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a-libra-writes · 4 years ago

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The GoT Characters Reacting To You Being an Artist

this was a request, send eons ago, back in ye olden days. probably?

In this preference, you'll be drawing with: Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, Benjen Stark, Jory Cassel, Dolorous Edd, Mance Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, Yara Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tywin Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Podrick Payne, Petyr Baelish, Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Margaery Tyrell, Brynden Tully, Edmure Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Beric Dondarrion

NED STARK

He’s the sort to be charmed by something like this, he’s never had a talent for creative pursuits so he appreciates it when he sees it. He likes the devotion you have to it, and the discipline, it’s just another reason to admire you. Ned encourages the hobby, and when he has time he likes to watch your painting or sketching. if you allow it. Ned enjoys your pictures of animals the most, even if they aren’t very good… He thinks they’re cute. If you ever made portraits of the family, he’d absolutely hang them around his office and the sitting rooms at your request.

ROBB STARK

When you were children, Robb used to be terribly impatient, waiting for you to finish sketching and doodling so you both could finally play. You’d make him pose funny so you could have a reference. As he got older, he began to be in awe of your skill as it improved. He still remembers the cute little scribbles you’d make. Now whenever you ask him to sit so you can practice portraits, he blushes under your concentrating stare. He would love to have a portrait of you to take with him on his campaigns, but he’d be too shy to ask directly, so he’d suggest it in the most roundabout ways.

SANSA STARK

She adores watching you work, and the finished product. Sansa enjoys creative pursuits, and although she’s more of a seamstress and embroiderer, you can share experiences and tips with each other. Sometimes she’ll ask you to lightly sketch on fabric so she can embroider over it. As much as she loves your drawings, she blushes whenever you want to draw her, and she can’t imagine being painted. Sitting and being stared at by you is so romantic to her young mind, she can’t focus at all, daydreaming about what it’ll look like when it’s finished. It’s a memory she cherishes for a long time.

JON SNOW

Jon was wondering where you had gone off to at the end of your duties, not that he kept track of that often, it was Ghost that would lead him to wherever you were hiding. He thought it was kind of silly to hide something like this, but then again, you took great pains to get supplies from Mole’s Town. He’s so relaxed when he watches your process, how you so effortlessly transfer things around you to paper. When Jon can, he tries to get charcoal for you to use.

BENJEN STARK

He loves listening to the sound of the charcoal scratching against your sketchbook. He usually hears it when he finds you after his overnight shifts, wanting to see you before he left to sleep. He’ll rest against you and idly watch the picture appear on the paper. Sometimes the sound of that and your breathing is so peaceful, he falls asleep. He likes it when you draw maps for the ranger’s reference because you sketch out the different animals and wildling camps instead of just marking them. It’s cute as hell, and he won’t let anyone insult you for it.

JORY CASSEL

Jory loves your talent as well, he heard people around Winterfell talking about your “charming” paintings and wanted to see for himself. When he was crushing on you and later trying to court you in his own way, he’d bring you art supplies you needed. The fact he paid attention to what you were running low on was flattering. Jory enjoys watching you work, but he’s too embarrassed to sit and pose for anything; he’s relieved if you paint landscapes or animals instead.

EDDISON TOLLETT

He thought it was the oddest thing he’d ever seen, you huddled up in your coat and scarf but no gloves so you could draw the horses or some trees. Well, Sam had his books, and Jon would go off to train, so this was just something you did to keep your sanity on the wall. He liked sitting next to you and observing, making wry comments now and again. Many times he’s joked about you drawing the wall, but a specific section of the wall, because “that’s the prettiest part”. If he can find some charcoal or things to draw on, he’ll keep it without thinking, then remember it weeks later and give it to you with some shyness.

MANCE RAYDER

Mance loves your artistic nature. He’s a musician himself, so he understands the urge to create something, to just let your mind wander and escape in it. You’re sort of an odd inspiration to him; when you both are relaxing in his tent late in the evening, and you’re just sketching something, he feels the urge to get his lute and start experimenting with a new song.

TORMUND GIANTSBANE

He doesn’t really get the “point” of it, but he’s still fascinated watching you paint something across a thin, pale piece of leather you made yourself. Tormund will just be right there next to you, up in your business and wanting to see how you do it. He’s more patient in the evening, content to sit across the fire and just watch your hands move. He wonders how you just know how to move them. Sometimes he’ll trace things in the snow with a stick, trying to mimic your shapes and movements, but falling totally short. It just makes him more in awe of you.

YARA GREYJOY

She doesn’t think much of artistic pursuits, it’s just not in the Ironborn culture to care about things like art and prose. Still, she knows skill when she sees it, and she can admit it’s interesting to watch you sketch something, then she comes back an hour later and you’ve made the drawing almost lifelike. She won’t ever want to be drawn, but there’s a look of pride on her face when you show her scenes of her ship and the men working on it. She might even keep one of them.

DAENERYS TARGARYEN

Dany thought you were writing in that old journal for the longest time, and she realized you were drawing when you were next to Drogon, capturing a rare moment of the dragon calmly sitting. That’s when she playfully demanded to see it, wanting to see what else you drew of her dragons. Instead she found a sketchbook full of scenery, people, horses, flowers, whatever interested you at the time. When she passed over portraits of herself, she wanted to linger and stare, smiling at how shy you’d get. Once in Meereen, Daenerys sets up a studio for you, hoping you can escape to it when you’re stressed. She ends up visiting it just as often, admiring your half-finished paintings as she tries to calm down.

JORAH MORMONT

Jorah finds it to be a darling hobby, something that fits you perfectly, but he’s still surprised by your skill level. In Essos, that sort of talent is coveted by rich merchants and politicians, but you only do it for yourself. When the khalasar stops to camp for the evening, he’ll make his way to you, hoping you don’t mind him sitting and quietly watching. Whenever you mention drawing Jorah, he’s flattered but shy at the idea. He doesn’t think he’d make a very interesting subject in armor or not, so he directs you to the horses or landscape. Whenever he passes by a market, he looks for paints you might like.

MISSANDEI

She’s highly appreciative of your talent, as she has something of an artistic interest. Missandei isn’t much of one herself, but she appreciates art immensely. She can’t hide her curiosity when she notices you painting and sketching, and she’ll want to wait for you to tell her it’s okay to look. Once you two are closer, she’ll ask about your process, about why you chose this color or that subject, what the art makes you feel. You noticed she prefers your more abstract pieces over the simple still-life or portraits.

GREY WORM

Grey Worm has seen all sorts of grand portraits and sculptures in the houses he was sent to guard over the years. He never had a thought about how they were actually made, even after being freed. It was so new and foreign to him. When he watched you work, he loved seeing how it’d go from a sketch to a painting. You’d show him the different paintings and brush strokes to make it happen, but it was still like magic. When you drew him, it unsettled him at first, seeing a non-moving reflection stare back at him. Eventually Grey Worm shyly asked for a small portrait of yourself that he could carry around. It’s his good luck charm.

TYWIN LANNISTER

Well, there are less than savory hobbies young ladies can have, and painting was certainly an accomplishment to be proud of. He admired your skill from afar, you were clearly talented, and he’s a man who appreciates a craft that’s honed and excelled in. This continued in Casterly Rock, and Tywin had to admit he was proud of the landscapes you did of the keep and the ocean surrounding it. He’d have several of your paintings in fancy frames in his office.

TYRION LANNISTER

During your first meeting, Tyrion noticed the odd markings and colors on your dominant hand, and sometimes they were on your sleeves, too. When he spotted you drawing in a secluded corner days later, it made sense. Tyrion was interested in you so he used art as a way to talk with you, and he was pleasantly surprised when you’d respond, letting him see your sketches and later, some of your paintings. It was like he was invited into a private world, and it made him like you all the more. When you’re a couple, he’s always finding interesting paints from Essos or fine brushes made of ivory and sable hair, and he proudly keeps your paintings in his office.

JAIME LANNISTER

Sometimes he lingered in your chambers after you two were intimate, and inevitably you’d start sketching something. He thought it was amusing, some funny quirk, and always had to joke if you were drawing him. When you’d fall asleep he’d look through the sketchbook, admiring your drawings, trying to deny how much of yourself he could see in them, and how they deepened his feelings for you. It was too risky to carry a portrait, but he ended up stealing one of your drawings before he had to leave for his father’s war. He chose a simple detailed sketch of your favorite flowers; you used them in your perfume and you always had them in your room.

SANDOR CLEGANE

The gruff man dismisses it as “some women’s nonsense”, although he couldn’t recall any women in court who had their noses stuck in sketchbooks as often as you did. He’d see you in the gardens almost every day, drawing something in a book. He didn’t think about it until you two were close, and he was able to sit next to you and see the drawings. Sometimes you drew what was around you, and that made sense, but sometimes you drew things from your head, and he wondered how difficult that was. Sandor would absolutely not want anything drawn of him; it makes him uncomfortable and gives him feelings he’s not ready for when he sees pictures you made of him or Stranger.

BRONN OF BLACKWATER

Bronn doesn’t think much of it. He’s a mercenary, what did you expect? He didn’t tease you, but he did like to be a distraction when you were trying to draw something, curling his arms around your waist and kissing up your neck to get your attention. Often when you knew he was stopping by, you’d engross yourself in a project, just to grin at his frustration as he tried to pull you from it. He’s had some curiosity and looked in your sketchbook before, but that’s it. He’s willing to pose for something, but only if you promise him a reward, since he gets antsy sitting so still, having to look at you but not getting to touch.

PODRICK PAYNE

He really admires your skill, it was something he was always interested in as a boy, but he never had the talent for it. When you’re sketching, Pod wants to look over your shoulder, but that’d be rude, so he just waits, a bundle of nervous energy that Tyrion eventually dismisses. He can’t hide his excitement when you offer to show him the sketchbook, and later your studio, which he enters with such reverence, you’re a little embarrassed. Once Podrick is more comfortable with you, he’ll ask about your process and inspiration.

PETYR BAELISH

He admires your talent like he admires the rest of you, it’s just one more reason to adore you. He found out where your secret drawing spot was, where you’d hide away from the court and spend all morning on your sketchbook. This is where Petyr would “chance” upon you, and your art was a way for him to get you to open up. He was well versed in art himself, so he could discuss techniques and artists with you, and later send you nice gifts like rare paints and fine brushes. If he knew you’d accept, he’d offer to give you a tour of some of the fine paintings and ancient statues that were sadly gathering dust in the Red Keep, paying more attention to your reactions than what you were looking at.

STANNIS BARATHEON

Stannis really has no like or dislike for art, it’s not something he cares to think about. Even with that lack of opinion, he can tell you’re talented and you work hard at what you do. Since you clearly enjoy it so much, eventually he’ll shyly offer you a room in Dragonstone to use as a studio. He may not be the best at describing why he likes your work, or what about it is good (please don’t ask his opinion on a piece), but he’ll make sure you have whatever supplies you desire. He’ll be beyond embarrassed if you ask to draw him, but you can quietly sit in his study and sketch, he’ll be none the wiser.

DAVOS SEAWORTH

Davos finds your skill to be charming, and something worthy of praise, he’s not shy about complimenting you when he notices you painting. He’d never overstep his bounds and ask to see the sketchbook you’re always buried in, but even just listening to your charcoal scratch at the paper is soothing. Several afternoons he’s sat whittling something while you draw something else, both of you exchanging a few words, then sitting in a peaceful silence. He’s always encouraging of your art, even if he doesn’t know any technical terms or what’s considered “great” vs “good”. It looks nice to him, so he enjoys it.

MARGAERY TYRELL

This is just one of many things Margaery appreciates about you; really, there’s nothing more attractive than someone with many talents. Her favorite thing is to watch you paint, specifically, when you’re mixing paints and deciding which color to use. They all look similar to her, and you’re only using a few strokes of some of them! She likes to sit and chat with you while you work, not even minding when you just respond with a “mm” and “oh”. She has a hand mirror that has a small portrait of you in it; she insisted you paint one she could carry around.

BRYNDEN TULLY

He enjoys sitting next to you when he has a chance, watching you work on your sketchbook while you both chat or just enjoy the silence. It’s what drew him to you initially, a pretty girl with her nose tucked in a sketchbook, totally oblivious to the lords trying to get her attention. Unlike those courtiers, he doesn’t pretend to know a damn thing about art. He just loves to see your graceful hands move across the page and how you furrow your brow in concentration. Brynden outright laughs if you want to draw him, insisting there are far prettier subjects around. His younger, more wistful side wishes someone could capture the express you have when you draw, so he could have that picture in his pocket.

EDMURE TULLY

He likes the hobby, it’s just another amazing thing about you, although admittedly he can get impatient when you’re spending a long time on a painting. He gets a funny, flustered feeling when you paint landscapes of Riverrun, or portraits of your children, once you have them. He’ll hang them up proudly in the Great Hall - or his office, if you’d rather have them there, he’s just so proud! Though, he’s a bit shy about sitting for a portrait. Something about your gaze makes him squirm, and he’d much rather have a picture of you or the kids.

BRIENNE OF TARTH

When Brienne watches you sketch something and later paint over it, it almost seems like magic, although she understands the hard work behind it, and your artistic process. She understands it better than most, considering how hard she worked at her swordsmanship. Brienne is so embarrassed if you want her to sit for a portrait, she just can’t do it. However, if she’s fully armored and you’re sketching her training or on her horse… It gives her a pleasant kind of embarrassment. Your portrait looks amazing, a gallant knight in movement, and she’s so happy you see her that way.

RAMSAY SNOW

Oh, he gets so impatient when you’re sketching or painting and he wants you for something… or just wants you. You’ll see him sigh and fidget in your peripheral vision, if he doesn’t just sit in front of you and call your name. You don’t expect him to understand the point of it, although unbeknownst to you, he has some morbid ideas of art. Best not go to that place. You’re surprised by how much he likes drawings of his hounds, he’ll actually sit next to you and watch you work with interest. Granted, it won’t last more than fifteen or twenty minutes, but there’s a strange… comfort in the warmth of him as he leans in, resting his chin on your shoulder.

ROOSE BOLTON

He doesn’t mind how you spend your freetime, although this pursuit is an interesting one. To keep you pleased, he’d learn the different supplies and paints you used and order new ones whenever you needed them. If you liked quiet while you worked, or being outside, or having someone to talk to, he’d arrange that. You’d probably even have a room for a studio in the Dreadfort, many servants agree it’s a cheerful, welcome addition to the place. Once you two had children, Roose would keep a small portrait you painted of them in his office. It’s an oddly sentimental thing for the man to do, but no one would dare comment on it.

OBERYN MARTELL

This is one of many things on his list of reasons to love you. He’s a man who loves art and creativity, especially when the paintings are full of life and color. When he notices you’re sketching or painting, he actually approaches quietly, not wanting to interrupt your concentration (and wanting to see what you’re working on). He’s delighted by portraits you make of him, but personally he loves your landscapes of Dorne. You capture his feelings of his country so well, it makes him a little emotional. He’ll absolutely ask you to draw a small portrait of yourself - as scandalous as you can manage! - so he can always have you with him. He keeps it in a small pocket mirror with the glass taken out.

BERIC DONDARRION

The former knight is very charmed by this, in fact, you might think he’s … attracted to it. He tries not to make it obvious, but you notice how he wistfully gazes at you while you draw. It’s never any big or fancy pieces, just what’s around as you travel with the Brotherhood. When you’re together, he makes no secret about it, looking totally lovesick as he watches how you brush your hair aside and focus on the drawing in front of you. What a silly man. He also likes to cuddle behind you while you work, sometimes resting his head on your back and falling into a doze.

#game of thrones imagine #game of thrones preference #got imagine #got preferences #game of thrones x reader

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mrsjadecurtiss · 4 years ago

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you have the best insight on roose of everyone on this entire site, so i gotta ask, do you think roose actually does any flaying/torturing himself? its clear from the theon chapters in ADWD that ramsay tortures his victims personally, but roose is almost NEVER mentioned to preform violence except in past tense, or when he kills robb at the red wedding (and like is that even HIM or just a decoy in bolton armor..) so do you think he would flay someone personally? or use someone else to do it?

Hi, thank you, im glad you enjoy my Roose posts! :)

"its clear from the theon chapters in ADWD that ramsay tortures his victims personally"

Ramsay does do most torture in person, though i believe the flaying specifically (at least in Theon's case) is done by his man Skinner:

He remembered how much it had hurt when Lord Ramsay had commanded Skinner to lay his ring finger bare. - Reek II, aDwD

Ramsay needs Theon alive, so he's leaving the flaying to a professional to make sure Theon doesn't get infections and recovers well enough to be further tortured.

"do you think roose actually does any flaying/torturing himself? [...] do you think he would flay someone personally? or use someone else to do it?"

Well, if he has need for torture or violence, it is to assume that like any lord he would leave it to his lackeys, because he doesn't want to get his own hands dirty; we know that even someone like Ramsay delegates some of his stuff. Note that this does NOT change the severity of his terrible acts, he just doesn't physically do them because he is rich and powerful enough to have servants carry them out.

If you look up "flaying" in asearchoficeandfire it appears that Roose is never actually shown ordering anyone to be flayed, neither in public nor in the private stories he tells Theon; likely because it is seen as poor optics after centuries of Stark rule.

The flayed man was the sigil of House Bolton, Theon knew; ages past, certain of their lords had gone so far as to cloak themselves in the skins of dead enemies. [...] Supposedly all that had stopped a thousand years ago, when the Boltons had bent their knees to Winterfell. Or so they say, but old ways die hard, as well I know. - Theon IV, aCoK

When flaying is mentioned it is usually others alleging that they will be flayed as punishment ("[Arya] had served as Roose Bolton's cupbearer at Harrenhal, and he would flay you if you spilled his wine."), referencing the Bolton's cruel history and reputation ("The Boltons have always been as cruel as they were cunning"). The obvious exception is Ramsay's out and open application of the practice, who did not grow up in the Dreadfort, and appears to model himself after the stereotypical Bolton of legend to make up for his perceived inferiority of being born as "just a bastard". When Ramsay suggest flaying Barbrey, Roose even makes fun of him for thinking one could wear her skin as boots. Though the existence of the man Skinner (unless he used to be an animal butcher) shows that House Bolton definitely still keeps the art alive (Roose states Skinner was his own man before he came to Ramsay).

Roose generally appears to order the same punishments as most other high lords (of the cruel variety, like Tywin), including:

When the work was done, Lord Bolton hanged the workers. - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

The heads had been dipped in tar to slow the rot. Every morning when Arya went to the well to draw fresh water for Roose Bolton's basin, she had to pass beneath them. - Arya X, aCoK

Grunt, who had lost his tongue for speaking carelessly in Lord Roose's hearing. - Reek I, aDwD

"Once, when my second wife was still alive, he was caught stealing scent from her bedchamber. I had him whipped for that, a dozen lashes." - Reek III, aDwD

Another example is him ordering the beheading and violating of the staff of Harrenhal as punishment for serving the Lannisters, and throwing a naked and humiliated Amory Lorch into the bear pit.

Like the other lords, it is implicit that he does none of that himself and instead orders his men to do it. Especially considering Roose is meant to be a foil to the moral Lord Eddard:

"The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." - Bran I, aGoT

"he kills robb at the red wedding (and like is that even HIM or just a decoy in bolton armor..)"

A man in dark armor and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood stepped up to Robb." - Catelyn VII, aSoS

This is an interesting question to speculate about. Roose is known to prefer staying out of direct danger - aDwD implies he does not fight in person ("Though Roose had been in battles, he bore no scars."), and he is shown to have a man ride in his armor as a decoy ("His lordship strode forth to greet his father. When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. [...] "Just caution," whispered Roose Bolton, as he emerged from behind the curtains of the enclosed wagon."). His men also wear similar clothing as the man who kills Robb ("The lantern their sergeant carried shed enough light for Arya to see that his cloak was a pale pink, spotted with red teardrops." ). Is the description of Roose' armor worn by the decoy in aDwD ("at the center of the column rode a man armored in dark grey plate [...]. From his shoulders streamed a pink woolen cloak embroidered with droplets of blood."), matching the red wedding one, meant to clue us in that he did this in person at the red wedding, or does it tell us that he sent a decoy there too?

