incredible, she thought, delirious.

She held his face and clutched at his hip, digging her nails into his arse, his muscles bunching and flexing in exertion. “<I> Issa darys, issa zokla,</I>” she sobbed. My king. My wolf.

It took them like the waves crashing to the shore feet away from them. The pleasure in her belly, that pressure finally exploded out, the fire coiling through her and she screamed, body arching into him, squeezing him, and she refused to let go. He was with her again. In the closest possible way, their hearts and bodies finally one again.

He shouted her name, coming not long after her, encouraged by her body still quivering around him, his cock twitching inside of her, filling her with his release. Her eyes fluttered shut, face pressed to his neck, tongue lapping a drop of sweat from his pulse. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She missed this the most.

The way he wouldn’t pull out of her immediately, the way he would always run his hands over her thighs and calves, soothing any roughness he thought he’d exhibited. How he would murmur how he loved her into her shoulder. Sometimes drop his head to her heart. Would tangle his fingers in her braids. Brush his lips over her temple.

And he did just that, his lips nudging near her ear. “I love you,” he breathed.

She nodded, sniffling the tears trickling along her cheeks. “I love you too. I missed you.”

“I’m back, I’m not leaving,” he whispered. He kissed her gently, still holding her legs and pulled free. Her thighs were damp, her body aching pleasurably. There was a tear in her coat from the rock and her leggings were useless.

They took a look at each other, when her boots hit the sand and laughed, the situation absurd. He adjusted his trousers and searched for his belt. “The lengths we go to for privacy,” he chuckled, picking up his sandy, water logged belt from the ground.

She snorted. “I fear it may get worse, we have a newborn. The Dothraki midwives always teased each other of finding time for oneself.” Except she also missed her baby and it had been about an hour. She wanted to get back to the castle urgently.

Jon used his dagger to remove the rest of her leggings and she tossed them towards some of the rocks, for some animal’s use in their den. “What will you say?” he wondered, lifting his gambeson from the sand, brushing it off.

She glanced at her bare legs. When she dropped her dress and her coat, you could not tell. She smirked. “I am the queen. No one will say such things. We were on a walk, enjoying some private time and exploring the island.”

He shrugged and offered his hand. She took it and they shared another gentle kiss, emerging from the rocks and walking back towards the castle. He glanced down at her, brow wrinkling. “Are you sure you are alright? I was…”

“Stop it Jon, you can never be too rough with me.” She snapped her teeth, teasing. “I am a dragon.”

“And so am I,” he replied with a hard kiss.

Ghost joined them near the castle, from where he had been keeping watch along the edges of the small beach. They went up the stairs, several minutes later arriving in their chambers, where Missandei was rocking little Lyella.

She immediately took her daughter into her arms, gazing lovingly after her precious child. Her miracle, she thought, kissing the pale nose, which wrinkled from her touch, a small grunt escaping at being woken early. “My darling,” she cooed in Valyrian. “Muna is here.”

Missandei smiled enigmatically, propping her chin in her palm. “Did you enjoy yourselves on your ah…walk, Your Graces?”

There was something in how she stressed the word walk that alerted Dany. She frowned, drawling. “Yes it was…exhilarating.”

Her best friend smiled again, brows arching. “Did you ah…do much?”

“Many things,” Dany murmured, smirking at her friend, who knew what she meant and nodded. They could chat later. Jon would be mortified. she cleared her throat. “Where are the advisers?”

Unable to keep his hands to himself, Jon took his daughter from her and beamed, cradling her close and walking off towards the overlook on the edge of the room, to point out the dragons.

Missandei smiled again. “They were waiting for you in the Chamber of the Painted Table but there’s a very curious thing…it seems the way the rocks are here that depending on where you are near the beach, the wind carries all manner of sounds.”

Her eyes widened, blood chilling. “Ah…really?”

“Mmmm. Qhono suggested they all take the evening off.” She laughed, in spite of herself. “Said that it was something of a Dothraki tradition. Some time after a baby is born for the parents to ah…return to certain activities.”

