#pretty rhythm dear my future spoilers

[dial-tone]

Hi I am not sure what to put here but it occurs to me that most people do not have a reason to check for new pretty rhythm fics even somewhat regularly so please take my angst fic about Kaname and Aira during a certain (late-ish season) arc of dear my future. Hope you enjoy if you read it!

[doki-doki-imagines]

Can you write earrhrealmers feel about an s/o that likes giving them head? Like, it’s a hobby at this point 🤣👀

author note: the request is nsfw, but the hcs are suggestive, so no action is described! Spoiler: most of them are more than fine with lol

Johnny Cage: -Does he seem worried to you? You could spend your entire holidays between his legs, and Johnny wouldn't complain. -Do that in the seat of his car or in an empty theater, and Johnny will see stars, planets, and universes, from his mouth a river of compliments for your good work. -But what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't return the favour? Get ready, Liu Kang gifted him with those hands, and they aren't there just to be looked at.

Kenshi Takahashi: -With his highlighted senses, every time you go down on him, Kenshi thinks to go a bit crazy. -His tattooed hand running on your head, not setting a rhythm, just touching you. -Honestly? He wouldn't mind if you stayed there forever. -But Kenshi is a nice guy, you know? After you finish, he'll tap his lap, prompting you to sit on it. -It's your turn sugar, and you'll stay there for as long as he wants to.

Raiden: -He isn't that much at ease? Don't misunderstand, Raiden loves to look at your face, at your lips taking him so nicely, but- -He just prefers to be the one on his knees for you, lavishing you in compliments at each whine and twitch your body makes. -Raiden won't make you go at it more than once, he enjoyes it, clearly, if the words that leave his mouth mean something you should feel more than proud of yourself, he just can't wait to get his hands, and mouth, on you. -"Thank you, strawberry. Now it is my turn." -Why strawberry? Because Raiden says you taste as sweet as one on his tongue.

Kung Lao: -Baby, go at it as much as you want. -Lao will look at you, hands behind his head, enjoying the sight like you are his favourite movie. -For sure, the imagine will stay in his head for long, at times becoming an intrusive thought while he is working. -Lao showers you with compliments, getting sweeter and sickening the nearest he gets to his apex. -He'll return the favour, but give him a few minutes. It's hard to go back to Earth when you are in paradise.

Liu Kang: -"It seems you enjoy getting on your knees for your God." He says, lifting your chin up with his index finger, smirk plastered on his face. -Can you tell he is enjoying this? Because he totally does. -One of the few that worry for your jaw, maybe he has seen something in your future? "Thanks, dear one-" He says, brushing away the hair that are stuck on your face "Now it is my turn to thank you."

Geras: -He doesn't feel that much mortal needs, so for sure, he won't ask for that. -But since you seem to enjoy it so much, Geras won't stop you. -But don't be too pushy, Geras is a busy guy, and at times, too much physical touch overwhelms him.

Bi-Han: -You don't have time to act of your own volition that his hand is already grabbing your hair and pushing you on your knees. -It would be terribly rude if Bi-Han didn't do that exactly when you want to go down on him. Does he have a sensor? Do you have a particular look in your eyes? -You'll never know because Bi-Han will rather die than admit that he knows you and your body reaction like the back of his hands. -He will be harsh and fast. If you want to suck him so much, you have to be ready to be used as he prefers. -It won't last long, tho. Bi-Han prefers to be the one on his knees for you.

Kuai Liang: -He is particularly busy with work…doesn't mean he always has a moment for you. -He thanks you the entire time. You don't know how relaxing it is receiving this for Liang. -Like, if you want rough, he can do it, switching pretty fast. -At the end, he'll thank you anyway. -"My little spark, you are amazing. Let me return the favour now."

Tomas Vrbada: -Really? You want to do that to him. Blood is pumping dangerously fast. -It's one of the few moments Tomas has control, so he will be pretty rough. -Tap if it is getting too much! He still isn't used to this and can't control his strength well. -The last thing Tomas wants is to hurt you. He'd feel so bad afterwards that he would avoid you as much as he can. -So sit him down and tell him you'll learn and improve together; a sigh of relief will leave his mouth. -"So…wanna try now?"