The man who kills Robb, while not described in any manner unique to Roose (Cat doesn't recognize him, and there are no face or voice descriptions), does however directly reference Jaime's conversation with Roose:

"The Trident is in flood," [Roose] told Jaime. "Even at the ruby ford, the crossing will be difficult. You will give my warm regards to your father?" - "So long as you give mine to Robb Stark." - "That I shall." - Jaime VI, aSoS

A man in dark armor and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood stepped up to Robb. "Jaime Lannister sends his regards." - Catelyn VII, aSoS

Morally, whether you kill a man yourself, or arrange for a guy to dress up as you and kill a man (and isntruct him deliver a joke you thought of), both is equally wrong. If Roose decided to kill Robb with his own hands despite his extreme tendency for caution, it probably adds to his characterization in terms of the red wedding planning/motivations; however as of aDwD, from what i can verify, his own opinion on the details of the Red Wedding has not come up yet (he does know the importance of a good cover story) and no one references or accuses him of killing Robb (compare this to how often the show brings it up). We will see how tWoW handles this and i will wait until then to speculate further. For what it's worth, in the show they explicitly had Roose kill Robb, but the show also frequently simplifies things so the message doesn't get muddled for the audience.

For simplicity's sake i usually go with the common agreement that he indeed killed Robb because it seems heavily implied in the text, but if he really just sent a decoy it would also be extremely in character and it would not surprise me.

Edit:

We also get a prominent scene of Roose going on a hunt in aCoK, in a chapter that is ripe with Red Wedding buildup:

“I will hunt today,” Roose Bolton announced as Qyburn helped him into a quilted jerkin. [...] “It is wolves I mean to hunt. I can scarcely sleep at night for the howling.” [...] “One king may be terrible, but four?” He shrugged. - Arya X, aCoK

In a medieval hunt, the animal is wounded by the dogs and hunting party, and then the king/lord will come and deliver the finishing blow after the dangerous part is done. So Roose might have designed his part in the Red Wedding similarly; wait until the danger is cleared, and then come in for the finish.

#asks #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #roose bolton

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melrosing · 3 years ago

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Love how Joanna looks at the viewer, either daring them to question her power or letting them in on the secret joke that she’s playing her husband/holding the house together. The way her arm wraps around him could either be read as supporting him or holding him back from acting on his worst instincts. She protects her children behind the armor of her dress (she is both the Bridge & Wall between her kids and their father—they all miss her but she shielded them from him). Love the ambiguity here

The roses, thorns, and floral imagery on her dress adds a dimension to her beyond just ‘Lannister, Tywin’s Wife, and Dead Mother.’ Is she a fertile force that will foreshadows the complexity of the Lannister Brothers and the family’s rebirth or a briar that ensures and cuts like Tywin?

I forgot to add that Cersei is also a briar filled with thorns—or is Joanna somewhere in between? I love how meta this drawing is since fandom seems either see her as the Lannister Black Sheep/source of all her children’s positive traits or Female!Tywin. We barely know anything canon of her interiority or much of her personality; she just exists in ambiguity and you capture that really well.

thank you for this message it made my day <3 honestly the whole pic is really just for her, I find her v intriguing and the ambiguity you talk about is exactly how I think of her as well, I'm so glad it came across!! I like there are enough details in the books that we think we could build a fair portrait of her but the more you scrutinise them the more you're like, who the heck was this woman. what is UP joanna

tbh I'm actually kind of torn on whether I want every detail GRRM has going on joanna's inner life in the next books/F&B II (and yes I realise how optimistic this sounds lol) or whether I want to keep that ambiguity about her person. it's great fun trying to fill in the gaps with her

#ask #i am so knackered today or else I would totally write a page on jo myself #but tysm for this message anon <3

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ramsayboltonsmuse · 5 years ago

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Imagine Ramsay Bolton and The Joker (Heath Ledger) fighting over you....PART 3

Summary: I’m bringing Ledger!Joker to Westeros! My two favorite villains in a smutty little multi-part imagine that ends in them fighting over The Reader.

You are Cersei Lannister’s oldest daughter and have been betrothed to Ramsay Bolton, a match devised by your grandfather Tywin Lannister to secure the alliance between The Boltons (who are now The Wardens of the North) and the Capital.

What happens when you throw in a chance encounter with J in the woods? Lots of violence, angst, fluff and smut that’s what!

Links to other parts: Part 1, Part 2

Ao3 link

“C’mere.” J’s hand shot out and wrapped around the back of your neck, jerking your head forward. He was staring into your eyes, which you knew must be displaying a convoluted mixture of fear, resolve and excitement.

You tried to read the expression in his eyes, but to no avail. Whereas Ramsay’s eyes so delightfully displayed the sadistic malice, carnal hunger and mirth that went along with most of his games, J’s eyes were utter blackness that gave no tell of what he might be thinking. His gaze was dark and primal, not unlike that of a lion.

J’s thumb kneaded your vulnerable neck in small circles, and you were left feeling that he really was a lion. As the quiet tension-laden stillness made the air heavy, it seemed like he was debating whether or not he would attack his prey. Attack you.

The feeling of his large hand wrapping around your neck sent shivers down your spine as you realized how very easy it would be for him to snap your neck. But much as the thought terrified you, the gentle yet steady pressure of his thumb circling around and around your skin sent a little ball of warmth spinning through you. You tried to push the feeling away.

His thoughts seemingly coming to some kind to some sort of conclusion, though you hadn’t the faintest idea what that conclusion was, J’s hand moved to grip your arm and roughly pull you to your feet as if you weighed no more than a rag doll.

“Let’s, uh, go for a walk bunny.”

“N-Now?” Your voice came out shaky again. “I-It’s still dark out.”

J rolled his eyes at you. “Early morning’s the best time for hunting sweetheart-t. Didn’t your, uh, Lord Flay teach you that? I heard he’s a hunter too.” When you shook your head in response, J continued, pressing his body closer to yours as you leaned back against the wall, his face now only inches from yours.

“Oh that’s right-t. He only hunts women in the woods. He sets it all up-ah. Now where’s the fun in that?” He let out a loud cackle right in your face causing you to jump. He was close enough now that you could see every bump, curl and detail in his scars. J sees you looking at them.

“What happened bunny? You look scared. Is it the scars?” J’s hand that’s still on your arm grips tighter, while his other hand circles your neck once again, this time his thumb pressing into your jaw.

“You wanna know how I got them? I’ll tell you.” His thumb moves to sweep over your mouth, pressing the bottom lip down. “You see, I had a wife, beautiful, like you.” J looks at you hungrily as your heart rate quickens.

“She’s friendly with the villagers, with the uh, other men-ah. She says it’s nice to be friendly-ah, that I shouldn’t worry so much-ah. She says I oughta smile more.” J slides his thumb along your bottom lip to the right corner of your mouth, tugging it up into a sideways grin. You shiver as he continues.

“One day, she goes out alone for a walk in the woods-ah. Some of the, uh, men follow her. They rape her, and cut up her face. She comes home and can’t look at herself anymore-ah. I just want to see her smile again. So I do this,” J releases your neck to gesture to his scars “with a razor.”

You feel a pang of sadness in your chest, and your eyes soften. J must see this, and you think you see him smirk when he sees your reaction. That leaves you questioning the factual nature of the story.

“Now I see the funny side.” J goes on, now a much more noticeable grin spreading across his face. “Now I’m always smiling!”

Your eyes harden. He seems to be reading the display of emotions across your face and just grins wider.

“Now then bunny, let’s go for a walk-ah.” He says as he grabs your arm hard enough to leave a bruise and pulls you out of the door.

The air outside is laden with that early Northern morning chill and you shiver, your light blue dress from yesterday clearly not cutting it for the current weather.

It’s still dark outside but you are beginning to see the dull blue light of daybreak spread across the sky from the east. You can make out the trees around you, and J in front of you, but not much else. You look back for the hut, but it’s already disappeared into the darkness.

You squint at the ground, trying to look for rocks and branches as you hurry your feet along to keep up with the speed J is pulling you along. He’s just too fast though, and a large rock comes out of nowhere causing you to trip and swear as you fall forward.

J braces you easily before you hit the ground and chuckles.

“That doesn’t sound like the, uh, proper language for a princess, doll.”

“Fuck you.” You say in spite of yourself, and J laughs again. “I think I broke my toe.” J laughs even harder at that, before grabbing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Don’t you worry princess, I’ll carry you.” You struggle as he picks up his fast pace again.

“J, put me down!”

J laughs lightheartedly and gives your ass a light smack. You sharply inhale and blush in the darkness.

“Can’t do that dollface. We need to move fast so we don’t miss the, uh, action.”

You pout and let your head and shoulders slump. There is clearly no use in trying to fight him, and as embarrassing as this situation is, you prefer it to being knocked out because you resisted.

From your position on J’s shoulder, you can see the sun rising behind you and the cool blue light breaking over the forest. As a breeze blows your hair forward and into your face, you smell something delicious and almost instantly pangs of hunger overtake your stomach. There must be a fire somewhere nearby.

You cry out as J drops you to the ground.

“Zip it sweetheart. Don’t want to lose the, uh, element of surprise-ah.” J whispers. You look through the small pocket of trees in front of you to see you are only about twenty feet away from a small fire with four men huddled around it, one of them turning something over the fire. The delicious smell of meat invades your senses.

A clear master at knot-tying, J produces rope from one of the deep pockets of his long coat and quickly devises a binding that ties you standing up to the tree behind you. As the sun further lights up J and your surroundings, you are reminded again how strange his attire is.

The long coat he is wearing is an incredibly rich, bright purple, and the light leather armor beneath it purple and green. You can’t stop combing over it with your eyes. As he finishes tying you up, he leans back, regarding his handiwork.

“It’s, uh, not polite to stare.” You quickly shift your eyes away, but J grabs your chin and forces your eyes to meet his. “Like my style, bunny?” He says, brandishing the word. “Well, it’s incomplete-ah. But we’re about to solve that problem right now.” Your quizzical look only makes him smile. “Watch and see-ah.”

J turns and almost prances through the trees to where the men sit around the fire, his hands in his pockets as he saunters over.

“Good morning gentlemen!” J’s voice rings out.

The four men turn as they see J approaching, one of them quickly shifting to his feet and drawing his sword. He looks like the ringleader.

“Hey, I know who that is. Jared, get your sword out. Jared! That’s --”

J cuts him off as he’s standing right behind the man pointed out as Jared, a tall broad shouldered dirty looking man with a hideous jagged scar going from his right temple all the way diagonally across his face. Jared unsheathes his blade, grimacing, as he makes to turn around and face J.

“Want to see a magic trick?”

You don’t know how long it goes on. The stabbing and bone breaking and laughing. He never seems to stop laughing. Ramsay hadn’t had you watch him torture his victims, he only displayed their battered corpses on the wall, so this was the first time you were actually watching people die. And die horrifically.

J looked so incredibly, disturbingly happy as he decorated each man’s body with gashes and punctures and bruises. He made it last as long as possible, relishing in how they begged for mercy and pleaded with everything they had to offer - their money, their secrets, their wives, their children...before he finished them off, howling as he did.

You felt nauseous to the pit of your stomach. You had tried closing your eyes during the worst of it, but you couldn't block out the screams, the terrible screams.

When it was silent, you opened your eyes to see the scene in front of you unfold.

J, kneeling in front of the fire pit, grabbed a handful of now-cool coals and used his fingers to paint large dark, messy circles around his eyes. As he stood from the fire, you noticed that his shoulder was bleeding from where one of the men’s blades had apparently managed to pierce him.

Reaching into the wound with a maniac laugh that made you cold to the bone, he coated his fingers in the sticky substance before smearing it across his mouth and up his scars, painting his face in a cheshire grin.

He shook his head and emitted a loud, resounding and utterly dark laugh before his eyes found purchase on you. He strode over to you with a speed that was nothing short of terrifying.

He was upon you in seconds, the smell of a fire and blood wafting off of him as one large hand encircled your neck and the other grabbed your sharp hip bone through your dress, holding you in place. His face pressed close to yours, his lips only inches away as he spoke.

“Enjoy the show-ah?” His voice was deep and dark. You start shaking, your eyes lighting up with fear as you wonder what he’s going to do to you now that all the others are dead.

“I asked you a question, bunny.” He growls when you don’t answer right away.

You nod your head quickly, but he runs his thumb along your bottom lip and pulls it down, much rougher than he did earlier, before popping his thumb into your mouth to open it.

“Use your words.”

“I-I liked the show.” You stutter out. J smiles.

“Any, uh, favorite scenes? Because I thought the highlight was slicing up poor Jared, but I’m starting to change my mind-ah.” J runs the hand on your hip up your side and you feel your skin break out in goosebumps. His hand stops at your breast where he flicks your nipple, poking through your dress and hard from the cold.

You fidget when he does that, trying to push away the warm sensation gathering in your core when he does. J smirks and glances at your legs, which have pulled together.

“Looks as though you might agree. Let’s, uh, take a look, sweetheart-t.”

You can’t stop it this time, as the tingling sensation spreads through you making you squirm and rub your legs together. You push out of your mind the awful fear of what Ramsay would do if he saw you like this.

You can’t control it anymore, you can’t lie to yourself, part of you wants him to take you. Even after watching what he did to those men. You want him.

His hand dips beneath your dress and runs up your thigh, reaching the line of your panties. His finger lands on the wet fabric, running a featherlight circle around your clit. You can’t stop it before it happens, and a tiny moan escapes your lips.

J stops moving his finger and raises an eyebrow knowingly.

“Just as I thought-t. You’re soaking wet, bunny.” Your face turns into a pout and you squeeze your legs tighter together around his hand, desperate for friction. J laughs. “How long have you wanted me to touch you [Y/N], hmm? How long have you been a little slut for me?”

He graces you with another circle of his finger before grabbing the line of your panties only to release them, snapping them back against your skin. You struggle against your bindings.

“Don’t, uh, worry doll. I’ll give you what you need-ah.” J leans in, the frightening black around his eyes and his bloody mouth sending adrenaline shooting through your veins and telling you to run run run.

But you can’t run, and even if you could, you don’t think you would now. J’s lips ghost your neck, before landing a quick sharp bite to your exposed skin and causing you to let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl.

J’s mouth is at your ear now, whispering to you, his breath warm against your skin.

“I have to warn you though, bunny, I like to break things.” The words have an effect you can’t believe, causing your body to heat up and your voice to come out in a hushed pant.

“I want you to break me J.” As he nips and kisses your neck, you feel him smile against your skin and sigh. It’s a sound that resigns you to your fate.

That’s when you hear the hounds.

#Heath Ledger Joker #ledger!joker #ledger!joker fanfic #ledger!joker imagine #ledger!joker/reader #ledger!joker fanfiction #ledger!joker x reader #ledger!joker x you #game of thrones fanfiction #ledger!joker smut #game of thrones smut #ramsay bolton smut #ramsay bolton fanfiction #ramsay bolton fanfic #ramsay bolton imagine #ramsay bolton/reader #ramsay bolton/you #ramsay bolton x you

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justfandomwritings · 5 years ago

Text

United in Fear (Part Four - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU

Word count: 9.1k

Warnings: This chapter depicts a ‘bedding ceremony’. Which is a ceremony in the GoT universe that involves a group of men stripping a woman naked on her wedding night and shouting obscene things at her. The reader’s character is disturbed by said ceremony in the story, though it is not described in what I would deem a disturbingly graphic manner for readers, nor is the practice glorified in any way.

There is also a separate scene involving nudity and a sexual situation (sexual situation, not sex) which is fully and unambiguously consensual.

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: So, this chapter does have warnings. If you choose to read it, please read it informed of what is coming. If you’re looking for a ‘rating’ of how extreme or graphic I would class this, then my answer would be “if you watched these scenes in Game of Thrones, none of them come close to how disturbing the show could get at times”

Oh also... Um note before you read.... I’m not a huge fan of Bran’s character at any point in the series soooo.... yeah.

Start From the Beginning… Part One

Previously On... Part Three

“Son.”

Robb looked up to see his father standing in the door. His appearance was a sign of what was to come.

In Winterfell, the Starks had very little use for fine, Southern clothes. Such garments were impractical for daily use, and what was impractical for daily use was never bothered with when meeting Northern Lords. Even the King, for all the pomp of his arrival, had only seen the Starks clean up their usual appearance. Sansa had worn one of her nicer dresses in hopes of meeting the princes, but none of the others had actually dressed up for the occasion.

The fine leather tunic, embossed with a running direwolf across the chest, which graced Ned Stark now was a piece Robb had never seen his father wear. Perhaps, he had never worn it before at all. Robb had certainly never worn the fine fur cloak around his shoulders nor the polished boots covering his feet.

“Are you ready?” Ned looked Robb over once.

“I wish Sansa could go in my stead,” Robb confessed. His head hung as he left his rooms.

Ned hummed in agreement, “I know. I wish you did not have to witness this.”

“You did not marry your mate either.” Robb pointed out.

Ned nodded confirmation, “Yes, that is true.”

“But you moved on?” Robb’s tone was questioning, hopeful.

From a young age, Robb knew his parents were not soulmates. His father had been the one to explain the name on his arm to him, and Ned had to tell Robb, rather frankly, that there was a chance he would never meet her and would almost certainly never have her. Ned Stark had been right on one of those counts, and Robb would have to accept it just as his parents had.

“I will not pretend moving on was something I did willingly.” Ned gave a heavy sigh, “It is hard to give up on the idea of a perfect life, a perfect love; but for most of us life is not meant to be that easy. You have been given a particularly hard life to lead, but the gods have given you this life for a reason. They have shown you her for a reason, and they have taken her for a reason. Finding happiness, after meeting her, will be difficult, but it is not impossible.”

Robb paused in his step, and Ned carried on another pace before he stopped and turned back to his son. “You,” Robb hesitated, “You speak from experience.” Robb never knew his father had met his mate. The name, not that Robb had ever read it, was still on his father’s arm.

Ned seemed to think for a long moment before he spoke, “I was once where you are now. I stood in a sept and watched my soulmate marry another man.”

“Where is she now?” Robb asked.

Ned didn’t answer. He turned away and waited for Robb to come back to his side before the pair walked on without another word.

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The Sept of Winterfell was a small one. It had been built by Ned Stark for his new wife, Catelyn, as a gift, and had rarely been used by anyone but the Lady of Winterfell. Shoulder to shoulder, it comfortably held only sixteen, fifteen if one of those was Robert Baratheon.

The King’s only joy in being slighted by the Lannister’s had been in Tywin’s rush to marry off his daughter. Lady (Y/n), a Lannister bride as worthy of the Sept of Baelor as Princess Myrcella herself, would be forced to marry in the miniscule stone hut of a sept that heard the praises of only one woman and saw none of the splendor accustomed to (Y/n)’s station. Robert had revelled in the thought.

While even the Great Lion could not build a newer, more worthy sept in time, Tywin Lannister never truly lost. Even this small ceremony, this disadvantage, this insult to their wealth and grandeur, had proven to be to the Lannister’s benefit.

In all of Westeros, only fifteen people would be permitted to witness what Robb knew would be the wedding of the century. If the Lannisters could not display their wealth, then they would at least flaunt their superiority. The countless lords and ladies of the King’s party practically tripped over themselves to reach Tywin’s chambers first; they desperately argued and debated who was deserving to see the ceremony. Even Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen had not made the guest list with their parents and the crown prince.

Robb had hoped he would be similarly forgotten.

Tywin Lannister himself had dashed that dream with a personal invitation extended immediately after the public announcement.

Tywin’s invitation positioned Robb between his father and Tyrion Lannister at the front of the floor, right where (Y/n) would come to stand. He was in full view of every lord and lady in the Sept and had an unobstructed eye on the woman that should have been his.

That was what Tywin wanted, and Robb knew it. He wanted Robb to know (Y/n) was not and would never be his. He wanted Robb to watch her hands join with another man, wanted Robb to hear to her swear vows to an insignificant knight. He wanted to remind Robb, and thereby his father and the King, who was really in charge.

As such, Robb was forced to watch the lumbering Harwyn Plumm march to the front of the Sept, standing in front of King Robert and Queen Cersei.

Harwyn was accompanied by Jaime Lannister, taking the place of Harwyn’s elder brothers and father as the bearer of (Y/n)’s marriage cloak.

Robb glared at the offending fabric, brought North from Casterly Rock by a soldier who had joined Mace Tyrell’s march to Winterfell. It was folded neatly under the Kingslayer’s arm, and Robb could not make out it’s texture or color. He didn’t need to see it to know what it represented, though.

It was the end, the end of any hope, not that there had ever been much.

“Rise.” The Septon was from the Riverlands, the Twins if Robb remembered correctly. There was no formal Septon at Winterfell to lead the ceremony, so Tywin had sent orders for Mace Tyrell to procure and bring a suitable man when he passed through House Frey.

Strictly speaking, the King, being above all but the gods, was not required to stand, but Robert Baratheon rose like all the rest as heads turned for (Y/n)’s entrance.

Robb’s eyes turned, and the moment he caught sight of her he desperately wished he hadn’t.

She was gorgeous, even more so than usual.

Robb had wondered, on occasion, if his attraction to her was real or if it was simply the gods’ way of drawing him to her, but even the gods, old and new, couldn’t fake such a beauty.