She was not aware of such a tradition but suspected Qhono had just wanted to embarrass the prudish Westerosi. Her cheeks paled at the idea that her advisers might have heard what went on down at the rocks. “Oh, well…”

“Lady Olenna said that you were quite lucky Your Grace. That a woman should long to have a husband who makes such sounds come from a woman’s lips.” Missandei stood and chuckled again, murmuring. “I think she plans to ask you later.”

Dany laughed. Or course. “Well…” she licked her lips, watching Jon with their daughter and her heart leaped further in her chest, near to her throat, choking her. “She can ask but it’s really very simple.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm.” She shrugged. “I love him. He loves me.”

Missandei squeezed her hand, quiet. “I am glad His Grace, Khal Verro is back. It seems right.”

She nodded and breathed out slowly through her lips, watching the man who could tear out hearts from his enemies sway back and forth in the archway, the sun set surrounding him in relief, and coo lovingly to the baby in his arms. “Yea,” she agreed. “It’s all right again.”

And she went to join him, because for all the time alone with him she could have now, she wanted the time now with him and their beloved Princess.

[localcultivator]

K k so prompt mari is already in a relationship with Damian shes happy hes happy its adorable but dun dun dun Adrien finds out she's ladybug and tries to win her over it doesn't work but most of the class are rooting for him. Chloe is not she thinks he should respect that Marinette is happy with someone else and move on

Oh dear sweet anon, i have returned from war and I bring you this one shot, FINALLY FINISHED. it’s long, sorry. but pls enjoy. 

Marinette wanted to believe that today was going to be a good day. 

She had woken up early and was able to eat a full breakfast with her family, she was able to enjoy her walk to school and Damian was about to start his year abroad in Paris living with her family and going to school with her. 

Marinette had made plans to pick Damian up from the airport the next day, so she was walking on air. 

And then she got to school. 

Things had been... strained since Adrien and Marinette had revealed their identities to each other. Hawkmoth had been defeated and as the guardian, Marinette felt like it was time for her to know just exactly who her partner was. 

Finding out that it was Adrien seemed great at first! Someone she was already close to outside of the mask was also her partner in justice and had helped her save Paris many times. 

It only took Adrien 2 minutes to show Marinette that he didn’t feel the same as her. 

“My Lady! We can finally be together! Now that I know that My Lady is Marinette, I’m gonna sweep you off your feet! You’ll see, we were meant to be together. “

Marinette had tried to explain to Adrien multiple times that she wasn’t interested in him and that she was in a loving committed relationship with her boyfriend of 6 months, Damian, but Adrien wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Marinette was hoping that with Damian transferring in, Adrien would finally get the hint that Marinette wasn’t interested. 

She arrived at her classroom, noticing that strangely the class seemed mostly full, like everyone had tried to get there early that day. It was... unsettling. 

As she walked to her seat, she noticed the bouquet of flowers, both of them. 

The first was kind of tacky, a dozen red roses with a big sparkly pink ribbon around them. It seemed to have shed glitter all over her desk and Marinette sighed to herself, thinking about the tedious cleanup she would have to endure from such a messy ribbon. 

The second however, was beautiful. An arrangement of white lilies, daisies and Marinette’s favorite flower, yellow marguerites. Sometimes known as Paris Daisies, Marinette had fallen in love with the simple beauty of the flowers. Only one person knew that these flowers meant to her, and that same person also knew Marinette had a small love for the language of flowers. 

White Lilies for My Love is Pure. 

Daisies for I Love You Truly

Yellow Marguerites for I Come Soon. 

She picked up the simple bouquet and smelled them, enjoying the soft scents and smiled to herself. Marinette looked around for Damian’s standard note but couldn’t find one, only seeing the note attached to the glitter bomb mess the other arrangement was. 

“Hey Girl, did you see the flowers Adrien got you? He must really like you to have gotten you roses!” Alya said, sliding up to Marinette who had yet to acknowledge the other flowers on her desk.  