[kingchessmon]

[lavendersb]

Our Ultimatum

Chapter 1: Charity 

Boba Fett x Reader

Summary: Finding yourself stuck between a rock and a hard place, you take a gamble and seek the mercy of the new ruler of Tatooine.

Warnings: Spoilers for S2 Ep8 (It’s set some time after the end credit scene), implied age gap, Boba flirting the entire time, mentions of slavery, gratuitous use of the phrase ‘little one’

This is just an excuse for me to be h*rny over king boba i’m so sorry, the smut will probably be in the next chapter! 

Things couldn’t get much worse.

Life had never been easy on Tatooine. With the harsh weather, the hellish wildlife, and the abundance of seedy criminals there wasn’t too much to celebrate on the planet that you had grown up on. You’d always been conscious of the risk of poverty, on this desert world it seemed almost everyone was working off their last credits and thankfully you’d always managed to make yours stretch.

That was until a few cycles, ago when things had taken a turn for the worst.

You see, though the rebellion had brought with it many prosperous outcomes, like the end of the Empire and a half-decent attempt at eradicating slavery, it had also caused a few problems. Tatooine, being the hub of criminal activity that it was had faced a rather thorough clean-up, and the New Republic had pretty much scared away the local bounty hunters guild, taking with it most of the planets custom. Since then raiders seemed to pillage every town on a near weekly basis, leaving you and many others penniless and desperate.

You’d just managed to scrape by, but since losing your job and being evicted from your sorry excuse for a home you’d been faced with a tough decision. One that had lead you on this perilous trek through the desert.

With just the clothes on your back and a small satchel of your few personal belongings, you were headed to Jabba’s Palace, or at least the palace that had once belonged to Jabba the Hutt. Since the death of the Huttese criminal overlord, the Palace had changed hands many times, most recently into the possession of a notorious bounty hunter with a growing monopoly on the criminal underworld. You didn’t know much about this new leader, other than the fact he ran a tight ship, but sadly he might be your only hope.

You’d heard stories of destitute citizens like yourself travelling the Dune Sea to offer their services to the Hutts, a life of slavery in exchange for a roof overhead and a meal every-day. Much more than what most could expect living free. You could only hope that this new leader would be open to the same sort of offers. You’d never thought you’d end up in this situation, but the universe works in mysterious ways.

The palace was a great, monstrous thing towering high above the rocks and dunes surrounding it. You’d once heard it had as many floors underground as it did above, even containing its own exotic animal menagerie. Perhaps you’d soon find out for yourself if that were true.

“What business do you have here?” an armoured guard called out as you approached the doorway to the palace’s main tower.

Adjusting your grip on your satchel, you try to regulate your breathing.

“I’ve come to see Boba Fett,” you announce in what you hope is a determined tone.

The guard seems unconvinced, turning to his partner and laughing beneath his leather helmet. Suddenly you feel very small, and painfully aware of how pitiful you must look right now.

“He’s a busy man,” The guard says, turning back to you “He doesn’t have time to talk to kids like you”

“If I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve come here to offer my services” You snap back, angered by his patronising tone.

The guard bristles, incensed by your little outburst. He shifts his weight and raises his blaster slightly, just enough for you to feel the threat there, but before he can respond his partner interjects.

“Look, sweetheart, this isn’t the place for you. Go back to town and don’t worry yourself with what goes on in here. It’s grizzly business.”

He’s right. You can feel how out of place you are, but right now that just isn’t an option for you. The only thing waiting for you back in Mos Eisley is an empty stomach, your only shot at a future is behind those big metal doors.

Slowly you reach for your pocket, bringing out your last fistful of credits and holding them out in front of you. It’s laughable really, barely enough to buy a bottle of Spotchka and yet it’s all you’ve got to bribe your way in.