Her dress was a simple sheer white silk, draped more than fitted over her body. The straps were without sleeves and slipped over her shoulders as if they supported none of the weight of the fabric. Only a trail of ruching up the center between her breasts provided any support or structure for the slippery material.

The dress was topped with the only break from the immaculate white. A large piece of twisting golden metal hung from (Y/n)’s neck. Extending out over her shoulders, the vine-like twists framed her width and wove down her frame to finish in the top of the folds between her breasts. The neck piece gave a severe, serious armor, to an otherwise innocent appearance; and the polished gold of which it was made reminded the room her name.

Beautiful but Lannister.

Robb looked away.

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Prayer.

Seven blessings.

Song.

Seven promises.

Song.

Seven vows.

Prayer.

Lighting the candle.

Prayer.

Robb had only been to one wedding in a sept, and he recalled it had been a similarly tedious, albeit less emotionally painful, affair.

As a child, he had gone to a wedding in White Harbor the year before Arya was born. House Manderly were the only house in the North to worship the new gods, Lord Manderly’s sister had invited the entirety of the North to their Sept to bare witness to her wedding some minor southern lord.

The lords and ladies of the North descended on White Harbour, but most respectfully declined to enter the Sept to honor gods they did not believe, instead partaking only in the feast and celebrations of the couples’ marriage.

Robb’s mother had made a point that, while her children would worship the gods of their father, they would at least understand the gods of herself and the other kingdoms. As such, Robb had sat at the front of the Sept with his mother for the entirety of the dull affair. She explained it all to him, every moment of the ceremony whispered in his young ears.

In his heart, Robb knew he would never need to know. He would not be married in a Sept. He would be married in front of the weirwood tree, alone with his wife and the gods. He would not be made to attend any Southern court or play at diplomacy in a feasting hall. All he needed to know of the Seven was their names and their purpose.

Right now, that was all Robb wished he knew. He tried desperately to forget everything his mother had taught him, to forget what came next.

Tywin Lannister stepped forward behind his daughter and reached around the front of her neck, undoing the tie holding her Lannister cloak to the metal collar of her dress.

Gently, with all the reverence the old man was capable of, he touched he folded the cloak over his arm and retreated to his place.

Harwyn Plumm raised an hand and Jaime Lannister stepped forward, draping the marriage cloak over his outstretched arm.

The cloak, in itself, was surely enough to convince most that Tywin had indeed been planning this wedding long before he sprung the news on the King.

The face was hidden, covered in the folds of the material, but the lining alone was a work of art.

Marriage cloaks were the most treasured possession of any bride. Usually far finer than her dress and equally as expensive as the entire feast.

In the South, they were works of art to be marveled. Made from the finest silks and softest satins, they only touched the earth or saw the sun for the grandest occasions. Houses used the open display of their banners to showcase their importance in any way they saw fit. A cloak’s craftsmanship testified the wealth and love her husband held for her in what he willingly invested in showing her importance.

In the North, they were pretty enough, certainly more magnificent than everyday cloaks, but they always served a function. Silks and satins were uselessly discarded for furs and wools. Worn constantly in the cold, the sigils born by the cloak spoke for themselves, the names that accompanied them carrying far greater weight than any display of prowess. Wealth and love were proven through the deed of a man keeping his wife warm, not by showing off his gold to others.

(Y/n)’s marriage cloak was a feat that North and South alike could not deny.

The lining, displayed as it fell across Harwyn’s arm, was the golden hide of a lion, many lions by its length; yet there was no seam. Tireless work had gone into creating an unbroken chain of fur. An unending field made from the skin of their sigil. Lions and gold, a golden lion, the only thing worthy of touching Lannister skin.

Harwyn took the cloak in his hands and presented its interior for the world to see.

Robb had held some amount of pride that, at the least, Harwyn would present his soulmate with an unworthy rag. Some frilly Southern thing that was not to (Y/n)’s taste or at least not to Robb’s own. The presentation of its lining removed Robb of that notion. The hide lining was a majestic thing more than fitting of the South, but more than enough to cut the chill.

With an artful flourish, surely practiced for no man of Harwyn’s size could be so graceful without help, he swung it around (Y/n)’s shoulders. (Y/n), in a small moment of defiance that Robb would cherish to his dying day, batted Harwyn’s hands away to secure the cloak in place herself.

“With this kiss,” Harwyn took (Y/n)’s hands in his and leaned into her, “I pledge my love.”

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” (Y/n) parroted back, and their lips met. A brush so soft and swift that even Robb did not have time to feel any anger over it.

It wasn’t until the wedded pair turned to lead their guests from the Sept that everyone else present realized what Robb already knew.

The cloak around (Y/n)’s shoulders was not Harwyn Plumm’s.

Topping the fur lining of (Y/n)’s marriage cloak was a field of brilliantly crimson satin, hemmed in by a black, fur border. Stitched into the center were not the unintimidating, three purple fruits of House Plumm as it should have been, nor even the roaring lion of House Lannister.

Woven into the center of the fabric, so seemlessly it looked as though it was painted, was a proud lionness in golden thread. She leapt off her hind legs, facing out of the sigil towards the wedding guests with a vicious snarl at her teeth. A lioness on the hunt, the personal arms of Lady (Y/n) Lannister.

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“How much gold do you think the Lannisters paid Plumm’s father to allow that travesty?”

To say Robert was enraged might have been an understatement of the King’s actions at the feast.

The Lannister girl’s cloak didn’t really mean much. In truth, it was far more a slight to her husband than the king, but the fact that Harwyn Plumm was entirely unphased seemed to cause Robert further distress. Like he knew, by the knights inaction, that there was something more to the crest, something meant not for the knight but for the king.

Ned, sitting at the King’s side, simply could not conceive of such a thing. “You think the Plumm’s knew this was being planned? Surely not. The cloak is a symbol of his protection. What man would willingly have his honor questioned for a few pieces of gold?”

It was true that many had begun to whisper about the cloak, but the harsh words against Harwyn came mostly from Northmen, those with a far different sense of duty to their family. Harwyn’s peers, those knights and lords of the South, whispered as well, but with a far deeper understanding of what such a sign might mean.

“You Starks,” Robert grumbled, “you’ll never understand the South.”

“I don’t understand,” Ned agreed. “And yet you’d have me as your Hand.”

Robert turned to his old friend with a smile meant more for reminiscing than anything. “Yes, I know that well enough, Ned. It’s for that reason I want you as my Hand. I need a man removed of all of this, someone I can trust to remain above the fray.”

“By staying above the fray,” Ned deduced, “you mean someone who can’t be bought by Lannisters.”

“That does help your cause.” Robert and Ned laughed quietly together as though it were old times, and they were alone in the halls of the Eyrie avoiding Jon Arryn’s watchful eyes.

For a moment, Ned could almost forget his friend had changed.

Not in appearance, he didn’t need to forget that. Despite his heavier, darker physique, Robert Baratheon was still strong and harsh as ever. His body had aged more poorly than Ned’s own, but it didn’t detract from his friend at all.

Ned had almost forgotten his friend’s rage. Forgotten the cruel look in Robert’s eyes as he relished in the death of the Targaryen dynasty. Forgotten the stench of drink and sex that seemed to permeate Winterfell from the moment Robert arrived. Forgotten the thunk of his son’s soulmate hitting the floor. Forgotten the plotting and scheming against his enemies like a man bereft of sanity.

Almost.

It was impossible to forget when the living reminder sat two places away from Robert’s other side.

(Y/n) had taken a break from dancing with her husband and perched on the edge of her seat, chin high, shoulders back, high and mighty as only a Lannister could be.

Looking at her family, Ned could see Robert’s longing to cut them down to size, of reminding them that their place was the Rock, not the Throne. He could see Tywin marching into the throne room and demanding more respect than the King; Jaime Lannister prancing about the Red Keep like the arrogant fool who’d killed its previous owner; the Queen spitting on the name of her husband every time his back was turned; Tyrion blathering drunk and still thinking he knew more than all.

Ned knew, not only from (Y/n)’s last name but from his every encounter with the girl, that she was as dangerous as their lord father, proud as the knight, defiant as the queen, and smart as the imp. And yet, Ned could not, would not, envisage anyone cutting down (Y/n). Perhaps it was Ashara in her, or perhaps it was his son, but Ned could not stand to forget or forgive for what Robert had done.

In brief moments such as this, joking over Ned’s ignorance or reminiscing about times before the rebellion, Ned could almost see the valiant young lord who fought by Ned’s side to avenge his family and save his sister.

Now, Robert struck women he once would have protected and groped serving maids for the sheer joy of being unfaithful to his wife.

Ned fumed beneath his skin imagining Lyanna where Cersei now stood, being shamed and defied by a man who swore to love her alone, and Ned broke picturing Ashara, bedecked in her final Lannister red and gold, sitting next to a man who threw her to the floor. Ned’s imagination but Robb’s reality.

Robb looked ready to become the second man in the room to slay a king.

Ned turned his head away from Robert and leaned in so only Robb could hear. “He, and the rest of the party, will soon be gone. Do nothing to incur their wrath in these final hours.”

“I will not,” Robb huffed, “assuming you are done ingratiating the man who attacked one of our own.” Robb turned his harsh gaze on his father. “Or did you forget she wears our name now.”

“Our name, but not our colors.” Ned flitted his gaze over the raucous hall. “None know what she is to us.”

“You know.”

Robb pushed to his feet and moved several seats down to ask Sansa to dance, if for nothing more than an excuse to be away from his father and the King.

This day had been a trial of his will, and thus far it had held. He refused to allow it to be broken by the laughter of old men.

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Unsurprisingly, no one had seen when Tyrion Lannister rose to his feet.

Despite being heir to the Rock, the Imp had not received the same place of honor at the table as had the heir of Winterfell. Tyrion was, instead, sat on his sister’s side of the high table, far at the end, next to a snivelling Mace Tyrell and the irritating Lord Banefort. Both men spoke over the head of the shorter man, and neither seemed to notice or care that their companion had abandoned them.

Tyrion was perfectly fine with that arrangement. Neither provided the prospect of particularly scintillating conversation. He would have preferred, ideally, to be sat on the husband’s far end of the table beside his brother or in his rightful seat beside his favored sister, but being ignored by two unworthy men was far preferable to being bored talking to them.

Tyrion pushed to his feet only moments after the eldest Stark boy had abandoned his chair. He’d been told by his father to wait till the heir of Winterfell had full view, and while his timing was certainly more obvious than if he had waited a few moments, Tyrion simply didn’t think he could stand the room for another minute. This was his excuse to leave, and he hoped to seize the opportunity immediately.

With short, swift paces, Tyrion rounded the high table and dropped down two stone steps in height before he continued along its length towards the center of the room.

Seeing his youngest son approach, Tywin rose to his feet.

No one had seen, heard, or bothered with Tyrion standing, but the entire room stilled and fell quiet for his father.

“Father,” Tyrion fell to one knee, though he rested it on the step above where he stood to avoid losing any more height on the rest of the room. He spoke as loudly as he dared, “I have come before this hall to beg forgiveness.”

“For what, my son?” Tywin spoke what was meant to be a question but came without the tone.

“Forgiveness from the burden of bearing your name and my inability to do so. My Lord Father,” With a deep breath Tyrion recited the words. “May the Crone deem me wise. May the Father deem me just. May the Smith deem me strong. May the Mother deem me merciful. May the Warriror deem me brave. I ask the Maiden to pass my burden onto one of her own, and the Stranger to claim me swiftly if I prove wrong.”

“Tyrion Lannister, you would pass on your inheritance as Lord of Casterly Rock.” Tywin confirmed for his youngest son.

“I would.”

In a booming voice, for all to hear, Tywin announced, “Tyrion of House Lannister, born successor to the Lord of Casterly Rock, I pass you on as heir and hand the title my daughter, Lady (Y/N) Lannister. May she prove fit to bear the name.”

She would. Robb knew that much.

And as the celebrations resumed their levity, Robert Baratheon began to laugh.

Robb knew why. Tywin had seemingly given his House away to the Plumm’s.

Robert jeered his rival with a confidence the larger man would never have had on a sober morning, and Tywin met the rebukes with a cool smirk. Leaning over several seats, Tywin whispered to the King a single sentence that made the Baratheon’s face fall in an instance.

A sentence Robb, again, already knew. “My daughter is cloaked under her own protection and bares her own name; her children will be Lannister to their core.”

Lannister heirs. Something Robb, much as he wanted (Y/n), could never give.

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“The bedding!”

Robert’s voice roared and echoed across the stones.

Only Ned or the King could call for the end of the feast, and Robert seemed rather eager to do so quickly after Tyrion’s show and Tywin’s explanation.

The King should have married Tywin’s daughter to a Stark but was thwarted by the girl’s rejection. The King should have forced the betrothal but was thwarted by Tywin’s arrival. The King should have undone Harwyn Plumm but was thwarted by the sudden wedding.

Tywin should have cloaked his daughter in purple and yellow but instead managed to slight the Plumms and his guests by draping her in red. Tywin should have been robbed of his heir after Tyrion’s deferment but instead passed it to his daughter. Tywin should have lost his name to the Plumms but instead preserved his reign for years to come.

Robert was no longer in the mood for anything, even drinking. The greatest whore in King’s Landing could not satisfy the King’s mind, and the whore of Winterfell were far from the greatest in King’s Landing.

Robert wanted to watch the unruly Northmen shove the girl out of his sight so they might degrade her as she walked naked through the frigid halls of Winterfell. It was ceremony, a ceremony the King greatly enjoyed, and with his daughter left naked, it was one Tywin Lannister could not dare to stop.

The men, on any other occasion, would have rushed the bride. Drunkeningly tearing away her dignity for the whole kingdom to see without any care for whether they were still in the company of the feasting hall. Then, most women resisted or cowered at their fate.

“The bedding!”

Harwyn, still dancing with an older southern lady, was the first to be ushered away by the giggling maidens in his midst. He smiled, amused by the prospect, and put up little resistance as the women dragged him along towards the entrance hall. Shrill laughing and squeals of amusement following in their wake.

(Y/n) rose without emotion or hesitation as Robert called for it to begin.

The two dozen or so men, unknighted Northern soldiers mostly, assembled in the entryway. They laughed and shoved each other at the edge of the hall, waiting for the seemingly compliant woman to join their midst.

(Y/n) had to join them.

Usually the men would carry the bride. Usually, they would strip her naked in their arms, touch and feel her body as they pleased, and say whatever horrific obscenity came to their mind to humiliate the bride before they dropped her, crying usually, in bed with her husband as they laughed at the man for what they had seen of her or done to her before her husband could.

Tradition stated she must accompany them to her room, and that she should not resist their ‘preparations’ for her night, an elegant description for an inelegant deed.

(Y/n) walked straight through the group for the entrance hall, and the men rushed after her quick unfaltering pace.

“Leaving so soon?” One man called as the stumbling group tried to catch up with her.

“I knew she was just another Southern whore.”

Another voice joined in over the chorus of laughter. “Come back here; we want to see if your cunt is really made of gold!”

(Y/n) said nothing. She didn’t want this. She wanted to break into a run for her rooms. She wanted to call her guards and have Jaime or the Mountain cut them down. She wanted turn and slap the ones who spoke and show them to their proper place, far beneath her feet.

She couldn’t though. She wouldn’t. They were under her skin, but she wouldn’t allow them the pleasure of knowing it.

(Y/n) weaved her way through the halls at an unrelenting pace, always one step short of bolting for her door. If they caught her, it would not be in the entry halls, traversed by many where all could see her shame. If they caught her, it wouldn’t be for her lack of trying.

As she turned the corner towards the stairwell, one soldier, less drunk than his comrades presumably, kept better on his feet and matched (Y/n)’s pace as the raucous group came down the empty hall.

“Not so fast, my lady,” his voice growled. With thick, pudgy fingers, he caught the hem of her cloak and jerked.

(Y/n) was wrenched back by her neck into the crowd of pawing hands who all cheered their friend’s achievement.

With a crack of the clasp, her beautiful cloak fluttered to the floor beneath their feet as muddy boots trod over it in the men’s haste to get a better grip on the Lady of the Rock.

The men were intended to lift her on their shoulders and strip her as they traveled, but their walk after her had made them impatient and indulgent in their reward.

(Y/n) snapped her eyes tightly shut and balled her hands at her hands. Her teeth bit back the tip of her tongue as one voice shouted.

“Come on then! Show the rest of us! Is it gold?”

Hands trailed over (Y/n)’s curves, slipping over and under the thin material of her dress. They fought for what they deemed the best spaces and elbowed each other to make room for a better grip on her flesh.

A hand fisted in the folds at the front of her dress, and (Y/n) felt herself being dragged forward, pressed tight against the offending man’s chest. He and the nearest man behind her rubbed themselves against her, pressing and squeezing into her body with groans of pleasure.

“Savor it. We all need to have a turn!” One man snarked, ripping away the man at her front to try to replace him.

Bodies closed in around her; hands touched her chest and thighs in more places and ways than she could count.

(Y/n) was sure every man had their piece, but the voices made it seem some did not or were at least unsatisfied with the contact. They shouted at each other to make room. They shouted grotesque comments to her. They shouted what they would do when they had her.

She tried. She really, truly tried to keep herself hidden. She didn’t open her eyes or unclench her hands. She said nothing to the men and tried, in turn, to ignore what was said to her.

But when a pair of them lifted her arms above her head to get better access to her breasts, a lone tear finally broke and slid down her cheek.

“Leave us.” A voice, as cold and dark as the night outside the walls, broke the daze which had consumed the men.

A few maintained their rhythms, touching, groping and rubbing against the disturbed woman in their midst, but most hands, most bodies jerked away from her skin as if the voice cast some magic which burned their touch.

“My lord, we simply…” It was the same voice that told the others to savor it.

“I said leave us.” Darker, colder than the night this time.

(Y/n) dared not look as she heard the men retreating behind her; some willingly, others too drunk to know better had to be dragged away by their friends.

It took what (Y/n) thought must have been at least five minutes before the hall was completely quiet of the mobs crude noises and harsh words.

“They should be ashamed.” The words were spat with as much disgust as (Y/n) had ever heard.

“In the morning, they will say the same of you.” (Y/n) replied quietly, staying rooted to her spot in the middle of the hall.

Footsteps paced cautiously up behind her. They approached with all the hesitation and care the previous men had lacked. They came at her slowly, each step testing if it was one step too far before the next was made.

(Y/n) did not bother to open her eyes. She could hear quite clearly the path the feet took around in front of her, and when they finally settled, she felt the body heat pulsing out at her chest, drawing her in with its comforting warmth.

“I should have come sooner.” A gentle hand touched her cheek, wiping alone the lone tear clinging to her skin.

“I wish you had,” (Y/n) confessed in a voice meant for only their ears to hear.

A sigh blew across her face, “I’m not expected to join the bedding, or I would have sent them away at once. Robert tried to keep me in the hall; he insisted you were no longer my concern.”

(Y/n) let her eyelids flutter open to meet the dazzling blue eyes meer inches from her own. “In a way, I suppose he’s right.”

A small, sad smile tugged the corner of Robb’s lips. “I don’t suppose you would have a Septon set aside your marriage, turn your back on your father and your husband, give up becoming the most powerful woman in Westeros, force Tyrion to become heir to the Rock, leave your gold and all your other lavish Southern possessions and join me in the cold, barren North for the boring life of an incredibly traditional lady.”

(Y/n) laughed and let her face fall into Robb’s chest, dragging him into her with her arms around his waist.

Robb returned the gesture with a tight grip around her shoulders, holding her into him for what he worried might be the last time.

“I don’t suppose,” she teased in return, “if I set aside my marriage, you would be willing to forsake your inheritance, remove your sigil, leave your family, and follow me to Casterly Rock where you and your children will be known as Lannisters and never be allowed to bear the name Stark?”

They let the sad joke that was their lives hang in the air between them, and for a moment, though admittedly just a moment, Robb considered saying yes, he would.

“What do the old gods say happen to soulmates who cannot have each other this life?” (Y/n) suddenly asked, burrowing herself deeper into Robb’s embrace.

“Not much,” Robb confessed. “We have no afterlife. I like to believe we simply do not know of it, or that there is some kind of peace with those we love.”

(Y/n) turned her head to the side, pressing her cheek to Robb, so she could speak more clearly. “The new gods have seven heavens and seven hells. I like to think the pain of living in this world without your soulmate is enough suffering to warrant a place in at least the lowest heaven, or the highest hell, at the side of the soulmate we missed.”

Robb touched his lips to the top of her hair. He couldn’t bare to kiss (Y/n)’s skin. He worried the action might addict him to it. “Whatever fate befalls us,” Robb whispered into her quietly, “I promise you we will have our day.”