“Alya, I’ve told you, I’m only interested in one guy, and it’s the guy that got me these flowers, knowing to even include my favorite in the arrangement. Those roses are beautiful, but you know I hate glitter, and pink isn’t even my favorite color. It’s green, has been for a while.” Marinette chimed back, picking up the roses finally to get them off her desk. The glitter shimmered in the light, leaving an even dusting on the note the flowers were on top of. 

Marinette wasted no time in disposing the flowers, not paying attention to the note, nor her classes reaction to her throwing the flowers away

She started to begin the laborious process of cleaning her desk off when Ms. Bustier came in, drawing the class's attention. 

“Class, Today we will be welcoming an exchange student from America. He will be with us for the next year to learn French culture and to learn alongside us! Please welcome in Damian Wayne from Gotham'' 

A boy entered the room, tall and handsome. He had dark hair, almost black and tan skin. His eyes were green, not unlike Adrien’s, however his held an air of mystery and a look of mischief. 

No one noticed Marinette freezing, stopping the cleaning of her desk at the announcement of the new student, but everyone noticed her practically flying out of her desk to hug him. 

“Damian! You said you weren’t coming until tomorrow! What are you doing here? You didn’t even tell me you were going to be coming. Were you the one to leave flowers on my desk?” Marinette rattled off her questions, still in the boy’s arms. 

Her words were a mix of french and english, only a few people getting the full scope of what Marinette was saying to Damian. Chloe, who knew english due to her mother, Alya who had learned english reading articles by Lois Lane and Clark Kent, and Adrien who knew it for business.  

“Angel, slow down, you’re speaking in both languages again. I wanted to surprise you so your parents and I planned for me to arrive this morning instead of tomorrow night. I did leave the bouquet, did you get the note with them? It was supposed to tell you to meet me at the Principal’s office, but I assume you were late again?” Damian looked at Marinette like she hung the moon, and more than a few of their classmates were wondering just who this boy was. And why was he calling Marinette Angel? 

“Ya Amar, I didn’t get a note with my flowers this time. What do you mean you left a note?” 

Adrien took this moment to ask the question on everyone’s mind, “My Lady, who is this guy, and why is he calling you Angel?” 

Marinette turned away from Damian, fully pulling out of his embrace. “This is Damian, my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for 8 months, so I’d hope he would have some cute nickname for me. I told you guys multiple times about him, but all of you never seemed to believe me. Damian started to get frustrated at your advances Adrien, so he’s decided to spend a year abroad here!” 

To say that the class was in shock was saying it lightly. Many of the students had just assumed that this boyfriend of hers was to make Adrien jealous. The only ones who had seemed to believe her were Chloe, Juleka and Luka. All three had met Damian previously to this, whether in person like Chloe or over a video call like the Couffaines. Alya’s face turned bright red while Adrien had gone pale, like he’d seen a ghost. 

“Ugh this is ridiculous. I can’t believe none of you believed Mari when she said she had a boyfriend! Anyway, Wayne, you better treat Mari right while you’re here or I’m calling Jon.” Chloe exclaimed to the class, wanting everyone to stop staring at her friend like some kind of freakshow. 

Damian just nodded his head in acknowledgment and started to pull Mari towards her desk. He noticed the glitter still on the desk and his eyes narrowed. “ Angel, do you need help cleaning off all of this glitter? It seems quite excessive.” His tone was cold, even as he had a gentle smile on his face directed at Marinette. 

“I hope that people in this class will be respectful of My and Marinette’s relationship. I’m quite committed to her, and would be happy to prove that to anyone who doubts my feelings for her, or hers for me.” 

The tension in the classroom was almost visible, some students with looks of shame and shock, other’s with small pleased smiles. The only one who hadn’t seemed to react yet was Adrien, still stuck in his shock over his lady actually being in a relationship. He finally seemed to acknowledge the world around him with Damian’s words but you could see the light in his eyes had dimmed significantly. 

Damian looked pleased, and as he helped Marinette clean off her desk for the day, he had a feeling no one would doubt his angel any more.