“This is all I have left. You can have it if you let me inside”

The guards stare at the pile of credits for a moment, before the first one reaches forward and takes the whole lot.

“Fine. If you’re so sure it’s what you want” he snaps, motioning for his other (and arguably nicer) partner to let you in.  

The guard opens a small door behind him, ushering you through ahead of him. You try to ignore the look of pity he gives you as you step past him.

You emerge into a large, cavernous hall dimly lit with warm lights that hang suspended from wires of various lengths from the ceiling. Distantly you can hear the sound of many people talking and laughing, perhaps some music too. In the centre of the room, a wide descending staircase leads to the lower levels, curving off to the left and into the darkness. It sounds like that’s where all the noise is coming from.

The guard nudges your shoulder softly, gesturing towards the stairs.

You descend into what might be the busiest, loudest room you’ve ever been in. Filled with all sorts of species conversing loudly in groups all over the room, underscored by music that emanates from somewhere you can’t see. It’s dimly lit with a low ceiling that makes it feel like the room is about to collapse in on you, and the gravity of your situation slowly starts to dawn on you.

The guards were right, this Boba Fett really is busy, and you know you don’t belong here.

“He’s up there. Say what you need to say and try not to get me into trouble” the guard says, before stepping back against the wall and out of sight.

You look to where he had pointed, and instantly your blood runs cold. At the back of the room, sat on a raised dais and surrounded by the fiercest looking soldiers you’ve ever seen is the man you’ve come here for. He sits sprawled across a large stone chair- no, throne in his green Mandalorian armour that seems almost black in the low light. He has his face turned towards a woman beside him, her dark hair plaited tightly on her head as she nods along to what he says.

As though she has felt your stare she looks up. Saying something you can’t quite make out, she refocuses the armoured mans attention to you, and now, even from the other side of the room you burn something fierce under their combined gaze.

Boba Fett readjusts himself on the throne, spreading his legs just a fraction wider in a way that is both devastatingly inviting and frighteningly dangerous. He tilts his head, and you take this as your cue to step forward, weaving through the crowd until you reach the space before the dais.

“Are you lost, little one?”

Oh dear.

His voice rings out clear despite the noise around you. His pitch is low and measured, and pierces right into you. For a moment he’s rendered you useless, until you remember he asked you a question.

“No,” you respond in a voice you hope is as clear as his.

He huffs out an amused laugh and tilts his helmet. A few of the soldiers that surround him have turned their attention to your conversation as well.

“Forgive me. It’s not very often I get to see pretty things like you down here. As you can see I move in very specific circles” He gestures with his fingers, and you follow where he points.

Not that you needed to. You’ve been well aware from the minute you set foot down here that you don’t blend in with the numerous bounty hunters and criminals that fill the palace.

“But it seems you’ve come here with a purpose. What can I help you with?” Boba says, leaning forward slightly.

Right, you’ve practiced this. You had plenty of time whilst walking the desert to plan what you were going to say, and now as you face Boba Fett in all his imposing majesty, you’re infinitely glad you did. You probably couldn’t voice an original thought right now even if you tried, not with the nerves coursing through you under Boba’s unwavering gaze. You take a slight breath, ready to begin your well-rehearsed spiel.

“I have nothing. No money, no food. I’ve heard the stories about the people who came here looking to work in exchange for shelter- “

“You mean the slaves?” The dark-haired woman interrupts, throwing you off your rhythm and forcing the words to die on your tongue.

“Well… yes” you say, barely above a whisper.

“How dare you?” Hisses a zabrak bounty hunter that’s been lurking beside the throne “comparing our actions to that of the Hutts?”

The zabrak jumps down from the raised stone plinth, stalking towards you and causing you to shrink away. You’ve barely opened your mouth and already you’ve managed to ruin things. Honestly, you wish the ground would swallow you up.

“That’s enough, I’ve taken no offence” Boba warns, and the zabrak eases off slightly “but you should know we don’t do that here. Strangely enough there is some semblance of morality among us”

“I’m sorry” you offer lamely, hoping to repair some of the damage done in this conversation.