“We will have our day.” (Y/n) echoed Robb’s words with a far deeper emotion than she echoed Harwyn’s pledge of love earlier that day.

Robb unhappily pulled himself away and walked back several feet down the hall, stooping to salvage (Y/n)’s marriage cloak from the stones. “It’s a cold night. You should not be traveling through the halls without this.” Brushing the dirt and mud of the men from the cloth, Robb presented it to her.

(Y/n) turned her back to him, and Robb laid the cloak softly over her shoulders, wrapping her in warmth. She hadn’t realized it was so cold surrounded by the men, and when they’d left Robb had more than filled the void of heat. In fact, Robb was right, without the fires or bodies filling the feast, the air in the empty halls was heavy with the chill.

“Thank you,” She held the cloak tightly around herself.

“You’re welcome, my Lady.” Robb chuckled, “Now,” He didn’t want to break apart their moment, but he would rather end it himself, his way, than have it rudely interrupted by a passerby or search party. “I believe my fellow soldiers diverted tradition.”

“In what way?” (Y/n) looked back over her shoulder just in time.

Robb bent down, and with one arm on the small of her back and one behind her knees, swept his mate off her feet. “They were meant, my lady, to carry you.”

(Y/n) laughed, a loud, open sound not at all curved by her strong sense of propriety. It bounced off the stone and echoed down the halls with a joyous noise not at all befitting the moment, but certainly the first glint of amusement or happiness she or Robb had seen since their last fireside talk seemingly a lifetime ago.

Robb’s smile matched her own as he held her close for the journey up the stairs, and she rested her head on his shoulder with a natural comfort.

Despite their situation, they talked with ease.

(Y/n) groaned over how tediously long her maid had spent doing her hair in three different styles before her sister finally settled on the one that best framed her face. Robb lamented the snowy evening keeping the party crowded indoors. (Y/n) countered that he should join her at the Rock where space was never an issue, and Robb reminded her that the North was a far larger kingdom than the Westerlands.

(Y/n), having never been to the North before, asked its future lord just how large his domain would be. Robb recounted a tale where he, Theon, and Jon rode to House Manderly and ended up accompanying a convoy of supplies from Ramsgate to the Stony Shore, not even the full width of the North and still a ride achievable in no less than three weeks, though usually a month. (Y/n) asked if it was made longer by winter weather, to which Robb conceded that sometimes was the case, though not in the story he told. He added that even at the height of summer, a ride from Last Hearth to Greywater took a month and a week.

(Y/n) gushed over having so much room to breath and groaned how a ride from Casterly Rock to Lannisport could sometimes take two days, not for distance but for the sheer number of carts on the roads. Robb wondered allowed how long the distance was and how large the Westerlands were, as even studying countless maps never gave anyone a true idea of space. (Y/n) told him a ride from Banefort to Crakehall usually took two weeks, but time could be cut if a traveler was willing to avoid roads through the Rock, not that many were for fear of thieves.

Robb asked the width of her lands, and she agreed that, without burgeoning trade, Silver Hall to Lannisport would be easily traversed in a week, no more. Though she liked to mention the mountains made it a far rougher ride than the flat ice plains of the North.

And then they were at her door. And Robb was setting her back on her feet.

“My lady,” Robb bowed before (Y/n), “I believe this is where I leave you.”

They stood together silently for a moment. Robb, waiting for her facade of passive indifference to return as she sent him away; (Y/n), waiting for she knew not what.

She didn’t want it to end this way. Chatting mildly about kingdoms and weather. It had been so lovely as it happened, but now knowing that was all there would be, it felt like time thoroughly wasted.

“Robb Stark,” (Y/n) curtsied in return to him, “I dare say you will never truly leave me.”

She was right, and they both knew it was so.

Robb turned away, not to leave her, for she was right that he never would, but to walk away. (Y/n) caught his hand. “Wait.”

“Yes, my lady,” Robb paused but couldn’t bring himself to look back at her.

“I,” (Y/n), for once in her life, had nothing to say. “I don’t believe this is how I’m intended to be delivered to my husband,” She said the first thing that came to her mind.

Robb shifted his palm so her hand slipped into his, and he laced her fingers between his own. “I won’t be like those men who defiled you.”

(Y/n) pressed her chest into Robb’s back, squeezing his fingers between her own for encouragement. “I believe, to defile me, would require I not be a willing participant in the act.”

What restraint Robb held, seemed to gradually melt away as (Y/n)’s free hand caressed over his shoulder and ran down his spine. (Y/n)’s breath fanned faintly over the back of Robb’s neck as she whispered, “Robb, he is nothing to me; I don’t want a stranger to be the first to see me.”

Robb whipped around, pulling himself free from (Y/n) as he faced her. “This is what you want?” His voice was stern, controlled. He had to be. To give her this, he had to be on guard to going too far. Not on guard to going beyond what she allowed, he needn’t worry about that. If she felt even half of what he did, Robb could claim her for his own right now against the door of her husband’s bedchambers. He worried more about going beyond his place, their places.

Her husband was on the other side of the door. Their fathers were downstairs on either side of the King. They had duties and responsibilities that even being soulmates would not allow them, namely her, to forsake, and he feared how much beyond those duties she would willingly give and he would gladly take.

“I want it to be you in there,” She motioned to the thick wooden door in the wall right beside them. “Barring that, I want you here, or at least I want what you’re allowed to have.”

Robb closed the step he had put between them, looking on her for the first time with completely unbridled emotion. He didn’t love her yet, nor did she love him. But by the old gods and the new, Robb knew he would love her one day. It was simply a matter of where and when, and looking on her in her wedding dress, it felt like the answer to both of those questions was the same. Close. Soon.

They moved together, lazily, drawing out the moment for all it was worth.

(Y/n) lifted her arms and rested them across the top of her head, giving Robb an obstructed view.

The pure white dress was stained with dirt and grime from the men she was longing for Robb to make her forget, but her survival, her defiance, only made her all the more beautiful. Even surrounded by a mob, she would not break or cave.

Robb’s hands rested at her waist. They were calloused over years of sword fighting and hunting, but for her, and her alone, they moved as delicately as an artist. Tracing up her shape with languid movements that sent a welcome shiver down her back.

He reached the underside of her shoulders and followed up her forearms. A subtle pressure of his fingers bent back her elbows and brought her arms straight above her head. Crossed at the wrist, he made no move to hold them in place, leaving it to her to stay willingly at his mercy.

His attention dropped to the metal encircling her neck. She had tucked the edges of her cloak, where the clasp had been broken, under the metal to keep it from slipping from her shoulders. The memory of her husband tossing it over her back long replaced by Robb folding her caringly in its depths.

Robb took the warmth from her, a flick of his wrist pulling the cloak free and pooling the lioness at their feet.

She shook again, though not from the cold.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Robb sighed a desperate noise, pained by the realization that this moment would be the best he ever lived.

(Y/n) smiled up at him equally pained. “I would say the same of you, but let this moment be only us, something to cherish in our dying breaths.”

Standing close, Robb could see small hooks in the metal attached it to loops in the top of (Y/n)’s dress, and he began to free them as he spoke, “I do believe that every moment with you will be one I cherish in my dying breaths.”

(Y/n)’s hands dropped to hold her hair out of the way as Robb lifted the glorified necklace over her head. “Robb, please,” she begged, “try not to love me. I believe it will prove near impossible for me not to love you, but it is better for us both that, save these often visited memories, we fade away.”

Robb moved closer as his hands slid behind her back. His chest pushed into (Y/n)’s, forcing the hands above her head to fall around his neck.

“I don’t want to fade away.” Robb confessed.

Silk ties corseting her dress were hidden by a panel of silk that Robb deftly slipped beneath. Clutching the ends of the string, Robb pulled the knot loose and with it the last barrier from his mate. The fabric of her dress went slack around her body, held up only by the pressure of Robb tight against her. Along the seam of her back, the dress fell open entirely, exposing a huge expanse of her longing form to Robb’s yearning gaze.

His fingers glided down beneath the soft silk and rested flat against her backside, holding her to him, not that she ever wanted to leave.

“I want every other man to fade away. I want to wipe them from your memory, remove them from this place. I want to ruin you for your husband before he ever gets to claim you.”

With a squeeze, Robb elicited a groan from his mate, and while Harwyn Plumm was the last person he should be thinking of, Robb prayed that inside his room the knight had heard the noise.

“We have a duty,” Robb conceded, delicately drawing the tips of his fingers over every inch of (Y/n) exposed to his touch. He trailed up and down the length of her spine, feeling every bone of her back and tracing the shape of each with care as (Y/n) quaked from the sensation.

“And I promise you.” His palms, rough from work felt the breadth of her shoulders with a relieving pressure that brought (Y/n)’s head rolling back in his grasp.

Robb worked his fingers up into her hair as her head lulled to the side, gently massaging over her scalp, peppered with a tug here and there to draw a pleased sigh from her lips. “I won’t forsake that.”

(Y/n) could barely register Robb’s words. She knew what he was saying, but she was sure that, until his fingers ceased toying with pulling down the neckline of her dress, she wouldn’t actually know what they meant.

“But make no mistake. I will not forget you, and you will not forget me.”

Perhaps, it was only that Robb was so clearly more handsome than her husband. Perhaps, she was only consumed by a moment’s gratitude to Robb for freeing her from the men who grabbed her. Perhaps, Robb knew his way around a woman with more skill than she initially believed. Perhaps, for once in her life, (Y/n) was enjoying indulging in something rebellious. Perhaps, this was all only a trick of the gods.

Or perhaps, it was the affectionate bond they formed in their early days by the light of the fire. Perhaps, it was how easily they enjoyed talking to one another. Perhaps, it was the tender care with which he always treated her. Perhaps, she was drawn to a man so visibly consumed with her. Perhaps, she was, truly, made for him.

Whatever the cause, (Y/n) had no words for what she felt as Robb took a step away from her and let her dress crumble to the floor. No words she could speak, anyway.

He looked at her as if she was the only woman in the world, and she looked on him wishing he was the only man.

With her naked before him, Robb no longer raised a hand. His arms stayed firmly at his sides. His eyes moved enough for the rest of him.

She felt his gaze caressing every inch of her skin, touching her, holding her everywhere he wanted to but didn’t dare.

(Y/n) turned in her spot, moving as slowly as she was willing to risk. If she never got to see him, and he could only see her once, then he would see all she had to offer him.

They had traveled, till now, under the guise of the bedding, and much as she wished, their mask provided no excuse for her to see him in the state he saw her now. She lived, vicariously, through her mate, consuming his expressions and his eyes as those she would return if their positions were reversed.

(Y/n) reached out a hand to take Robb’s own, and the two stayed joined for a long moment, enjoying what they could of each other for the last time.

“I believe,” Robb’s voice was gruff, deeper with desire than it had ever been before. “It is custom to take you to your bed.”

(Y/n) bit back a smile. “I believe you are right.”

Robb was careful with what he touched as he lifted (Y/n), naked as her birth, against his chest.

(Y/n) waited patiently in his arms as Robb closed his eyes to memorize this moment. He felt every curve and plane of her body pressing against him from her breasts to her thighs. He inhaled her scent, unadulterated by oil or perfume. He listened to the sound of her heartbeat, hammering so hard in her chest that he could count the thuds in time with his own.

Robb opened his eyes and stepped to the door.

(Y/n), taking cue, reached down and opened it for her mate.

“You’re finally here. I was worried something had…”

Harwyn was tucked into their marriage bed, bare as his wife and shocked speechless by her presence.

Robb marched with sure steps around to the empty side of the bed, laying (Y/n) down atop the soft furs. Lowering his head, Robb took one last liberty for himself, kissing the flat bone between (Y/n)’s naked breasts before he rose.

“I hope your night brings all the pleasure you deserve,” Robb brushed a hair from (Y/n)’s eyes as he smiled painfully down at her.

It was, Robb thought as he made for the door, the last time he would ever touch her, the last words he would ever say to her.

His knuckles went white to restrain himself as he turned back to see Harwyn sat up, leaning protectively over his wife as he glared after Robb. Jealous of Robb, as if there was anything for Harwyn to be jealous of. The most beautiful woman in the world was lying at his side, and all Robb had of her were fleeting memories and a family name on his arm.

Robb was the one, rightly, jealous of Harwyn Plumm, a man so unworthy of the prize he’d claimed.

Perhaps, Robb hoped fleetingly, he could give the man’s jealousy cause.

Robb looked over Harwyn’s heavy set shoulders to see (Y/n) had moved up onto her knees to watch him leave. “If he doesn’t satisfy your pleasures, my lady,” Robb turned his eyes on Harwyn with a cruel smirk, “you know where to find me.”

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That night, upset by the actions of her husband, the queen left the festivities early, long before the bedding.

Her twin accompanied her, attempting to conceal the very real emotion projecting on the queen’s usually passive face.

That night, upset that himself, his youngest sister, and younger brother were not allowed into the feast, a young Stark took to climbing the towers around the keep to get a peak in the high windows.

He was alone, climbing slick, icy stones facing strong winds. It was no wonder to any but his family why the boy fell. It was no wonder to any, including his family, that the howls of his wolf went unnoticed in the clatter of celebration.

The next morning as he prepared for his ride to the Wall, a bastard found the boy’s body, blue with cold.

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“Tyrek!”

The squire rushed into Tywin’s quarters.

Kevan, Tywin, and (Y/n) sat huddled around his desk, preparing their route to leave Winterfell.

The regrettable fall of Bran had already delayed the party’s departure by a week and was set to delay the King by at least one more.

Ned Stark, despairing of what happened to his son, couldn’t bare the sight of his own home and couldn’t bare the thought of letting his daughters out of his sight, let alone allowing them to travel to King’s Landing.

The King, ingratiating himself to the Stark who now agreed to be his hand, ordered a week of mourning, no travel, no planning, no celebrating.

Robert only lifted the ban for fear that, should the entirety of the court remain any longer, Winterfell would again be facing a shortfall of food. This time, without a flush of Tyrell travelers to provide relief.

A group of lesser courtiers, those deemed nonessential to the King, were to leave in two days time, and Tywin hoped he and his daughter would be among them, along with all but one of his men.

“Tyrek, bar the door.”

The young squire did as instructed and closed the door, latching it in place. Clanging of armor just beyond the wood, assured the Mountain was stationed outside. They would not be overheard or interrupted.

“I have a task for you which will require you do not return with us to Casterly Rock.” Tywin addressed his nephew.

(Y/n) rose to her feet and motioned for Tyrek to take her place. For once, (Y/n) found she didn’t know what her father had called Tyrek in to discuss. It was not often that she was left out of his plans, and it usually only occurred for the lack of convenience brought by her distance.

On this occasion, the reasoning was entirely different, and one she wished to be on her feet and braced to hear.

Tyrek took the empty chair between Kevan and Tywin, nervously looking between his uncles. “Anything you ask, my lord.”

Tywin withdrew from his desk a piece of paper. “By order of the King, you are to join Lancel as his squire.”

Tyrek took the paper and unfolded it, reading the words with his own eyes. “By what reason, may I ask?”

“By reason that I have asked it.” Tywin dismissed the question promptly.

“What would you have me do?”

Tywin lifted a bag from beneath his desk and and dumped its contents.

A small vial fell out of the leather and rolled across the table, stopping only where it hit Tyrek’s outstretched hand. “What is this?” Tyrek lifted the vial and examined the thick brown liquid as it oozed slowly across the surface of its container.

“Thickened manticore venom.”

“Father!” (Y/n)’s tone wasn’t rebuking, but it was certainly shocked. Poison was not her father’s weapon, nor a common item in the Westerlands.

Tywin rose from his chair, assuming his full height as he rounded the table to face his daughter with hard, cold eyes. “You disapprove?”

She didn’t, of course. She was surprised, of course; caught off guard, but not at all against the thought. “I’m told,” she hedged, “it’s a slow and painful death.”

“Precisely as he deserves.” Tywin turned to his nephew who stared up on the pair with wide eyed fascination. “Tyrek, I have a job for you. Should you succeed, you will be rewarded far beyond your dreams.”

“What would you have me do?” Tyrek clutched the poison in his fist.

“I would have you murder the King.”

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Next Time on… Part Five (Coming soon)

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Thank you all for your patience. I apologize for how long this has taken and for going completely MIA for a period there. I hope this makes up for it.

#robb stark fanfiction #robb stark fanfic #robb stark au #robb stark x reader #robb stark x you #robb stark x y/n #game of thrones au #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #robb stark #soulmate au #robb stark soulmate au #ROBB STARK SOULMATE #got fanfiction #got fanfic #got imagine #robb stark angst

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thebluelemontree · 5 years ago

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SanSan time! So in ASOIAF we get the Hand’s Tourney scene with Sansa & Sandor, and the whole “he was no true knight” moment. It seems like Sandor is still thinking she’s just a “little bird” here - but later, her father as Hand attaints Gregor, stripping him of his titles for his violent crimes. How do you think this makes Sandor feel about Sansa & his perceived seriousness of her moral ideals, considering his trauma re: Gregor being anointed and his other crimes covered up by everyone but Ned?

I don’t think Sandor was ready at the time to draw any positive conclusions between Sansa and her father, because his cynicism always gets in the way of that. While her compassion made him take notice, he doesn’t regard her beliefs as a good thing. To him, they are still woefully naive and a weakness that will only lead to being victimized by the strong and cruel. If Sansa is so ill-prepared for the brutality and bleakness of reality, well, he would point a very judgemental finger at her parents for that. This is not to say Sandor wasn’t quietly making observations about Ned, because I do think a few books in we see subtle indications that Ned’s character and decision to bring Gregor to justice perhaps did make an impression after all. And I think it’s his experience with Sansa that causes him to have a more charitable conception of Ned in hindsight rather than Ned influencing his view of Sansa.

It’s just that Sandor requires a lot of evidence over time before he will consider altering his opinions. He sees exactly what he expects to see, so his point of view is always validated. It takes more than just Sansa saying “he was no true knight,” as groundbreaking as that moment was. It’s precisely that fact that makes him want to work harder at trying to find the cracks in Sansa’s idealism to prove that it can’t be real. It’s only until the conclusion of the Blackwater scene that Sandor can finally accept that she is sincere in her beliefs by treating him with compassion when he least deserved it. To him, Sansa is such an anomaly that the idea of anyone else being that authentic and principled is an even bigger stretch of the imagination than she is.

And what experience does Sandor have with fathers doing right by their children? None. His own father covered up Gregor’s vicious attack and made him uphold the lie. Then he’s a witness to Tywin and Robert Baratheon’s parenting. Sandor always initially gives his life experiences more weight than any counterevidence he saw from Ned or Sansa.

We are given a glimpse of Sandor’s reaction upon hearing the news that Beric Dondarrion was sent by Ned to put down Gregor Clegane through Littlefinger:

Robert was in a fury [over the loss of the white hart], until he heard talk of some monstrous boar deeper in the forest. Then nothing would do but he must have it. Prince Joffrey returned this morning, with the Royces, Ser Balon Swann, and some twenty others of the party. The rest are still with the king.“

“The Hound?” Ned asked, frowning. Of all the Lannister party, Sandor Clegane was the one who concerned him the most, now that Ser Jaime had fled the city to join his father.

“Oh, returned with Joffrey, and went straight to the queen.” Littlefinger smiled. “I would have given a hundred silver stags to have been a roach in the rushes when he learned that Lord Beric was off to behead his brother.”

“Even a blind man could see the Hound loathed his brother.”

“Ah, but Gregor was his to loathe, not yours to kill. Once Dondarrion lops the summit off our Mountain, the Clegane lands and incomes will pass to Sandor, but I wouldn’t hold my water waiting for his thanks, not that one… “ – Eddard XII AGOT

Granted Littlefinger is framing this information in a certain light to pique Ned’s paranoia as he’s been doing throughout their interactions. Ned just tipped his hand as to who he’s worried about and Littlefinger ran with it, making it seem like Ned just crossed Sandor personally. Early on, Sandor is still invested in the idea that killing his brother is the only way to end the pain of his trauma. Not that I think that he genuinely wants to be a kinslayer, but keeping the revenge fantasy alive is a coping mechanism that Sandor doesn’t want to be taken from him. I have no doubt that Sandor did go to Cersei immediately to discuss the situation, but there’s a lot more going on here. This is going to be a long recap and a good deal of rambling. You have been forewarned.