Boba studies you from beneath his visor for a moment, before offering out his hand to you.

“Come here” he asks, and not wanting to cause any more offence, you comply

Tentatively you step forward, eyeing the leering zabrak cautiously before taking Boba’s hand. Your hand fits neatly into the leather of his gloved palm, and he easily helps you up onto the dais to stand directly before him. Boba inspects your face again.

“You look tired, little one. Did you walk across the Dune Sea?” You faintly notice he hasn’t released your hand yet, still clasping it gently in his. You nod, not trusting your words just yet. Boba makes a quiet sound of sympathy that makes your heart flutter, much to your horror.

“And where did you walk from? Where’s home to you?”

His voice has dropped so it’s barely a whisper, a conversation just for the two of you alone.

“I don’t have a home.”

Boba doesn’t respond right away, instead reaching up to thumb the threadbare and sandy material of your tunic. He does so for a moment, seemingly lost in his thoughts before snapping his head up to face you.

“You must be tired. Follow my friend here, she’ll take you somewhere you can rest,” Boba points to the dark-haired woman beside him “Her name is Fennec.”

Shocked by his response, you can only babble out a strangled little “thank you” before Fennec promptly takes you by the arm and starts leading you away. As she ushers you into the crowd again, you turn one last time to meet Boba’s visor. He gives you a nod before you disappear into a hallway.

“I’ll admit you’ve got courage coming all the way here” Fennec says as she leads you along “most people choose come by speeder, the Dune Sea is a dangerous place”

“Well, I didn’t have many other options” you say, taking in the hallways you pass through, trying to commit them to memory.

“So it seems,” she responds, before turning to face you.

“You know if you really want to work for us we could probably sort something out. We can try and find you a job that’s safe and out of the way”

You’ve stopped outside a door, and the woman quickly presses a few buttons on the keypad to open it. Inside you catch a glimpse of a room, its fairly plain but still much nicer than anything you’ve ever had before. The bed looks divine, and you can’t wait to burrow under the covers and rest.

“I’d like that” you respond with a grateful smile; glad your little insult earlier hadn’t ruined all your chances here.

“I’ll see what I can do. There’s a refresher in there. You should wash, and I’ll find you something clean to wear. Rest as long as you need.”

Thanking Fennec you head inside, dropping your bag at the foot of the bed and reaching out to feel the sheets. They’re soft to the touch, but the sand that coats your body in a fine layer falls onto it, ruining the silky texture. Stepping back you begin to strip from your clothes, unwinding the binding that seals the cuffs of your sleeves and trousers. They’re supposed to keep the sand from getting under your clothes and irritating your skin, but in their threadbare condition the bindings haven’t done their job. When you shake out your trousers, half of the Dune Sea seems to fall out of them.

The shower amazes you. It’s a decent size with strong water pressure and it takes you a few moments to figure out how to change the temperature. You take your time under the water, enjoying how relaxing it is compared to the sonic showers you had used your whole life. When you’re sure you’ve washed away all the sand on your body, you wrap yourself in one of the soft towels and pad back to the main bedroom.

Someone had left a set of new clothes for you on the bed, a simple grey tunic and loose-fitting trousers, socks, underwear, and over by the door a soft looking pair of shoes. As you change you vaguely register your growing hunger but thinking of the soft sheets and just how tired you are, you decide that’s something you’ll fix after your nap.

As you lie under the covers in silence, you can just about make out the distant sound of chatter from the throne room. If you concentrate hard enough, you think you can hear Boba, his voice cutting through the noise as he calls out words you can’t make out.

It’s plaguing your thoughts. The kindness he showed you and the feel of his hand holding yours. The way his gaze pierced you even from behind his dark visor. This bounty hunter king was not at all what you expected him to be, but funnily enough you weren’t too mad about that.

  You wake to a series of short knocks to the door.

“Hello?” you call out blearily, trying to regain your senses as you switch on the bedside lamp.