At the inn at the crossroads, Catelyn arrests Tyrion as a person of interest in the assassination attempt on Bran based on Littlefinger’s claim of who won the Valyrian steel dagger. She takes Tyrion to Lysa in the Eyrie, holding him prisoner. Word of Tyrion’s arrest reaches King’s Landing via Yoren. In retaliation, Jaime Lannister and his men attack Ned Stark in the streets, leaving Ned with a badly broken leg. Ned is unconscious with a fever for “six days and seven nights.” When he awakens, he tries to speak to Robert about the conflict with the Lannisters, but Robert will not hear of it. The situation is escalating with both Riverrun and Casterly Rock calling their banners in anticipation for war. Robert decides he’d rather go hunting than deal with this mess, tells Ned they should just simply stop fighting and leaves the next day. Thanks, Robert.

Ned is back to holding court as Hand and dealing with official business. Marq Piper and Karyl Vance, Hoster Tully’s bannermen, show up to accuse the Lannisters of sending Gregor Clegane to attack villages in the Riverlands under the guise of common brigands. They brought with them the few remaining survivors of the attacks to testify that despite the lack of sigils or banners, these brigands were definitely outfitted like proper knights. They had war horses, good weapons and armor, and their inhumanly large leader couldn’t be anyone else other than the Mountain. Ned believes them and suspects what Tywin may be trying to accomplish: “should Riverrun strike back [openly attacking Tywin’s soldiers or bannermen], Cersei and her father would insist that it had been the Tullys who broke the king’s peace, not the Lannisters. The gods only knew what Robert would believe.” The ruse gives Tywin plausible deniability of being responsible, but it is flimsy enough so the Riverlanders to take the bait. There’s no guarantee that Robert, the weak king that he is, wouldn’t cave under pressure to side with his in-laws. We also learn later that Tywin was counting on Ned leading his forces personally to come to the aid of his wife’s family. Away from King’s Landing, Ned could be killed, captured, or traded for Tyrion. Either way, the Starks would be removed from power; however, Ned’s leg was broken during the street fight with Jaime, who knew nothing of his father’s plan.

So Ned sends Beric Dondarrion to bring down Ser Gregor for his crimes against the villagers in the name of the king’s justice, thwarting Tywin’s provocation of Riverrun to retaliate. By putting Robert’s stamp of approval on Gregor’s death sentence, he’s also gambling that this will position the king to side against his in-laws later. You know, when he finally gets Robert to have that big talk about his wife and kids. Sigh.

“Lord Tywin is greatly wroth about the men you sent after Ser Gregor Clegane,” the maester confided. “I feared he would be. You will recall, I said as much in council.”

“Let him be wroth,” Ned said. Every time his leg throbbed, he remembered Jaime Lannister’s smile, and Jory dead in his arms. “Let him write all the letters to the queen he likes. Lord Beric rides beneath the king’s own banner. If Lord Tywin attempts to interfere with the king’s justice, he will have Robert to answer to. The only thing His Grace enjoys more than hunting is making war on lords who defy him.” – Eddard XII, AGOT.

Ned sends Ser Robar Royce to Robert’s hunting party to inform the king (and Yohn Royce) of Dondarrion’s posse and Gregor’s attainment/death sentence. Fast forward to Robert on his deathbed, where he voices his displeasure with Ned putting him in a difficult spot with his wife’s family.

“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” the king said hoarsely. “I killed the [boar], didn’t I?” A lock of matted black hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned. “Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave a man to hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor’s head. Ugly thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him.” His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. – Eddard XIII, AGOT.

Robert admits to Ned that he never told Sandor himself. Surprise, Robert dodged an uncomfortable conversation and intended on leaving that task to Cersei so he could get back to having a good time. Because Sandor returned with Joffrey and the Royces, he most definitely heard the news through them. Why does this detail matter? Well, if you were Sandor, wouldn’t you be irked that the king didn’t have the basic courtesy (or balls) to tell you himself? The natural progression of that conversation would be discussing what that means for Sandor’s future, the inheritance of Clegane lands, and his standing with the Lannisters during this conflict. But Robert doesn’t want to touch that topic with a ten-foot pole. What I’m saying is, at that moment, he’s probably more pissed at Robert than anyone else. Following that would be Ned’s decision interfering with one of his primary coping mechanisms. So Sandor marches off straight to Cersei where he was probably told of Gregor’s purpose in the Riverlands and assured that Ned’s order would come to nothing. Indeed, Gregor was ready for Donddarion, ambushing his party from all sides at Mummer’s Ford, soundly defeating them. Meanwhile, Cersei was already making moves to remove both Ned and Robert. But how did Sandor feel about all this?

The grey light of dawn was streaming through his window when the thunder of hoofbeats awoke Eddard Stark from his brief, exhausted sleep. He lifted his head from the table to look down into the yard. Below, men in mail and leather and crimson cloaks were making the morning ring to the sound of swords, and riding down mock warriors stuffed with straw. Ned watched Sandor Clegane gallop across the hard-packed ground to drive an iron-tipped lance through a dummy’s head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as Lannister guardsmen joked and cursed.

Is this brave show for my benefit, he wondered. If so, Cersei was a greater fool than he’d imagined. Damn her, he thought, why is the woman not fled? I have given her chance after chance … – Eddard XIV AGOT

He’s right there under Ned’s window, mocking and intimidating him. If there was any tiny glimmer in Sandor that maybe Gregor would be finally held accountable for any of his crimes, it was almost immediately overshadowed by his cynicism and confirmation bias. Knowing that Ned’s goose is cooked, Sandor would think Ned a great, naive fool for not understanding how the world really works and how outmatched he is. His worldview is validated yet again by the cunning of his masters. The only thing he can do is attempt to cure Sansa of the same infirmity before its too late for her.

Just before the Blackwater battle, Sandor brings up her father and tries to put some dents in his image to argue his points. For a little context, Sandor was alone on the roof of the Red Keep until Sansa showed up. We can infer with his anxieties about the wildfire that Sandor was up there contemplating his own mortality, which is why he goes so particularly hard in needling Sansa. It seems as if Sandor must have been in the middle of some pretty intense brooding. If he dies in the battle by fire no less, it is in the thankless service of awful people, and Gregor still goes on living and unpunished. If this is how it all ends, well, it’s pretty depressing and of course, as he should have always expected. And here Sansa is still insisting on her idealistic worldview. He goes for a low blow. In that process, he reveals his anger and trust issues with fathers.

She hated the way he talked, always so harsh and angry. “Does it give you joy to scare people?”

“No, it gives me joy to kill people.” His mouth twitched. “Wrinkle up your face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high lord’s get. Don’t tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.”

“That was his duty. He never liked it.”

“Is that what he told you?” Clegane laughed again. “Your father lied. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.” He drew his longsword. “Here’s your truth. Your precious father found that out on Baelor’s steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old … but Ilyn Payne’s blade went through his neck all the same, didn’t it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?” – Sansa IV, ACOK.

Of course, Ned must be a liar because his father was. He’s got to be no different than Tywin, the high lord he knows best. All fathers and killers are the same. This is the truth as he sees it: those on top, who hold near-godlike power of life and death over their subjects, secretly enjoy exercising that power behind a virtuous countenance. Does Sandor honestly believe this about Ned, or is he trying really hard to convince himself of that? Because for a flickering moment there, it almost sounds like a part of Sandor thinks of Ned in a grand, larger-than-life image before he pauses in thought…

And since he’s the one who brought up Ned and his execution, he also can’t deny that he witnessed a man condemning himself as a traitor in exchange for the safety of the daughter the Lannisters held hostage. He did the very thing his own father would not do: endure the public shame and stigma for love of his child. That is proof that Ned’s honor wasn’t just about his public image, which surely didn’t go unnoticed by someone sensitive to such things, whether he was ready to accept that or not. That Ned wasn’t just merely outmatched by more cunning players, he was the victim of treachery and deceit, failed by a negligent king uninterested in dealing with corruption. While he still does think Ned a fool, there’s a sense that Sandor has adjusted to thinking of him as a decent, honorable, and tragic sort of fool, much like his daughter. What good did that integrity do him? None. The monsters won. Illyn Payne still took his head off while he and his daughter watched. Did you catch how the detail of Ned’s twitching limbs was burned into Sandor’s memory, the same one that plagued Sansa’s nightmares? Yeah, it affected him too. So I do think Sandor is trying to convince himself that Ned was actually a phony and a shitty person because Sandor doesn’t want to empathize with anyone and yet finds himself doing so anyway. Like with Sansa, caring* means having confused and conflicted feelings that force him to re-examine his own life. Add to the fact that Sandor is also the child of a murdered father. I could see a young Sandor having very complicated feelings about mourning his own massive disappointment of a father if he allowed himself to mourn him at all. I don’t see how those memories could not be dredged up.

* I’m still debating whether or not “caring” is too strong a word in regards to Ned. Let’s just say that upon later reflection, I think certain things about Ned’s life and death resonated with Sandor.

It’s a very small, but not unremarkable shift considering how much of a jaded idealist cynic Sandor is. Death probably also has a way of memorializing Ned in a similar way to how separation causes Sandor to reframe Sansa’s courteousness as something he highly esteems; however, Sandor just can’t say that he was wrong these things openly, so you have to read between the lines. Later while telling Arya of his intention to return her to Catelyn and Robb, Sandor says he’s willing to wager that Robb won’t kill him:

If he doesn’t take me, he’d be wise to kill me, but he won’t. Too much his father’s son, from what I hear. – Arya IX, ASOS.

What Sandor is hoping for first and foremost is for Robb to take him into his service, right after stating that he’s done with loathsome and unappreciative masters. In an indirect way, it is an admission that Ned, Sansa, and the other Starks are not just different, but better. Still foolish because it would be “wiser” to kill someone like him, but definitely better. Sandor assumes Robb will be pointing his army toward King’s Landing to free Sansa, so he believes his Lannister intel will make him a valuable asset. “Maybe I’ll even kill Gregor for him, he’d like that.“ What’s also interesting is that he fantasizes about changing Robb’s negative opinion and winning his favor by taking down Gregor for him (in the name of the king’s justice), essentially fulfilling the duty Ned charged Dondarrion with. While he may think he’s got one over on Robb and his long-awaited revenge will be the cherry on top, his wording points to a subconscious desire to please and serve Ned through his stand-in eldest son. That he wants a chance to earn positive recognition from a worthy king, someone who Sansa also loves and admires. The thought eases the pain of his failures and screw-ups regarding her during the Blackwater. Except this goes up in smoke with the Red Wedding.

I don’t know if in the future Sandor will ever have any lines where he openly and positively speaks of Ned, but that would be something I would love to see. Since I am sure he and Sansa are bound to reunite, it would probably come up then. Or Ned’s presence could be quietly felt in the continuation of Sandor’s arc through his choices and actions. Or it could be both. We just have to wait until Winds to find out.

#valyrian scrolls #sandor clegane meta #sandor clegane #ned stark #sansa stark #sansan meta #robb stark #gregor clegane #beric dondarrion #asoiaf meta #my meta #character arcs #calamitylamb #sorry for the wait

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angel-deux-writes · 5 years ago

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I’ve talked a lot about this long fic I’m working on this month, and I finally got started yesterday and have already churned out a pretty decent amount! I’m like 6 chapters deep, and I wanted to share the first one, both because I kind of like it and because I want to post something this weekend.

I have no idea what this is going to end up being called. Currently in my draft it’s The Return of the Wolf, but that’s going to change. It’ll be Jaime/Brienne, Robb/Dany, and Jon/Sansa when it’s done! With probably a bit of Arya/Gendry as well!

Hopefully putting it under the cut here...

Jaime I

She is still in here somewhere.

Jaime refuses to run, knowing that it would draw the more obsequious of his men to him like large metal moths, looking for a chance to win the favor of their one-handed commander. He keeps his expression level, and he walks as quickly as he dares past his men and through the underbelly of Riverrun. There are shouts from deeper in the tunnel, and he follows them. The clash of swords. His stomach tightens. So much for a peaceful surrender. He runs anyway.

She is still in here somewhere, and he must make sure that she gets safely away. She cannot linger here once the Lannister forces have taken the castle, and he knows that she will linger if Tully gives some fool, impassioned speech about honor and duty, because the stubborn woman is too honorable by half, and she will be moved by the old man’s courage, and she will be killed by the old man’s courage.

He cannot allow it.

He scarcely knows why. He warned her. He all but begged her, but of course she didn’t listen. She never has. Even when they grew something of a respect for each other, she was always so sure she knew better than him. Well, this is what happens. She gets herself caught in a siege she should be far away from, and here he is, trying to clean up the mess.

The mess. The Lannisters are the mess. The Lannisters and the Freys, stealing the ancestral home of the Tullys from Brynden Blackfish, who has long been a hero of Jaime’s. How did it come to this? How did he let it come to this? He thought he could be better, once. Why did he stop trying?

He increases his pace as he ducks his head past a wooden beam and finds himself in a rocky tunnel. There is a dead man at his feet. Lannister armor. Another up ahead. Jaime trips past them, his golden hand loud and cumbersome along the rock wall as he places it there for balance, stumbling as the shadows mess with his perception. Ah. Another dead man, just ahead. He wonders which of them killed him. Not that it matters. He’s seen Brienne take down three men before. She hardly broke a sweat.

He rounds a corner, and at last he sees her. She looks bigger than ever. Her frame takes up most of the tunnel the same way it took up most of his pavilion and left it feeling empty when she was gone. She’s speaking urgently to the Blackfish. Tugging on his arm. The fool woman is trying to get him to abandon the castle. Jaime sighs, and Brienne and the Blackfish both look in his direction. Mostly impassive, both of them, but he can see that one is surprised. Heartbroken to see his left hand near his sword.

He hadn’t actually intended to draw it, but Brienne steps before the Blackfish and pulls her own. Oathkeeper, he thinks. Yes, and she means to keep my oaths for me, if I’m too much a Lannister to keep them myself. Even if it means running a sword through my gut.

“What are you doing?” he asks her.

“Ser Jaime, please,” she says, and she sets her stance wider.

“I will not surrender,” the Blackfish says, behind her.

“I was speaking to the lady,” Jaime replies, trying for sarcastic, trying to pretend that the daggers the Blackfish glares in his direction aren’t piercing. There is sweat on his brow; it trickles down his temple. He dares not wipe it away. “Lady Brienne, I cannot allow you to take him.”

“And I cannot allow you to stop me,” Brienne replies. “I told you it might come to this.”

Jaime continues to move closer. He still doesn’t draw his sword. Could he draw against Brienne? He hardly knows. Perhaps, if it came to it. He’d like to at least die with sword in hand, if only to spare the poor girl the trauma of striking down an unarmed man she once may have thought of fondly, despite all his many faults.

“And I told you that I hoped it wouldn’t,” he says softly. Brienne’s sword does not waver, but her expression does. He meets her eyes.

“It doesn’t have to,” she says.

“My lady,” the Blackfish warns her gently, still close behind her. “We must go.”

“Uncle.”

Jaime’s eyes leave Brienne’s for long enough to see the figure that appears in the tunnel behind her. It’s impossible, yet Jaime would know the boy anywhere. He spent a year chained in his camp, visited periodically by the King in the North, with his great grey beast beside him. Jaime did his best to comfort Brienne when they received word on the road that the idiot boy had died with his mother and wife at that cursed wedding, but he hadn’t exactly mourned the loss himself. He heard tales from the Freys. Bragging, endless tales about cutting the boy’s head from his body and sewing his wolf’s on in its stead. Something that made Tywin laugh and made Cersei smile and made Tyrion wince and made Jaime try to think of nicer things so he didn’t have to imagine it.

“No,” he says, forgetting to be calm or wry or amused or whatever it was he was trying to go for here. “Brienne…”

He can hear the songs now. The Return of the Wolf. The Young Wolf Rises. Triumphant stories of the boy who never lost a battle but who lost the war for love, born again to take revenge. Sentiment has already turned against the Lannisters. Cersei may not want to hear it, but their son holds to his throne only through what remains of the realm’s fear of their father. When the smallfolk hear that Robb Stark has risen again…

“Get in the boat,” Brienne says over her shoulder. “I’ll keep him.”

“We cannot wait forever,” Robb warns her. Jaime can’t stop looking at him, hoping to see an illusion. A trick. This is some Tully cousin they hope to use as a decoy. Some trick to win favor in the war the Starks are fighting against the Boltons.

No. Stark turns his poisonous glare in Jaime’s direction, and it’s him. He is so much his mother and father at once. Jaime has felt the force of that glare many times in his life, but it is perhaps more potent now, with Brienne standing between them.

“It won’t take long,” Brienne says, and both men vanish into the darkness behind her. Jaime had begun to advance again, but he stops when she speaks the words. He wants to feel betrayed. He wants to say Brienne in a hurt, small voice, like a much younger man. A child asking for answers the Septon can’t give. Why?

“I must warn you I’ve been practicing,” he says instead. Brienne’s eyes close for an instant, but then they open again, made glimmering and orange by the torchlight. It used to strike him as funny that she could be so much a maiden in the body she had been given. A soft heart beneath muscles and a massive height. Some cruelty of the gods made her fall in love with poor, dead Renly, and they made her too much man for most but not man enough to secure the heart of the one she wanted. He doesn’t think it’s funny anymore.

“As have I,” she says. Her maiden’s heart is breaking. Jaime steps closer. His left hand still holds the sword, but he doesn’t draw it. She meets his eyes, and her chin raises as she looks at him.

“You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” he asks. He can hear the Blackfish barking orders at someone down at the water’s edge, and he suddenly wants her on it. Away from him. Away from his family. Take the bloody Stark boy and go, he wants to shout, but he doesn’t. His voice is very quiet. He doesn’t know he can shout, now. He is oddly breathless, oddly removed. “For the Starks, you would strike me down. Kill me as you killed Renly.”

“I didn’t kill Renly,” Brienne says. She tilts her head slightly. “Stannis did that. And I killed Stannis.”

A boast from anyone else. From her, it’s a warning. A reminder that he struggled to fight her even when he had two hands—the irons and the year of captivity were bad, but they weren’t a maimed sword hand. If he tried to fight her now, she’d cut through him like wet sand. The best he could hope for would be delaying the inevitable until his men could come to his aid, but then he would have to take her in, and Cersei would…

No. He shoves Widows Wail back into place, and he takes a demonstrative step back.

“You would have done it,” he says. Brienne slides Oathkeeper back into place with a look that’s warning. Almost afraid.

“Yes,” she says.

“Good,” he replies. “Now go. Before my men realize you’ve taken the most valuable political prisoner we had and one we didn’t even know existed.”

There is still a glimmer in Brienne’s eyes as she nods and turns to go, but he also catches the slight edge of a smile. The slight upturn of her lips. She thinks he has done a good and honorable thing, of course. She always thinks the best of him. He wishes she wouldn’t. It would be so much safer for her if she realized how wretched he has become.

He follows her at a distance. Brienne settles into the boat. Her squire is there, he sees. At least she listened to him about that. The Blackfish and Robb Stark are there too. If Cersei knew what Jaime let slip away…

He raises his golden hand when Brienne turns back to look, when they have already begun to melt away into the fog. Brienne hesitates, but then she raises her hand as well. He stands and watches until they’re gone.

Next time, he won’t be so lucky. Cersei is always calling him a fool, and perhaps she’s right. He was a fool to think he could simply meet Brienne of Tarth as friends. The honorable woman and her absurd fondness for the oathbreaker. As long as he continues to stand against the family she swore herself to, she will continue to stand against him.

It would have destroyed her to kill him. But she would have done it, and he would have deserved it. Perhaps she wouldn’t have felt honorable to do it, but she would have been. The Kingslayer slayed at last by a woman as virtuous as she is ugly. The songs would last for a thousand years, and the singers would never know how either of them truly felt for each other.

He returns to his men. He says nothing of Brienne, nor of the Blackfish. He accepts the news of Tully’s escape with an incline of his head and some wry comment about Tully being a sly old man.

In the morning, they will begin the return trip towards Kings Landing. Towards Cersei. And he will pretend that he is as eager to get back to her as he was only hours ago.

#my fics #let's call this #angel does nanowrimo #jaime x brienne

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lady-griffin · 6 years ago

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GOT Circle & Spiral

Since the beginning of the show, we’ve been introduced to the White Walker’s symbols. Perhaps it’s a way they are communicating and expressing their intentions or perhaps they are just copying what they have seen before, without any meaning behind it.

There is the circle. Introduced, in S1E01 “Winter is Coming”

And then, there is the Spiral. Introduced, in S3E03 “Walk of Punishment”

From what we know so far or have gathered, is that these two symbols were taken from the Children of Forest by the White Walkers and they have been using them to communicate something to the living.

Now perhaps these are just empty symbols for the White Walkers. But the WW are capable of thinking and strategizing, for instance, they adapt to start wearing armor once one of them is killed. So, I do believe they are communicating something to the living.