The door slides open to reveal Fennec. She steps inside, leaving the guard she brought with her in the hall and smiles at your groggy state.

“Seems you slept well” she quips.

“Yes, thank you,” you say, reaching up self-consciously to fix your hair.

“Boba wants to talk. Get yourself ready and follow the guard, he’ll take you to him” Fennec says.

The prospect of speaking to Boba again sent your mind into a frenzy. Your brief conversation earlier had left you dumbstruck, his measured tone and focused interest in you effecting your brain in an almost embarrassing way. How were you supposed to pull yourself through an entire discussion with him?

Fennec leaves you to get ready. You do your best to calm your hair, splash some water on your face, and slip on your new shoes, and as the guard leads you through the palace hallways, you work on trying to steady your nerves.

The room you’re led to is empty. It has the same stone walls and floors as the rest of the palace, and windows in the ceiling illuminate the sizeable stone table that sits at its centre. The table is set for one, with a decent amount of food and a large bottle of spotchka. You’re quickly reminded of your hunger but don’t dare take even the smallest piece of food without permission.

“You gonna eat that food or just stare at it little one?”

Boba’s voice makes you jump. Spinning around you see him standing in the doorway, hands resting on his belt as he watches you. You can’t quite manage to make your mouth work, and in the absence of a response Boba steps forward, walking past you to take a seat at the table.

“Come on then.” He points to the chair in front of the plate of food.

He doesn’t need to offer again. Even if Boba has rendered your brain useless, your stomach is still fully aware of its need for food, and you waste no time getting stuck into the meal offered to you. Boba chuckles softly at the speed at which you eat.

“Spotchka?” He lifts the bottle of glowing blue liquid.

With your mouth full, you shake your head. Boba nods and pours himself a glass instead.

You’re so preoccupied with your food that you nearly miss when the bounty hunter lowers his head and removes his helmet to drink. Suddenly your food is a lot less interesting, now your undivided attention belongs to the face of the man opposite you.

He’s older than you, that was no surprise, and handsome too in a hardened, grizzly way. The scars, however, that wrap around his handsome face have certainly piqued your interest. Of course it makes sense for a bounty hunter to have a few scars, but scars of that severity must have a particular story behind them.

“I’m not the nicest to look at, am I?” Boba quips without looking up at you. His tone is light, thankfully not offended by your staring.

“No!” You say, before you can stop yourself “Wait no…I mean… I think you’re very nice to look at”

Wow, how eloquent.

Boba seems to find your flustered state very amusing, laughing lowly as he looks at you over the rim of his glass.

“Well thank you, and I’ll be sure to thank the sarlacc for not maiming all of my face”

A sarlacc? Well that certainly explains the scarring, but how could anyone survive a sarlacc pit? It seems that the more you learn about this bounty hunter king, the more questions you’re faced with. Your face must give away your thoughts, as just when you open your mouth to question him he pipes up again.

“You’re an open book little one, I’ll tell you about it some other time. Now though, I want to talk about you” He says, placing down his spotchka.

You tell him nearly all of your life story, from your name to your rather precarious financial situation and Boba listens diligently despite your babbling. By the time you’ve finished explaining to him the decision you had made to come to the palace, Boba has sat back in his chair, studying you.

“I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality so far, its far more than I deserve after the way I spoke to you earlier,” You conclude, but Boba wave his hand in dismissal.

“It’s hardly an issue, your courage and honesty endeared me to you” he says, “but I want to do one thing more for you,”

“Yes?” you prompt softly.

“I’m going to take you up on your offer. I’ll give you work, and you can stay here at the palace, but I will be paying you a salary.” He lets the offer hang in the air. You’re too shocked to respond, this is much more than you thought you’d be given.

“You’d be free to leave our employment at any time, and you can stay in the palace for as little or as long as you want. I want you to understand you won’t be a slave here, you’ll always have your own autonomy,” He elaborates.

This is certainly not what you expected from such a hardened figure. It seemed almost comical for the leader of the criminal underworld to be offering you, a nobody, this level of charity. It baffled you.

“I- thank you,” you respond, mouth numb with shock and unable to fully articulate yourself.

Boba downs the last of his spotchka before fixing his helmet and rising.

“You’re very welcome. Finish your food, little one. We’ll find you some work in the morning.” Boba turns to exit, leaving you alone at the table with your mind running a mile a minute to process your new situation. Jumping up from your chair, you go to stop him before he leaves.

“Wait,” you say, reaching out to grab his arm. He turns back to face you quickly, and for a moment you worry that you’ve overstepped a boundary by laying hands on him. When the scolding you’re anticipating doesn’t come, you continue.

“I don’t understand, why help me like this?”

Boba cocks his head.

“Why would I not?” He says simply.

“You could have just accepted my original proposition or sent me away.”

“Do you want me to send you away?” Boba quips. Leaning towards you, you can almost hear his teasing grin behind his visor.

“No,” you respond.

“Must a man always have a reason for his ways?” He reaches out to smooth the collar of your tunic, letting his fingers skim across your collar bone.

For some reason you’re not entirely convinced by his answer, but the feeling of his touch does a remarkable job at diverting your attention. His fingers follow the tunic’s neckline, stopping when he reaches the lowest point of the shallow v neck. He lingers there for a second before raising his hand to tap your chin with the back of his curled forefinger and let out an amused little huff at your dumbstruck expression.

“I’ll see you soon, little one.”

[incorrectprettyrhythm]

(after PURETTY won the show against MARs thanks to Hye In performing Road to Symphonia)

So Min: That was amazing, Hye In!

Hye In: Thanks, So Min!

So Min: Just in case, I had an AED, stretcher, and a coffin prepared, but turns out they weren’t necessary at all!

Hye In: Wait, wasn’t something that doesn’t belong in there?!

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Struggles of a God

This is a piece commissioned by the very lovely @mineko811 Thank you for the opportunity to try something new, my dear. 

Prompt: Angst, Kenshin, in the Sengoku during winter with sake. (after meeting Mai).

Warning: One Fluffle Lord attempting to deal with those familiar and unhelpful voices in his mind as he adjusts to a new relationship. **Spoiler type info referenced in this fic too.**

Masterlist

---

Struggles of a God

If you had told Kenshin Uesugi that this day would come he would have struck you down where you stood. To think that he would once more be faced with the callus emotion called love. It was like an illness, creeping in and seeping into every pore of his being until finally, it took hold. Rooted somewhere inside him trapping him in its suffocating grasp.

He had been sitting statuesque in the castle garden now for hours. His hair and cloak were dusted in fine powdered snow from where the wind would pick up and carry the frozen flakes around him. He made no attempt to brush them off or to move. He simply watched as the snow spiralled and danced in the breeze. A frozen waltz in the air that seemed to be both beautiful and dangerous, something he could appreciate.

The quiet solitude of the garden used to bring him a fraction of what he could process as peace in his mind. Now however it seemed that everywhere he looked he was reminded of his beloved. The rock formations under the blanket of pure white snow where flowers and plants had once stood tall and proud. Removed and replaced during that time when his desire to overprotect was his one true driving force. Everything had changed after she had come to him. His once closed off world, all small and dark suddenly opened in a vast expanse before him. She did that. She shone her innocent, pure light on his barren cold little world. She pushed back the darkness that surrounded him and cleared the heaviness he had felt in his heart all these years. Shingen called her an Angel and he found himself agreeing in his own mind even as he chastised the other man for being a flirt.

It seemed for all the times that the claws of anxiety threatened to drag him back into that void she had somehow effortless found a way to brush those claws aside and bring him back. When she was by his side, he truly did feel invincible. He knew he was not a God. He was just a mortal man but for her, he could be as strong as any deity. The issues came when he was faced with leaving her to go away and perform his duties in the province. His mind was constantly drifting in a nervous flux with thoughts of her. What was she doing? Where was she? Was she alright? Who was she speaking too? That last question was one that constantly resurfaced driving him slowly mad.