Now in season 6, we are reintroduced to these symbols once more. As Jon draws our attention to them when he shows Daenerys the cave drawings in Dragonstone, in S7E04 “The Spoils of War."

The second picture and the spiral that is shown, I think represents the creation of the Night King and the place he was created. But we’ll get into that a bit later.

Circle

First, we’re going to talk about the circle. While we haven’t seen it all that much in comparison to the Spiral, particularly in the later seasons. It still is the first symbol we were introduced to.

The first scene of the first episode of the entire show introduces us to this symbol and that episode is adeptly named Winter is Coming. The White Walkers are the Winter the Starks have been talking about, and they are not only coming, but are already here.

The final scene of the final episode of Season 1, reintroduces the symbol to us with Drogo’s funeral pyre and the birth of Daenerys’ dragons. And again, the episode is adeptly named, “Fire and Blood,” which directly refers to the Targaryen dragons, who are now also present in the current story.

And before we go to the circle and its relation to Sansa Stark, it’s important to note, that we do keep seeing the symbol in relation to the overall show.

The font style of the Title, turns every “O” into the circle.

Okay, back to the story within the show.

The circle is strongly associated with Sansa Stark, who wears the symbol as a necklace when she leaves the Vale, first appearing in S4E08, “The Mountain and the Viper.”

This is quite interesting.

While we know the chain reflects Littlefinger, a piece Sansa took from his own style (particularly in the way she wears it later on) andthe end “needle" piece is related to Arya’s very own needle. We still don’t actually have any meaning applied to the circle itself, at least not to my knowledge.

We should also take note of the scene where we first see Sansa wearing the necklace in S7E08 and the implication behind it. Because Littlefinger to some extent “creates” this new Sansa (or he thinks he does), but over time he loses control over her and she turns on him, resulting in his death.

Which is a scenario that is repeated quite often within the story.

Sansa’s later circle necklace (which becomes a stable in her wardrobe), continues the idea of Littlefinger’s influence/lessons and Sansa having her own Needle.

And this necklace reminds me more of a thread going through the sewing needle eye, than the first one. And overall sewing in general. Sewing and more traditional female activities are also closely associated with Sansa, just in general.

And while the new circle itself might continue the symbolic weight of the old circle (whatever that exactly is), I believe this new necklace carries an additional symbolic weight.

Especially, when Sansa wears her Twin Direwolf Collar/Clasps.

The necklace and collar, together, create a visual makeshift of a Viking King’s Chain.

And several other blogs/people have brought this up as a visual clue.

If this is an intentional visual clue by the costume designer or creators, then I think it clearly means that Sansa’s circle necklace (new version) is her very own Chain of Intent.

Matching & opposing Daenerys’ more famous Chain of Intent and if that is true, than these two are already made out to be two opposing forces before they even meet.

It’s also quite interesting that both Sansa and Daenerys have been strongly assoicated with the WW symbols and no one else really has. Sansa the Circle. And Daenerys the Circle and Spiral.

And the circle has come to represent opposing forces already. The WW and the Dragons.

But yet, we still don’t actually know the meaning of the White Walkers and Sansa’s First Necklace.

In our own world, the circle is similar to the Greek Letters of Theta and Phi.

Theta is a closer match to Sansa’s necklace, a horizontal line contained within a circle.

Theta is the eighth letter of the Greek Alphabet. In Greek numerals it has the value of 9 though and it is likely derived from Phoenician letter Teth.

The Phoenician letter ṭēth means "wheel" and possibly is the continuation of a Middle Bronze Age glyph named ṭab meaning "good".

But back to Theta.

It was once used to represent death, as it was used as an abbreviation for the Greek θάνατος (thanatos, “death”) and as a warning of death, in the same way that skull and crossbones are or have been used.

The idea of death is very fitting for the White Walkers/Night King. To those who believe in the Lord of the Light, the WW are death and the true enemy of R'hllor. But in general and for everyone, it’s pretty easy to associate death with the WW.

But this idea of death is pretty interesting in regards to Sansa, who wears the symbol in the end of Season 4 and a good portion of Season 5. And while she stops wearing it later on, the visual style of it continues on in a different form.

The symbol could represent the symbolic death of the old Sansa that once was, the one that existed before she walked down the stairs wearing said circle necklace.

Or perhaps it’s a forewarning of her own future, literal death. Or perhaps, like the WW, Sansa herself is a harbinger of death.

A warning of death to come.

Tyrion himself, in S8E01, brought up the fact that those who’ve underestimated or cross Sansa are now all dead. But it goes a bit further than that, doesn’t it?

Many of the characters who have directly impacted Sansa’s life or interacted with her on screen are now dead.

Lady. Ned Stark. Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Rickon Stark. Robert Baratheon. Joffrey. Tommen. Myrcella. Jory Cassel. Septa Mordane. Lancel Lannister. Loras, Margaery and Olenna Tyrell. Ser Meryn Trant. Maester Pycelle. Ros. Shae. Dontos. Lysa Tully. Tywin Lannister. Roose Bolton. Walda Frey. Myranda. Ramsey Bolton. The old woman. Ned Umber. Petyr Baelish.

And even those who haven’t died, have in many ways gone through severe changes that we could see as symbolic deaths.

The Hound. Jon Snow (+ literal). Cersei Lannister. Tyrion Lannister. Jaime Lannister. Arya Stark. Bran Stark. Theon Greyjoy.

In all honestly, though, we could make a list like this for every current living character and some would far exceed Sansa’s own death list.

But it is interesting for one of the few characters not involved in active fighting or killing, death sure does follow her.

But again, this is Game of Thrones.

Now Phi looks closer to the White Walkers’ circle, as the line is vertical and even passes outside the circle.

Phi, is the is the 21st letter of the Greek alphabet and represents the numeral value of 500 and also 500,000.

The symbol of Phi can represent a whole number of things, most importantly the Golden Ratio. Which itself can represent infinity, beauty, nature, life and balance.

And, the Golden Ration is often represented by a Spiral shape.

Spiral

This leads us to the Spiral in the show, which has become the far more prominent symbol in later seasons.

It is first shown in S3E03, “The Walk of Punishment.” John and the Free Folk come across this symbol, specifically one that is made of horse parts. Though they don’t know its meaning, they talk of how there are no human remains.

The men that these horses belonged to are now wights, the NK has gained more soldiers. And in the same episode, Daenerys makes a deal with the Slave Masters of Astapor -- One dragon for the Unsullied. Daenerys in this episode, takes a step further in gaining her future army.

Interesting how the wights are completely mindless soldiers following one master, while the Unsullied or the idea of them is sold to Daenerys as being just that. In addition, while the Masters of Astapor never got their one dragon, the Night King did.

The Spiral is also shown when the Children of the Forest create the first ever White Walker, in S6E05, “The Door.”

Bran learns in that scene that it was the COTF who created the WW to protect themselves from the First Men. And it is also in that scene we get idea that the acts people do (or weapons they create) under the justification of war, is not always justified.

While COTF were being killed and their sacred trees destroyed, they created new life that they could not control and even slaughtered them, as well as the First Men. The COTF, in the end, had to work with Man to defeat the NK and imprison him beyond the wall.

The NK also creates the spiral in the most recent episode, S8E01 “Winterfell”, using body parts to create a spiral featuring Little Ned Umber in the middle (much like how the NK was in the middle of another spiral).

Beric Dondarrion even comments that it’s a message from the Night King. So once more we know the WW are sending the characters a message, we just don’t understand nor know what it is exactly means to the WW.

The Spiral is also associated with Daenerys Targaryen & potentially Targaryens in general.

In S4E10, “The Children” Daenerys wears a dress throughout that has the very same spiral pattern.

In that episode, Daenerys receives citizens in her hall when she is Queen of Mereen. She learns that some of the slaves want to be sold back to their former masters (as they feel there is no place for them in this new world). Daenerys learns the lesson that the freedom she has given these people, means they can defy her own wishes and wants for them.

This idea is further cemented when she learns that Drogon killed a small child. She has lost control of her dragons (drogon) and they are acting on their own will, which won’t always align with hers. So, she decides to lock up her two remaining dragons, to prevent this from happening again.

The episode is adeptly titled “The Children,” (it’s almost like the title is intentional).

We as the audience are introduced to the Children of the Forest. But further more we learn the trouble and dangers of “children” to their “parents”.

Some of the slaves don’t wish to be freed by Myhsa (mother) and the Dragons are acting on their own will.

The Hound begs Arya to kill him, who has become a pseudo daughter in a way, but she defies his will and leaves him to die a slow death. Well first she robbed him.

And the final nail in the coffin, Jaime frees Tyrion, who then kills their father, Tywin. Which is not what Jaime nor Tywin wanted.

Your children, the people you save or free from their former imprisonment, still have their own free will and that will can go against your own.

And this is a lesson that has been on repeat for quite some time.

The COTF learn this. Daenerys learns this. Littlefinger learns this. Tywin learns this. Cersei learns this. Doran Martell learn this. Roose Bolton learns this. Ramsey learns this.

Now, defying your “parents” wishes and turning on them does not always work out in the best of ways for the “child”. Robb and Sansa both went against Catelyn and Ned’s wishes in who they wanted to marry and both acts led to some terrible consequences for House Stark and said parents, as well as themselves.

So, there is a balance to be had. But the lesson remains, everyone has a will of their own.

And it’s also important to note that to create the first WW, the COTF used Dragonglass. Which is also refered to as frozen fire and is found in abundance on Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen.

There is of course one other way Daenerys and Targaryens are connected to the Spiral, their sigil resembles it quite a bit.

Of course, everyone has commented on the possible connection of the WW Spiral & Targaryen sigil as the similarity was made quite clear with Little Ned being set ablaze.

The Spiral itself could be seen as an abstract form of the Targaryen Sigil. Similar to how Cersei’s crown is an abstract form of a lion.

Heading back to the actual Spiral for a quick second.

Spirals in our own world can have a ton of meanings depending on different cultures, history and overall context. But overall, they can represent movement, life, creation, infinity/eternity, reincarnation/ rebirth and time (past, present and future).

And I think those meanings from our world can also be applied to the GOT Spiral.

Back to the Targaryen Sigil and its connection to the Spiral.

The Targaryen Sigil itself is reminiscent of Ouroboros - A symbol that depicts a serpent or dragon devouring its own tail.

Ouroboros represents or can represent wholeness, infinity, rebirth or a renewal of life (same as the spiral). A continuation of a cycle.

It also has the negative connation or idea tied to it -- eating (hurting) yourself to satiate your own hunger (desire).

Basically, a self-defeating way of trying to accomplish what you want.

Which is a way to describe several of the characters we’ve seen on the show and continue to see, the more they try to cement their power the more unstable that power’s foundation becomes.

But even more so, we can see it with how several of the “children” defy their “parents”.

And of course, both the Targaryen Sigil and Spiral Symbol also look like something else. A wheel.

Daenerys has sworn to break “The Wheel.”

While we can easily infer what the wheel is, it’s never actually fully discussed within the show.

We’re told the vague idea that it’s the families fighting one another for power and the destruction that follows (crushing the smallfolk), but that’s really it.

However, that idea is often shown to the audience in every episode, with once again the literal Title of the Show.

This looks like a wheel, with the different families being the spokes on it, just like what Daenerys said.

But back to our main point.

We have no idea how Daenerys exactly wants to break the wheel (dismantling the institutions of power that legitimize rulers? maybe?) nor do we know what she wants to do when the wheel breaks. Or what she wants to implement afterward.

One idea, is that she could mean she wants to do what Joffrey suggested in Season 1, dismantling the independent powers of the lower lords (Stark, Tyrell, Tully...ect) and cement the central power of the crown (mainly through armies).

This actually isn’t all that far-fetched. Daenerys has become the central ruler of her army and people, with seemingly no official lower branches or groups.

But that’s more stopping the wheel on the Targaryen Spoke, not breaking it.

The real problem is that it’s a nice line with no plan behind it and there is a fatal flaw in how it’s supposed to be achieved.

It’s hard to break the “wheel”, when Daenerys needs the wheel or the institutions of power that were or are still currently in place (monarchy/feudalism, succession rights, Targaryen rule, Iron Throne) to become Queen of the 7K, so she can break said institutions that reinforce the current social structure and help crush those below.

Daenerys (and the other characters) are part of this wheel. They might be able to change it, but can they truly break it?

I’m going to say no. The wheel and life keep spinning. The spiral continues. No matter what they do.

The wheel imagery also reminds me of the Seven-Pointed Star, the primary icon of the New Gods, which is the major religion within Westeros.

The New Gods is an interesting religion. It’s predominant across the show. It’s one of the few religions we see that has set rules and practices and it is (was) a formal institute of power in Westeros, but yet has no “proof” behind it.

The Old Gods, The Lord of Light and even the Many-Faced God have magic users and practices that seemingly reinforce said power of their god and prove its existence.

But magic isn’t linked to one religion or one god. In fact, it might not be linked to any. Magic might just be a natural part of this world and some religions may have been created to explain said magic and shape it.

Perhaps those who follow R’hllor can’t see the future through the flames because of their god, but many R’hllor exists because people could see the future in the flame.

But back to the Targaryen connection.

It always interested me that the Targaryens never brought over or implemented their own religion or gods from Valyria to Westeros. They just adapted to the dominant religion and allowed it to give them legitimacy.

One could also argue the Targaryen Sigil has “Seven Points” to it.

Three Heads. Two Wings. Two Tails.

And also, Joffrey based the throne room off the old Targaryen-style of the room. Including the Seven-Pointed Star windows.

Joffrey didn’t include the star because he himself is religious, he did so to invoke the style and power he admired in the previous Targaryen rulers.

Robert, who overthrew the Targaryens, had removed and replaced the Seven-Pointed Star (and other decorations) with forest/hunting stain-glass windows and decorations.

While we might associate the current throne room and its “look” with Joffrey and later Cersei, they are only trying to invoke the Targaryens, who were overthrown so they could have power.

And we can see that in the flashback of the Mad King, as he too had the Seven-Pointed Star glass window.

So, in the past, the Targaryens have used the Seven-Pointed Star, not just in their decorating, but legitimizing their own power with The Faith of the Seven.

Overall, the Seven-Pointed Circle it a symbol of power that keeps things more or less the same. And Daenerys might have to reinforce or rebuild this religion once more to keep or gain her own power, if she were ever to become queen.

Once more, fortifying the wheel and making it more difficult to break.

Now overall the Spiral and the Seven-Pointed Star Circle aren’t that similar in appearance, other than them being circles with “spokes”.

The Spiral has 8 spirals. While the Star has 7 points.

The Star is contained in the circle and the Spiral is the circle that can continue on and on.

But they might just both represent religion. While not confirmed, from what we can tell so far, the Spiral is a symbolic part of the COTF magic (and potentially their religion as well).

So, there is again an element of opposite forces. The Old vs. The New.

And from a Watsonian perspective, whose to say the Targaryen weren’t influenced by the dominant religion of Westeros & the Spirals imagery found on Dragon Stone (plus their three dragons) in creating their sigil.

The two symbols the WW have used can be linked to and related to many different things from our own world to the world of Game of Thrones.

And while all of these different circles and symbols may not all be directly connected together in some overall giant meaning/conspiracy that will explain everything.

We can’t ignore, the same ideas and meanings keep coming up and connect different symbols and ideas together.

They are all different, but nonetheless similar. Reflections of one another.

What do these two symbols really mean in regards to the WW?

Well, I hate to say it I don’t have a concrete answer, despite everthing we’ve talked about. But I do have speculation.

In a more literal sense. I think the circle represents the First Men and the Spiral represents the COTF. Or at least they use to.

Basically, I think it will be revealed that the circle symbol we first saw (unless they’ve forgotten about it) was once a symbol of the First Men. We actually haven’t seen the COTF really be associated with that symbol, at least not in the same way the Spiral has been shown to be related to them.

True the circle is part of the Cave Drawings, like the Spiral, but the COTF were telling the story of how they joined together with the First Men to defeat the WW.

So I believe, the WW are taking what was the primary (or what they saw as the primary) symbol of the two groups that they wish to destroy and made them their own.

For the WW to have life, they most kill the old life in the current world. And these two symbols the WW have been using is that threat. Death is coming for the First Men (humans) and the COTF.

And that leads to what these two symbols represent (not just a single person or group anymore), but ideas.

Overall, I believe they both represent opposing forces and the duality of said forces.

The Fist Men and The Children of the Forest. Ice and Fire. Starks and Targaryens. Non-Magic and Magic. Old Gods and New Gods. Greatness and Madness. Death and Life.

Different sides of the same coin.

However, these symbols in my view don’t simply represent said opposite forces themselves, or more accurately, one doesn’t necessairly represent life, while the other represents death.

They represent both opposing forces at the same time.

But more than anything, these two symbols separate or together represent --

Rebirth. Renewal. Reincarnation. A continuation of the past in the present and future.

Both symbols have come to represent the duality of Life & Death and Death & Life.

The COTF created the Night King by killing the human man he once was. (Spiral)

The Night King kills humans and brings them back (creating “new life”) as either wights or WW. (Circle & Spiral)

Daenerys had three deaths (Drogo, Rhaego, Mirri Maz Durr) and willingly walked into the funeral pyre and by doing so, she created new life in her three dragons. (Circle)

Sansa has to symbolically kill (change) old Sansa to become this new and smarter Sansa (when she leaves the vale). (Circle).

And that idea, even though the symbols aren’t presented in literal form, repeats time and time again.

The Drowned God Religion in general.

Theon must die for Reek to exist and Reek must die to allow Theon to be reborn.

Jon has to kill the boy to let the man be born.

Jon also literally dies and is resurrected.

Human Bran has to die to allow Three-Eyed Raven Bran to be born.

The Faceless Men try to get Arya to kill Arya Stark so she could become No One.

Jaime most kill the King slayer to become Jaime Lannister.

For new life, you need the death of the old life.

Both symbols represent that overall idea, particularly in association together. But yet what once was, never truly goes away, does it?

“What is dead, may never die”

The old (the past) is never truly destroyed. And thus, you get this continuation that goes on and on.

But overall the idea of the future, despite its best attempt, being a reflection of the past is something that seems inevitable.

Though I would say the future of GOT won’t look exactly like the past, because many different reflections of the past will take part in creating this new future.

So, I believe some form of the old (current) life we’re viewing now must die, for the new life to exist.

And, there are a couple of questions we might want to ponder during S8.

Which “children” will defy which “parents” in this new season?

Which of the saved will defy their savior?

Which reflections of the past will actually be realized in the future?

What exact aspect of the old must die for the new to exist?

We’ll just have to watch and see.

#Game of Thrones #GOT #GOT Symbols #White Walkers #Children of the Forest #white walker spiral #White Walker circle #Daenerys Targaryen #House Targaryen #Sansa Stark #House Stark #COTF #GOT symbolism

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joannalannister · 6 years ago

Note

I recently saw an answer to an ask where you said the Lannister are small people, probably ever since The Hedge Knight. Do you think Joanna was small as well?

First, I really like this question, it’s a good one! Thank you for asking it!

Second, I assume you are referring to this post? (My friends, it really helps me if you supply the post number please!)

“you said the Lannister[s] are small people” Let’s elaborate on that before we proceed.

While the Lannisters are, on average, physically tall, I was using “small” metaphorically to indicate small moral stature and refer to character flaws, to indicate a person who is, on average, mean, or petty, or malicious, or lacking integrity, or contemptible, or bigoted, or pathetic, etc.

(Note that I am saying “on average” to indicate a general tendency which allows for exceptions.)

Tywin is a prime example of a man who is of small moral stature. See also. Basically the polar opposite of Brienne, who is a person of great moral stature.

Also, I think something is lost in the paraphrasing, because I think this tendency toward “smallness” predates THK. I said previously, “Even in the days of Duncan the Tall […], House Lannister would not stand for a cause that was right and just, and they have only grown smaller since.) It’s THK which gives us a very concrete historical example that we actually “see” happening in real (story) time, with the Lannisters refusing Dunk’s call, but if the histories can be believed, examples abound.

Now, do I think Joanna exhibited this tendency toward “smallness”? Sure, at least initially.

That’s just how I personally imagine her, given that GRRM isn’t particularly interested in exploring pre-series female characters, especially ones who are not Targaryens.

We don’t know a lot about Joanna, but we know something about the people around her, like Tywin and Genna and Kevan, and these people are … not … shining beacons of light in the series.

Personally, I think Tywin’s love is conditional, and if you oppose him or if you disappoint him or if you’re not largely on board with his program of dehumanization and Lannister Superiority, he finds that very, very frustrating. If Tywin is frustrated, he tells you to fuck off, to get away from him, he disowns you, he won’t speak to you (ask Jaime (who frustrated Tywin’s ambitions), ask Tyrion (there is not enough parenthetical space here to tell you all the ways Tyrion is at odds with Tywin), ask Genna (who, in her own words, disappointed Tywin)).

If you’re not on board, you’re not compatible with Tywin, in Tywin’s mind. That is who Tywin is in the books.

“Ser Kevan was his brother’s vanguard in council, Tyrion knew from long experience; he never had a thought that Lord Tywin had not had first. It has all been settled beforehand, he concluded, and this discussion’s no more than show.”

(From my understanding, the people in the vanguard are the people at the front of your army, leading the way. In more modern terms, Kevan is like Tywin’s tank, advancing Tywin’s ideas in the political arena and drawing enemy fire without taking significant damage, which allows Tywin to follow up with a kill shot from relative cover. In short, this is a concerted effort.)

Like … Tywin isn’t just a person, he’s also an ideology. And Kevan is on fucking board, ride or die, a true believer, loyal to the end, and this is what makes Tywin trust him and rely on him.

(This is why I’m not a fan of those “oh, poor Kevan” interpretations… but that’s just me.)

Genna was on fucking board too, she still resents Ellyn Tarbeck “that scheming bitch”

One of the few things we know about Joanna is that Tywin allowed himself to be vulnerable around her. The walls came down for her, the drawbridge lowered. For her, and only her. “Only Lady Joanna truly knows the man beneath the armor.” It’s only for Joanna that Tywin allowed his soft underbelly to be exposed. That implies a level of trust that we never see again in Tywin.

Also consider marriage vows in Westeros: “One flesh, one heart, one soul.”

I live in a largely secular place, so it’s easy to brush something like this off, yeah yeah yeah w/e. But to a Westerosi, these mean something - you’re combining two people into one. (These wedding vows are taken directly from Milton’s Paradise Lost, about Adam and Eve.)

So when Tywin, a literalist, marries Joanna, he is allowing her to become a part of himself.

That’s why I have a really, really, really hard time believing that Tywin fell in love with someone who was not “on board”. At least, initially.

I think that – initially – Joanna was a very bigoted person - someone who was classist, racist, misogynistic, etc.

But the reason that Joanna – or at least the Joanna that I imagine, cuz idk wtf george thinks, if anything – the reason that Joanna captivates me in a way that Tywin never can is because I’m interested in exploring the question, can Joanna change?

Can Joanna grow?

In the series, GRRM is interested in exploring how Jaime and Tyrion change throughout the books, and he has these men court Heroism and Villainy both, and they straddle the line between them.

But GRRM really isn’t that interested in exploring that kind of thing with Cersei in the text, imo, and that always seems kind of sad to me.

So I suppose, in my own writing, I make up for that with Joanna.

Like, in my fanfiction, the first scene where Tywin and Joanna interact is basically Tywin scandalized that Joanna is seemingly not dehumanizing this person, and Joanna reassuring him that it’s not what it looks like and basically “don’t be an idiot, Tywin, of course i’m not treating This Person like a human being, this is just the most convenient thing for me”

And I want to know how she grows from that - how does she eventually come to see This Person as a friend?

And we know that Joanna and the Princess of Dorne became friends, but how did they start?

Aerys was obviously racist, and I think Tywin was racist, but eventually we get to a point where, imo, Joanna wanted to marry her son to the Princess’s daughter, Elia, so how do we get there?

And what about Tytos’s mistress, what about Lynora Hill, what about Ellyn Tarbeck? What do these people mean to Joanna, how does she see them, what does she do?

What of Toad?

GRRM has seeded this era with so many interesting people, so many people for Joanna to run up against and push back against.

So I suppose, IN MY OWN WRITING, I imagine Joanna as small, and I find that the interesting thing is to watch her grow, and also to explore the limits of her growth.

Because her relationship with Tywin is a big factor in her life. If Joanna can see the Princess of Dorne as a human being, and Tywin can’t ….

And how does that make Joanna see herself, how does that change her…

…Joanna’s growth, Joanna’s disillusionment, her own realizations …

…I’m trying to find the right words, because I haven’t written this part yet…

Tywin ruled, and Joanna willingly assisted him in bricking up her own cage. Because Tywin is the living embodiment of Westerosi patriarchy, and Joanna helped him. She was complicit. And even a love as “deep and long-abiding” as Tywin’s can’t save her.

I suppose that’s why I find Tywin/Joanna so sad.

Sadder than GRRM imagined. I don’t think this is a story GRRM could write, tbh.

So yes. Small. But growth is possible.

#joanna lannister #tywin lannister #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #tywin x joanna #where do you people find these posts how far back do you go #Anonymous #replies #lannister thoughts #tjmeta #tywin meta #joanna meta #kevan lannister #house lannister

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tacitwhisky · 6 years ago

Text

Jon of the Kingsguard, pt 8

Jon x Sansa - AU where Jon goes to Kingslanding instead of the Wall, there’s no war, and he becomes a knight of the kingsguard even as Joffrey marries Sansa / AO3 Link

Over the next few days Sansa is sick more than not, and at least a half dozen times Jon must kneel beside her and gather back her thick red hair as she empties her stomach into her chamber pot. More often though she simply sits shivering as though with fever, skin pale and damp, a blanket drawn about her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she tells him on the third day with a weary twitch of a smile. “Lady’s in songs never look this dreadful when the knight comes for them.”

Jon shakes his head and kneels before her chair, hands her a cup of watered wine. “Dreadful or no you need to drink.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but accepts the cup. Watered wine is all she can keep down, though she makes a face as she sips at it, and Jon feel for a moment uncannily like old Nan at one of their bedsides. Sansa makes another face. “The last time I was this ill that vale knight stayed at Winterful on his way to the Wall. My nose was runny and eyes puffy and I wailed into my pillow that I’d never be as beautiful as the ladies in songs.”

A smile tugs at Jon’s lips and he shakes his head. “You’ve always been beautiful, Sansa. It used to annoy Arya so when we were children.”

A tired smile teases Sansa’s lips. “And you, Jon? Did it annoy you?”

Would fucking me keep you true? Sansa blinks and looks down at her cup, smile slowly wilting from her lips. Neither of them have spoken of that night since, but the words still hang unspoken between them, an ugly bruise neither will touch, and Jon does not know how to answer what he knows Sansa meant as a jest. The truth is that even with hair lank and unwashed, face sunken and thin, Sansa is still as heart achingly lovely as she’s always been and the knowledge an uneasy stone in the pit of Jon’s stomach. He looks out to the window of her chamber. “What you said of Jamie and Cersei,” he says, “was it true?”

“I didn’t believe her when she first told me. I thought she was only drunk. But…” Sansa’s rubs her thumb along the lip of the cup. “It’s there plain as day, Jon. The way they look at each other, the way they used to slip away together when Robert would go hunting or hawking or whoring. Do you remember how hard Cersei fought when Tywin tried to send her back to Casterly Rock after Robert’s death? How strange that was? It’s always been there.”

It’s grotesque to think, even for Jaime and Cersei, but once Jon has it’s impossible not to see it just as Sansa said. He shakes his head. “Little wonder Joffrey is such a monster, then. It’s what they deserve.”

Sansa’s smile drops, face suddenly pale and young. “This is what I deserve too, Jon,” she whispers. “I know it is. They’re punishing me for what I’ve done. Maid, Mother, Crone. This is their punishment for what- for drinking- for stifling-”

“It isn’t.” Jon takes her hand, fingers cold beneath his, very aware in that moment of just how young Sansa truly is despite how poised she always is, that she is barely more than a girl in truth. She should be with a tall handsome lord, laughing and happy and with blue roses in her hair in a field somewhere, not here shivering in a lonely tower with you. He rubs her fingers. “And if it is their punishment, then fuck the seven. They aren’t our gods, Sansa. Our gods are the old gods of the first men and children of the forest, of tree and stone and weirwood, of the north.”

Sansa looks down at their hands. She takes a deep breath, squeezes his fingers tight, and nods.

---

On the fourth day Sansa’s shivering eases, and on the fifth she can keep down more than just watered wine and bread. On the sixth Jon enters her chamber to find her being attended by her handmaids, and she flashes him a smile as they fit her in a new gown of silk and samite that turns the blue of her eyes piercing.

On the seventh she rejoins the court.

None of the lords or ladies speak of her absence when they greet her, but quickly Jon realizes just how sorely Sansa has been missed. While she’s sat trapped in her chambers rumors have reached Kinsglanding of a dragon queen in the east gathering her armies to march for westeros: the last Targaryen they say she styles herself, Daenerys first of her name, rightful queen of the First Men and the Andals and the Rhoynar, intent to reclaim her throne with fire and blood. Each utterance of her name only worsens Joffrey’s temper, and with Sansa’s return both lords and ladies seem relieved to have someone other than the king to bring their pleas and concerns to. Sansa is courteous to one and all, a gracious queen with always a kind word for lords and servants alike. Slowly she eases back into court life.

It is not long before Joffrey strikes her again.

It is an almost pretty thing, a splotch of purple and red broken veins mottling the corner of her jaw like a splattered overripe fruit. But this time Sansa refuses to wait in her chambers for it to heal. Her handmaids dust it with white, and the next day she joins Joffrey as he sits as justice on the Iron Throne. He stiffens when he sees her, but even he isn’t foolish enough to order her away before the gathered lords and ladies. She graces him with a smile and inquires after his health as she takes her seat. He scowls in answer and turns away to bark for the next supplicant to step forward.

Even under the white dust the bruise on Sansa’s jaw is still plain to the eye, the edges ragged and yellow veined, but it is as though the whole court is suddenly blind. Not one of the lords or ladies note it when they seek Sansa out, not one asks her what’s happened or acknowledges what is before them, their eyes careful to slide away should they glance at it. Jon cannot understand it, how she can remain so courteous and gracious when all he wishes he could do is snarl his fury at each new foppish lord and preening lady.

Sansa only smiles when Jon voices his anger one night when it is the two of them in her chamber, lamps newly lit by one of her maids. “A lady’s courtesies are her armor, Jon. I told you something like that once.”

A knight has his battlefield, a lady hers. Years, it feels as though have passed since Sansa told him that, but Jon has never forgotten it, can still hear the lilt of her voice if he closes his eyes. It was the day she’d called him Stark. He tightens his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “They cannot be blind to what is happening.”

“They aren’t.” Sansa slips her needle through the length of silk she’s embroidering. “But he is the king. What can they do?”

Their duty. But Jon bites back the words. He knows he is no better. If you were you would have run Joffrey through the first time he struck Sansa whether she willed you to or no. “You shouldn’t forgive them.”

“I don’t.” Sansa’s eyes flash, fingers pinching the needle between them hard enough to turn them white. “Don’t ever think I do, Jon. I’ll never forget that all their oaths and honor meant less than nothing. But we need them.”

“For what?”

“No king can rule alone, not since the Targaryens lost their dragons.” Sansa lays aside her sewing. “Joffrey may be Baratheon and Lannister, but Stannis has no love for him and Tywin no patience. Without them he needs the lords at court whether he likes them or no, needs their purses and swords and voices. Without them he is only a child on a throne. While he sits it they obey him, but if his grasp weakens...”

Jon cocks his head to the side. “That’s all then? We wait?”

“We do. And we listen. To what they want, what they need, what positions they hope for their sons and what marriages they wish for their daughters. And when I can I murmur a word to a lord here and a lady there and sometimes their son squires for who they like and the marriage they want for their daughter comes to pass.”

Jon digests the words as Sansa takes up her sewing again and silence fills her chamber. The lamps lighting the chamber flicker lower and lower until eventually through the window the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor toll midnight.

Sansa draws a thread tight. “Joffrey will be here soon,” she says without looking up from her sewing, only the faintest wobble to her voice. “You should go.”

Jon clenches his jaw, but nods despite how it feels like shoving a knife in his chest knowing what will come when he does. He moves for the door, but lingers for a moment as his fingers brush the handle, looking back at Sansa seated by the window, hair in the lamplight the deep red of weirwood leaves.

She looks up curiously as her crosses to her seat, brow scrunching. “Jon?”

Would fucking me keep you true? The words ring in Jon’s ears as he presses his lips to her forehead in a swift kiss. “We wait,” he says, and turns for the door before he can see her face.

---

“I visited Chataya’s,” Tyrion announces to Jon a few weeks later as he and Jaime wait idly in their white cloaks outside the door of the small hall for Joffrey.

Jon raises an uninterested eyebrow. “How is Marei?”

“Lovely as always, but she told me a funny kind of tale. She told me she glimpsed a man of the kingsguard not more than a month ago in Chataya’s, a young comely knight with a sullen expression.” The little man adopts an injured expression. “You might have invited me, Jon. I thought you had no taste for whores.”

This is the path you chose. Jon grits his teeth as on the far side of the door a slow smile curves Jaime’s lips. “Why, your whore must be mistaken, brother.” Jaime says to Tyrion. “Jon holds his vows too dear to ever break them for some whore. A son of Ned Stark would never breach his honor so.”

“Perhaps it was a flight of fancy on Marei’s part, though she is rarely fanciful out of bed.” Tyrion shrugs, mismatched eyes studying Jon. “But that is not where her tale ended. She said despite how Alayaya has been telling all that the knight rode her long and hard and well that he was in her chambers only a few short minutes.”

Jon stiffens, silently cursing the little man and his japes as on the other side of the door Jaime leans forward, a lion at the scent. Jon forces himself to shrug carelessly. “Marei is wrong.”

“Not in this.” Tyrion tilts his head to the side, continues to study him, eyes shrewd, the moment stretching endlessly. Suddenly he grins. “You should just admit to it, Jon. There is no shame in only lasting only a few minutes, not with a maid as lovely as Alayaya. Perhaps I’ll visit her instead of Marei next time.” He jumps down from his chair. “I shall think on it as I grace the privy.”

Jon watches with teeth gritted as Tyrion waddles away. He can feel the weight of Jaime’s gaze on him, but refuses to look. Silence fills the space between them, the only sound the faint voice of Varys inside the small hall tittering of how the dragon queen in slaver’s bay is said to ride a dragon.

“How fares your lady sister?” Jaime’s voice is soft. “I heard she was ill only a month ago.”

Jon doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch, but he forces himself not to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword. We wait. He gives Jaime a flat, cool look. “A fever. She’s well now.”

“A fever? Not something she ate or... drank?” Jaime’s eyes glitter. “Come, you can tell me, bastard. I know you love your sister well.”

“Not half as well as you love yours.”

Jaime blinks and a slow, pleased smile curves his lips. “Oh, I do. A strange thing to love your sister, is it not? Love and cherish them, septons and maesters and all the world tell us, but not too close. Not like you would a woman, no never. Not like your would your lady wife. But protect them as though they were. Serve them faithfully, ride to their rescue, treat them courteously: but never ask for their favor, never ask for what the maiden in the tower offers up between her legs for the knight to save her. Well, you know what I say to that, bastard?” Jaime spits to the side. “I say fuck them and all they say.”

Jon wishes he could hate Jaime for the words. Wishes he could call him sisterfucker and think nothing more of it. And maybe once he could have, once when all he knew of sisters was Arya who never needed to be saved, once when they were children and all he thought of Sansa was a slip of a girl in a fine dress who always looked down her nose at him. But now, in place of hate or disgust, a strange kind of pity fills Jon as he looks at Jaime standing tall and golden in his gleaming armor. “That’s all Cersei is to you?” He asks softly. “A maiden in a tower? Something to be won?”

The smile falls from Jaime’s lips, eyes hardening into flints of blue. “And what would you know of it, bastard? You’re a creature born of lust and can never understand what it is to have a trueborn sister. I am never more whole than when I am with Cersei. Together we came into this world, two parts of one whole, and neither gods or men can unmake us.”

Jaime spits to the side and pushes away from the door, stalks away with his white cloak streaming behind him as Tyrion passes him in the hall returning from the privy. The little man watches his retreating back a moment before turning an arched brow to Jon. “A quarrel among brothers of the kingsguard?” He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “It is good your order does not accept women. Brothers are easier than sisters.”

---

Despite Joffrey’s loathing for any kind of ruling that day marks the first of many visits to the small hall in the following months. Whispers boil out from it until the Red Keep is abuzz with half heard rumors: that the dragon queen in Slaver’s Bay is on the march, that she beds with sellswords and barbarians and eunuchs alike, that she’s raised krakens from the depths, that three dragons soar above legions of freed slaves. Most scoff at that last, Joffrey sneers, Varys titters, but when she hears Sansa’s eyes turn thoughtful.

“Would it be so strange if there were dragons left in the world?” She muses to Jon. “Direwolves too we thought lost before you stumbled on ours.”

Ours. The wolf dreams still fill Jon’s sleep: loping beside his grey sister through glade and glen, the scent of pine and deer filling his nostrils, the fierce freedom. They’ve not spoken of the dreams since that night, but Jon knows Sansa has them still, sees it in the flash of her eyes, in the clenched angle of her jaw when her handmaids dust her bruises with white.

Instead of fading as most rumors do, the whispers of the dragon queen only grow louder in the weeks that follow, each new day bringing fresh news off Volantene galleys and Braavosi cogs: that she’s set free the slaves of New Ghis, scoured the pirates from the Basilisk isles, set sail for Volantis. With each new rumor Joffrey’s sneers turn less dismissive and more cruel. Day after day Jon stands guarding the foot of the Iron Throne as above him Joffrey sits alone and golden haired and brooding.

His temper blooms in new bruises across Sansa’s skin. Each night Jon kneels before her, tends her bruises with a warm cloth. She is no less silent than she used to be, but she no longer trembles, and even once in a long while offers Jon a wan smile that tugs at an ache deep within him.

He is tending a purple, mottled bruises on her collarbone when Sansa reaches up and wraps her fingers around his hand, gently lowers it. Jon glances up, an apology on the tip of his tongue for being too rough, but something in her face makes him pause. Her lip is caught between her teeth, eyes watching apprehensively. He turns his hand and catches her fingers in his, squeezes them gently. “What is it?”

Sansa blinks and looks down. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “I need something of you, Jon.”

“Anything.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Tell me.”

She does.

He doesn’t.

---

It is hours later, the sun fallen and their voices hoarse, when silence fills her chamber again. Sansa has not risen from her seat, but Jon has paced the length of her chamber half a hundred times and now stands before her window, all Kingslanding glittering out before him in a sea of flickering lamps. All the fight has left him, protests and arguments wrung out like a wet rag, and he closes his eyes as he looks out at the city, lets the cool night whisper across his face.

Sansa’s chair creaks and a moment later he feels the soft weight of her laying her head against his back. “Jon…”

Silently Jon turns and gathers her in his arms, pulls her to him. For a long time they stand like that, silent and still, her frame achingly slender against him, so fragile he might think she’d shatter if he didn’t by now know the strength within. “I won’t leave you,” he says eventually, voice hoarse. “Not here. Not with him.”

“It has to be this way. I won’t see the realm bleed. Not for me. The dragon queen- I do not know if she is a better ruler than Joffrey, but she cannot be worse. She’s broken the slave trade of Essos, and if she truly has dragons… she will come for Joffrey whether we will it or not, Jon. And with you the war could be quick. Clean.”

“Come with me then. We could both seek her out.”

Sansa shakes her head. “A knight might reach her, but a fleeing queen? Joffrey would scour every ship from here to Volantis to find me. It must be you, Jon, you and only you.”

“And after?” Jon forces the words past the weight crushing his chest. Because despite the oaths he swore, despite all he’s ever dreamed of and wanted, despite how it will break a part of him to leave her behind, in that moment he knows more truly than he’s known anything that whatever Sansa asks he will do, that he has never had a choice, not in this, not in her. You are my heart. “Once it’s done?”

“Come back.” Sansa tilts her face back, eyes shining as she gazes at him a long moment before rising to the tips of her toes, breathe tickling his ear. “Once it’s done come back to me, Jon.”

#gotfic #jonsa #jonsa fic #jonsa fanfiction #actuallyjonsa #my fic #jon of the kingsguard #jon snow #sansa stark

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jaimelannisterthings · 6 years ago

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GoT 5x04 || PoV: Jaime Lannister

“That would have been a shit way to die.”

Jaime tugged a glove over his right hand with his left, wondering vaguely to himself if he’d given Bronn the impression that he never removed the prosthetic. The blonde preferred not to wear it when he slept, given the material holding it to his arm, no matter how quality, irritated his skin. Less convenient still, sleeping with it in certain positions tended to set the translucent flesh aflame as it had been in the first days. The knight had spent enough time with it on for more tender skin to toughen against it, but that merely made it tolerable, not comfortable, “As well as I’ve seen, they’re all shit ways to die.”

“Aye, but your lot like to give the singers a good ending.”