Thoughts swirled in the shadows of his mind taking form as figures around her. Observing her as he wanted to. Touching her as he wanted too. Hearing her voice… her laughter. Being close enough to see the changes play out on her face as she went about her daily life. It sat cold and heavy in his chest as he also tried to remember their promises to each other. Promises like a spell that cast her warmth into that chilling mass melting it, relieving some of his tension until he could once more return to her side.

The latest council meeting had been a joke. He hated playing host to Oda’s vassals especially that smiling hopelessly happy one. It irritated him when he heard his voice, it made his hand twitch with a desire to feel the familiar weight of Himetsuru-Ichimonji that could put a swift end to everything in the blink of an eye. But what really made his blood boil in a rolling rage was that look. Those disgusting gem like violet eyes that softened more when they looked at her. Mai.  It wasn’t just Mitsunari Ishida either there was that Silver tongued Kitsune and that one-eyed dragon too. She was their Princess but she was HIS Goddess of War.

They were all too familiar with her. Hugging, smiling, joking… for every exchange they had, he felt another dagger twisting in him. The only thing that stayed his hand was the knowledge that if he did kill them all Mai would be beside herself with grief and hate him. He once thought he could stand that. He could take her hate if he could be sure that she was safe but now he knew better.

He trusted Mai with all his heart, he completely and unconditionally believed her when she said she was his and that all she wanted was him. When she told him she was from the future he didn’t even question it. But that did not stop the voices murmuring in his mind telling him that just because he trusted her did not mean that he could trust the men gathered around her. He stayed as composed as possible during the meeting, drinking sake more heavily than usual as they discussed what was to be done in the now allied lands to improve the land for crops after the winter season had finally slipped into spring. All too aware that as with any alliance one false move would put you at a disadvantage. Mai was his but what if Oda called for her to return to him?

Mai had sat patiently next to him. Her small figure was the only source of warmth he felt in that room. She prepared tea for them all after a maid brought in the tray. She laughed and joked with the visiting pests. She would call them “brothers” but the way those men sometimes looked at her was anything other than brotherly. Kenshin knew that look, he was almost completely certain he was not imagining it. He wanted to gather her in his arms and take her far away from them. To put her in his room and not let anyone else see her lively, beautiful expressions. To not let anyone, hear her pretty voice let alone have them be graced with her melodic laughter. He knew he couldn’t do that. He had promised he would never lock her up like that again.

So, it was here in the garden that he sat. The thoughts in his mind continuing to torment him as he wished to be stronger. Wished to have the strength to stand by her side and not feel like this. How could he return to their room and face her like this? Kenshin knew that if he saw her face, he was liable to lose control and he never wanted to hurt or scare her.

Soft footfalls muffled by the snow covering the ground drew closer. He would have drawn his blade but he knew that familiar march and who it belonged to. It matched the beating of his heart, drawing it back into a calming rhythm. A large carafe of sake was placed next to him silently on the stone seating. The anticipation that grew from that single presence and simple gesture made the air tense around them. This was not how it was supposed to be. There was not supposed to be an atmosphere like this between them.

“Are you not joining me?” Kenshin asked without turning.

“I thought you wished to be alone.” Mai responded but still made no move to leave. She was worried, he had vanished almost as soon as the council was over and she had noticed him sitting alone in the garden from the castle as she was returning to their room in search of him. He looked smaller than usual. She did have an idea that it was the old familiar problems again.

“I do. I wish to be alone… with you.” Kenshin’s words were as crisp as the frost covered snow around him. And still, he did not turn to look at her.

“Kenshin…”

“The thought of losing you scares me. It scares me far more than going into battle ever did.” There was something fragile in his tone. A delicate and dangerous as glass that was about to shatter. It made Mai’s chest tighten as she realised, she was right, a victory that she did not in any way wish to celebrate.

“I wish you would talk to me when you are like this.”

“I am talking.”