While likely his annoyance stemmed more from the struggle to adjust his glove correctly—his skill with the process had dramatically improved since the initial attempt, but still remained slow—than from Bronn’s words, Jaime remarked lowly, “I don’t care what’s sung about me when I’m dead.” When they sang about him after his death, Jaime severely doubted they would say anything kind.

“No?” Bronn handed him a stick of crisped snake corpse, which seemed less than appetizing, but options were limited, “Two knights off to rescue a princess; sounds like a good song to me.”

“Sounds like all the rest,” Jaime muttered as he considered the snake, eventually driving the stick into the sand. No, he couldn’t make himself eat the damn thing. In the brief silence, he wondered if Bronn understood such a song wasn’t meant for Jaime Lannister. Bronn? Perhaps, yes. But Jaime? It did not matter if he rescued a hundred princesses or vanquished a thousand foes. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honor. These words made for a far better tale, would entice more coin.

Jaime decidedly would not linger on the notion, “What about you? What shit way would you choose?”

“In my own keep, drinking my own wine, watching my sons grovel for my fortune.”

How incredibly normal, really. Was that not the life Jaime had promised him? A castle, a wife, children. That was Bronn’s dream, then. Not saving princesses, not being the knight in shining armor, but growing old by his own design, “How disappointing.” His eyes attempted to make contact with Bronn’s, trying to read him, “I thought you’d have something more exciting planned.” Pausing a moment to really consider him, though, Jaime came to the conclusion the idea should not have surprised him.

“I’ve had an exciting life. I want my death to be boring.” That made sense. “How would you want to go?”

“In the arms of the woman I love,” Jaime responded, the question one he needed not ponder himself. There were nights chained he spent considering how he would imagine Cersei when the men Robb Stark commanded finally broke orders and murdered him. Men who hated him would not defend him forever. Of all the possibilities, he liked best to simply imagine her holding him in her arms until the end. The blonde came into this world grasping at her. It seemed only right he would leave it in her embrace.

“She want the same thing?”

Jaime stared at him, words taking time to sink in. Cersei and he had their troubles, but would she leave him to die without the comfort of her touch? Surely not. Why, then, did he pause and wonder? Why, then, did the question seem to only have one answer? No, no she wouldn’t, “Let’s go.”

They—mostly Bronn—packed up what little they had to, kicked out the fire, mapped out their direction, and began on their way. The entire time, Jaime found himself distracted with Bronn’s final question at the fire, preoccupied with why he hadn’t immediately been able to provide an affirmative answer.

“The captain of that ship—what was he, Braavosi?”

“Pentoshi,” Jaime corrected. Cersei loved him, yes. As he loved her? Was that possible anymore?

“And he’s headed to Old Town?”

“As I said,” Jaime confirmed, rather wishing Bronn would just let him think in silence. Then, Bronn didn’t ask questions just to hear his own voice. He likely had a point, “Why?”

“What’s to stop him from ducking down the coast and telling the locals that Jaime Lannister’s in Dorne?”

Nothing, really. “A bag of gold.”

“I’m not sure you understand how much people hate your family in this part of the world.”

“It was a heavy bag.”

Then, it suddenly donned on him. People hated his family. Always, people would hate his family. Him, Cersei, Tyrion, Tywin—first names made no difference. Everyone in the entire world could loathe he and Cersei, and it would not matter. They needed only each other. If Jaime were dying, Cersei would not merely hold him in her arms. She would do anything and everything in her power to prevent his passing, forbid him from abandoning her in this horrible world just as he would her. No matter how they treated each other, no matter how they may act and react, they were the only ones who mattered.

“And I bet he swore all kinds of oaths to get it, but you won’t be around if he breaks them.” And who would feel guilty breaking an oath made to Jaime Lannister, the oathbreaker himself? The sentiment didn’t matter to him now, his realization regarding Cersei lifting his spirits.

As if on cue, the sounds of horses began and drew nearer. Taking cover, Jaime peeked at the horsemen.

“How many you count?”

“Four.” Not a horrible threat, but not a simple number.

“How many do you think you can take?”

Bronn knew his abilities, by now. He’d been the one to develop them. They were beyond feigned confidence at this point, Jaime unashamedly honest, “One—“ The blonde nearly scoffed. One? Jaime Lannister, doubting he could take on just one armed horseman. There had been a time—no, no. There was no time to dwell on his past abilities. As Bronn said, unless Jaime intended to grow his hand back, what reason was there to speak as if he might? “—if he’s slow.”

The riders noticed their marks in the sand, “Fucked in the ass.” As always. Bronn stood and Jaime followed suit, allowing him to lead. If they ended up fighting, after all, their survival mostly depended on Bronn, “Morning lads. Glad we found you.”

“Who are you?”

“Cooper.” The name didn’t suit Bronn, in Jaime’s opinion. “This is Darnelle.” The Lannister hoped to the gods that name didn’t suit him either. Should he say something?

“You’re from King’s Landing.”

“Accent gave me away? Flea Bottom, whelped and whipped.” No, best to let Bronn keep speaking.

“Why are you here?” Why, indeed? His eyes drifted to Bronn.

“Our ship capsized in the night. We managed to swim ashore. It’s a near thing, really.”

“Thought the sharks would get us.” Did he honestly just say that? Were there even— “There are no sharks in Dorne.” —no, there weren’t. Jaime didn’t need to so much as glance at Bronn to know the expression on the man’s face, a smirk finding its way across the blonde’s features, unable to hide his amusement with the imagined look, “Could have sworn those were shark fins.”

At which point he finally looked to Bronn, “Dolphins maybe.” It was endearing, really, how Bronn tried to patch up his missteps. He may have died earlier today already without him.

“Throw your sword in the sand.” He may still die today, Jaime mused. Given Bronn would be doing most of the fighting, Jaime would wait for him to make the first move. He’d not engaged in true combat since losing his hand, and while he wanted to pretend to be confident, that had not worked well on every occasion. How could he flagrantly risk abandoning Cersei to this world?

“Boys, there’s no need for this. Just point us in the right direction; we’ll find our way home.”

“Swords in the sand! Now!” Clearly, they rightfully did not believe them. Perhaps it was the sharks? Jaime exchanged a glance with Bronn, placing his hand on his sword as if to follow their commands as Bronn gave affirmation with a light nod of his head. For but a moment Jaime found himself surprised his right-hand man did send his sword into the sand, but this proved to be only for show as Bronn took out one of the men with a dagger throw straight through the neck. The second fell less than a minute after, stabbed where he sat upon his horse before managing to establish proper footing. A third charged at him upon his steed, blade raised, but Bronn aimed for the horse, the animal’s scream sending the horseman sprawling to the ground.

Jaime felt the confidence draining from him with each passing second, but Bronn merely gestured with his sword to the rider pushing himself to his feet, “That one should be slow enough.”

Taking his stance, the Lannister attempted to ease his nerves. As his opponent approached, Jaime’s face settled, drawing an air of confidence around himself even if only for show, as if to reassure himself. Right hand or no, he was still Jaime Lannister. If he had become too tentative to fight, then he may as well renounce his name and never return to King’s Landing at all. Cersei mayn’t want him dead, may forbid him to die, but if he existed as Jaime Lannister only in memory, was he not dead already?

Blow after blow, the blonde managed himself rather well. Bronn deserved credit, not that the man would receive it. A sudden punch to the face midblock sent Jaime sprawling to the ground, barely avoiding a sword through his chest by rolling away, and then waterfalling down the side of the ledge of sand he’d apparently been atop of. Every strike sent him back to his knees, the leverage the horseless horseman had being at a higher position on the hill overpowering. A particularly decent swipe sent Jaime’s sword flying from his left hand, landing somewhere unknown as his opponent raised his sword to deliver a final blow.

The adrenaline was wicked, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, lungs tight, unable to draw in enough oxygen. His life flashed before his eyes—his sister primarily—when a resounding thunk caught his attention. In his desperation, Jaime had wrapped his fingers around the man’s blade when it came crashing upon him. Only, they had stopped the blade. While his mind registered fingers of flesh, the truth of the relatively hollowed gilded steel had ensnared the blade.

His eyes scanned for his lost sword, reaching and grabbing it quickly enough to drive it directly through the rider’s heart before the man had the chance to release his weapon. He growled as his foot kicked the body down the hill, forcing the other’s grip on the sword still embedded in his hand to release.

“Nice move.” The voice reached Jaime, but it seemed to come from far away. He shifted his gaze back to the top of the hill, where Bronn now stood. The danger had passed, and so the adrenaline trickled away, leaving pain in its wake. Jaime breathed heavily, fighting not to let the agony show. There was no skin and bone, no flesh for the sword to have driven into. The immense pain, the unfortunately familiar burning sensation in the invisible hand simply could not exist. Whether or not he was losing his mind, Jaime decidedly kept such concerns to himself, “Luck.”

“You had a wonderful teacher.” Bronn turned and walked off. As he did, Jaime realize just how embedded the sword was in the metal of his hand. Possibly broke into the hollow, if he had to guess. Not overly likely, though, given the steel beneath the gold. He shook at the lodged weapon for several seconds before finally kicking it off with his foot, considering how long he might go before surveying the damage done to the material. Jaime didn’t wish to augment the now intense burning sensation with the sight of damaged gold flesh.

“Always wanted a Dornish stallion.” The pain plagued him as he forced himself to climb the hill, taking one step at a time, “Beasts can run a day and night without tiring." His eyes now and again drifted to the sliced glove, the glint of burning metal underneath peeking out at him, “We’ll ride to the Water Gardens—" This had happened before, both at the onset and here and there ever after, but never had it been this intense. He toyed with the notion that the blow to his prosthetic, and therefore to the stump, had induced the sensation, “—with a nice breeze in our face.” Only, how could it have? Then, would not only the stump hurt? Why—no, how could air burn like fire upon nonexistent skin?

Bronn’s words weighed heavily on him, Jaime making an excuse not to begin riding immediately, “First we need to bury these bodies.” The blonde could not ride now, not this moment, not with the burning, not when the jostling may only make it worse. Would that he lacked the shame to simply tell him and remove his hand, but he did not have it in himself to allow for it.

“Birds have to eat too.”

Jaime would rather come off as an ass than as genuinely compromised, “Corpses raise questions.” This was not untrue. “Questions raise armies.” Jaime might even convince himself of the need for it, speaking like this. “We’re not here to start a war.”

“Do you know how long it will take us to dig all those holes?” Digging would be worse than riding. Jaime had covered up his agony thus far, what would another step do? In truth, he appreciated Bronn immensely, but he needed time alone to attempt to manage this pain.

“I can’t dig very well with one hand,” Jaime stated, careful to look directly at Bronn as he spoke, “Not at all, really.” The words lacked any trace of amusement, of teasing or taunting. The Lannister couldn’t even bring himself to offer a smirk, a grin, whatever he attempted more pained than sincere. He turned away and walked off a few steps to discourage disagreement.

Bronn either understood the circumstances or accepted Jaime was in fact that much of an asshole. Either way, it bought the blonde some much needed time to recollect himself.

@wineinthewidow [As requested <3] @thesellsword [I tag you because I thought of you the whole damn time.]

#drabble #or rather started as a drabble #Jaime Lannister #Bronn of the Blackwater #[the right hand i lost: Bronn]#Bronn/Jaime #and what do I do on my unexpected day off?#tw: phantom limb pain #oh and the dialogue is directly from the scene in the show #not mine #show-verse

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storyswept · 7 years ago

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Valyrian Steel Remembers : A Theory about Ice, Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper (Part IV)

Welcome to the fourth (and last) part of this essay.

Links to the previous installments: Part I, Part II, Part III

Previously, I discussed the changes in Ice’s Valyrian steel and how it might have been stained by blood and soul like in the tale of Lightbringer’s forging.

This time we’re going to focus on the role(s) Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper might have in the narrative.

Widow’s Wail, Oathkeeper and The Long Night

Both Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper are Valyrian steel blades. For this reason alone, they could be useful in the fight against the White Walkers. It’s been suggested in “A Feast for Crows” that Others are vulnerable to Valyrian steel:

"The armor of the Others is proof against most ordinary blades, if the tales can be believed," said Sam, "and their own swords are so cold they shatter steel. Fire will dismay them, though, and they are vulnerable to obsidian." He remembered the one he had faced in the haunted forest, and how it had seemed to melt away when he stabbed it with the dragonglass dagger Jon had made for him.

"I found one account of the Long Night that spoke of the last hero slaying Others with a blade of dragonsteel. Supposedly they could not stand against it."

"Dragonsteel?" Jon frowned. "Valyrian steel?"

- AFFC, Samwell I

But there’s plenty of evidence indicating both blades could have an even bigger role to play in the Long Night to come.

1) It’s mentioned several times how both blades are “unique”, because of their peculiar coloring.

“The colors are strange,” he commented as he turned the blade in the sunlight. (...)

“A crimson sword might flash prettily in the sun, but if truth be told I like these colors better,” said Tyrion. “They have an ominous beauty … and they make this blade unique. There is no other sword like it in all the world, I should think.” “There is one.” The armorer bent over the table and unfolded the bundle of oilcloth, to reveal a second longsword.

- ASOS, Tyrion IV

“Is this Valyrian steel? I have never seen such colors.”

- ASOS, Jaime IX

2) There’s foreshadowing for the blades to be involved in an heroic deed.

“A sword to sing of, sire,” said Lord Redwyne.

“A king’s sword,” said Ser Kevan Lannister. King Joffrey looked as if he wanted to kill someone right then and there, he was so excited. He slashed at the air and laughed.

“A great sword must have a great name, my lords! What shall I call it?”

- ASOS, Sansa IV

As Joff drew his sword, Margaery laid a hand on his arm to restrain him. "Widow's Wail was not meant for slicing pies."

- ASOS, Tyrion VIII

When she slid Oathkeeper from the ornate scabbard, Brienne's breath caught in her throat. Black and red the ripples ran, deep within the steel. Valyrian steel, spell-forged. It was a sword fit for a hero. When she was small, her nurse had filled her ears with tales of valor, regaling her with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. Each man bore a famous sword, and surely Oathkeeper belonged in their company, even if she herself did not. "You'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel," Jaime had promised.

- AFFC, Brienne I

3) Another connection to the forging of Lightbringer is hidden in one of Brienne’s chapters: three swords, the last of which is Oathkeeper, are mentioned in the following quote.

Her scabbard was a plain thing, wood wrapped in cracked brown leather, and her sword was plainer still. She had bought it in King's Landing, to replace the blade the Brave Companions had stolen. Renly's sword. It still hurt, knowing she had lost it.

But she had another longsword hidden in her bedroll. She sat on the bed and took it out. Gold glimmered yellow in the candlelight and rubies smoldered red. When she slid Oathkeeper from the ornate scabbard, Brienne's breath caught in her throat. Black and red the ripples ran, deep within the steel. Valyrian steel, spell-forged. It was a sword fit for a hero. When she was small, her nurse had filled her ears with tales of valor, regaling her with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. Each man bore a famous sword, and surely Oathkeeper belonged in their company, even if she herself did not. "You'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel," Jaime had promised.

- AFFC, Brienne I

4) Jaime had an interesting dream in “A Storm of Swords”, involving Brienne, darkness and burning swords (among others).

[Cersei’s] torch was the only light in the cavern. Her torch was the only light in the world. She turned to go. “Stay with me,” Jaime pleaded. “Don’t leave me here alone.” But they were leaving.

“Don’t leave me in the dark!” Something terrible lived down here.

“Give me a sword, at least.”

“I gave you a sword,” Lord Tywin said. It was at his feet. Jaime groped under the water until his hand closed upon the hilt. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have a sword.

As he raised the sword a finger of pale flame flickered at the point and crept up along the edge, stopping a hand’s breath from the hilt.

The fire took on the color of the steel itself so it burned with a silvery-blue light, and the gloom pulled back. Crouching, listening, Jaime moved in a circle, ready for anything that might come out of the darkness.

From behind came a great splash. Jaime whirled toward the sound … but the faint light revealed only Brienne of Tarth, her hands bound in heavy chains. “I swore to keep you safe,” the wench said stubbornly. “I swore an oath.” Naked, she raised her hands to Jaime. “Ser. Please. If you would be so good.” The steel links parted like silk. “A sword,” Brienne begged, and there it was, scabbard, belt, and all. (...)

Brienne’s sword took flame as well, burning silvery blue. The darkness retreated a little more.

(...)

Tell me, Jaime. What lives here? What lives in the darkness?”

“Doom.” No bear, he knew. No lion. “Only doom.”

(...) there came two riders on pale horses, men and mounts both armored. The destriers emerged from the blackness at a slow walk. They make no sound, Jaime realized. No splashing, no clink of mail nor clop of hoof. He remembered Eddard Stark, riding the length of Aerys’s throne room wrapped in silence. Only his eyes had spoken; a lord’s eyes, cold and grey and full of judgment.

“Is it you, Stark?” Jaime called. “Come ahead. I never feared you living, I do not fear you dead.” Brienne touched his arm. “There are more.” He saw them too.

They were armored all in snow, it seemed to him, and ribbons of mist swirled back from their shoulders.

- ASOS, Jaime VI

Now, in Jaime’s dream, the riders turned out to be the dead members of the Kingsguard accompanied by Rhaegar Targaryen. But if you compare the description above with the ones mentioning the Others, you get more than a few similarities:

The Others made no sound.

(...)

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.

- AGOT, Prologue

Tormund turned back. "You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up … how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

- ADWD, Jon XII

When the swords burned in Jaime’s dream, “the darkness retreated”, just like in a certain prophecy:

"In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him."

- ACOK, Davos I

Will Widow’s Wail and Lightbringer bring the dawn?

It’s a possibility, though the prophecy mentioned only one sword, and there are of course, other Lightbringer candidates, like Stannis’ sword, the ancestral sword of the Dayne’s (Dawn) or Daenerys’ dragons.

Ice could be reforged, but considering two swords appeared in Jaime’s dream, it might not be until after the White Walkers are defeated (if they’re defeated).

I mentioned dragons because the original Lightbringer seemed to kill in a manner very reminiscent of them:

"I looked at that book Maester Aemon left me. The Jade Compendium. The pages that told of Azor Ahai. Lightbringer was his sword. Tempered with his wife's blood if Votar can be believed. Thereafter Lightbringer was never cold to the touch, but warm as Nissa Nissa had been warm. In battle the blade burned fiery hot. Once Azor Ahai fought a monster. When he thrust the sword through the belly of the beast, its blood began to boil. Smoke and steam poured from its mouth, its eyes melted and dribbled down its cheeks, and its body burst into flame."

- ADWD, Jon III

There’s no guarantee that if a new Lightbringer emerges, it will kill just the same way, however.

Blood, Fire and Rubies

While the blood that is now present in Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper represents the Stark blood that was spilled, I can’t help but wonder if there’s another meaning to the color change.

Consider this: the blades made from Ice have ripples, “like night and blood upon some steely shore“ and their hilts were set with rubies, because “Garnets lack the fire.” (ASOS, Tyrion IV)

“Rubies,” Sansa said, lost. “What rubies?”

Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid.

“Rhaegar’s rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown.”

- AGOT, Sansa I

Blood... Fire... That sounds very Targaryen.

To further the parallel, the Targaryens had two Valyrian steel blades also: Dark Sister and Blackfyre.

I’m not sure how to interpret this.

It could be that Jon, who has both Stark and Targaryen blood, will find himself wielding one of the swords. He dreamed of wielding Ice, once.

When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother's birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice.

(...)

He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon's mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. I will not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. Yet he could scarcely tell Lord Mormont that it was another man's sword he dreamt of …

- AGOT, Jon VII

Perhaps with garnets for the eyes . . ." "Rubies," Lord Tywin said. "Garnets lack the fire."

- ASOS, Tyrion IV

At [Melisandre’s] throat, her ruby gleamed, a third eye glowing brighter than the others. Jon had seen Ghost's eyes blazing red the same way, when they caught the light just right.

- ADWD, Jon VI

Another possibility is that it hints to a Stark-Targaryen alliance. I know it has been theorized that House Stark will eventually unite with another House, mirroring Henry VII’s marriage to Elisabeth of York after the War of the Roses.

I’m open to other explanations.

Conclusion

Ice’s Valyrian steel changed noticeably since the beginning of the series. Lady and Eddard Stark’s death, both dealt by the sword in “A Game of Thrones” could have been the triggers for this change. Links to the forging of Lightbringer and to the prophecy of Azor Ahai Reborn suggest that Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper will play a role in the Long Night.

The fact that both swords seem to have taken on colors close to the Targaryens ones, raises questions.

THE END

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf meta #lady the direwolf #sansa stark #eddard stark #ice #widow's wail #oathkeeper #brienne of tarth #jaime lannister #original post

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