“I meant before it gets to this point.” Mai’s soft voice reached his ears as she sighed and continued to speak her mind. “As uncertain and terrible as you are feeling right now, I don’t think you realise how seeing you like this makes me feel. How your pain echoes inside me and how helpless that makes me feel to know I can do nothing to make you feel better. You are not alone Kenshin.”

“Mai. You do. Your very existence helps me.” He offered up his words as he turned to her in the hope that he could make her feel better. She was right, he had come out here ignoring the ramifications of his actions knowing that she was by far the kindest and most caring person he had ever met and not once thought that she might be worried about him. Why was he like this? What had him falling back into old ways?

“Does it? Kenshin you are still not talking to me when you are obviously feeling upset. I thought we promised to talk and share that with each other.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry my love. I’m a weak man.” She was right. They had promised and yet he still felt like he had to be the one to shoulder most of the concerns. Especially when it came to the voices in his head.

“Kenshin you aren’t. You are one of the strongest men I know.” Her honest declaration hit him like a slap in the face. He was being a fool.

“No, you don’t understand. I am weak. I am weak because whenever I think of you I feel so totally helpless. I am always thinking of you Mai. I love you.”

“I know… it is the same for me.” Mai gave him a reassuring smile as silence washed over them. Kenshin found himself captivated by her once more. The purity of her surrounded in the virgin white landscape of the castle grounds. She really did look like an angel.

“You are not drinking?” Kenshin looked at the carafe she had brought out. It was easily large enough for both of them to enjoy.

“Oh… I didn’t bring a cup.”

“I didn’t ask about a cup.” Kenshin’s two beautiful mismatched eyes snapped back to her own causing her heart to jump in her chest. Something was different again. He had seemed so small and lonely and now… he looked like a man with a plan. The smile that pulled the edges of his lips was a signal that sent a thrilling jolt up her spine.

“Wha- EK!” Mai cried out as Kenshin swiftly wrapped his hand around her waist and placed her firmly on his lap locked in his arms. *giggle* “Kenshin what do you think you are doing? People will see.” She playfully wriggled in place but it was a futile effort as neither of them wished to move.

“Impossible, I forbade them from looking at us when we are together remember? Now be a good girl and drink up.”

“I know but… Mhm!” Her words were cut short as his warm lips found hers. Her eyes widened for the briefest of moments before she accepted his kiss and the mouthful of sake she had no idea he had even taken before latching on to her lips.

He knew this was childish. He knew it was a feeble attempt to hide his own insecurities from the one person who had always seen right through them from the moment they met. And still, he couldn’t control himself. He continued to drink and share the sake mouth to mouth with Mai. Enjoying the subtle changes that took place in its flavour as it mingled with both her presence and familiar taste.

After some time, they returned to their room. Both feeling lighter for their conversation in the garden and hopelessly content tangled up in each other’s arms in the futon. As Kenshin slowly stroked his fingers through Mai’s hair he focused on her soft breathing. How her breath trickled out and moved over his skin. The warmth of her body and how her smell calmed every fibre of his mind and body. She was alive. She was here and she was his. His love, his life and his very own Goddess of War.

“Sleep well, my love.” He pressed his lips gently to her forehead so as not to wake her. Relishing the little sigh that escaped her lips as he did so. “I will always protect you. But I will kill anyone that looks at you the way I do.”

---

[pipesflowforeverandever]

11 and 7 :0c

11: What do you like best about this fic?

Of the fic itself: The gradual buildup to and then the reveal of anything to do with Joey; delving into Sammy’s religiosity and mindset; creating a female character I can be proud of.

Of writing it: Seeing people analyze it and see everything I intended and then some, and then gush about it. 

7: Where did the title come from?

As a heads up, a lot of these refer to things in each arc so if you don’t want spoilers for parts you haven’t read (and don’t want to be spoiled ofc), I wouldn’t read about the titles you haven’t gotten through yet. It especially includes the major plot twist in ARITR and the end/climax of the whole series.

Hymns of Struggle: This was the very first thing I had to name, and I don’t remember a lot about the process, but I think I was just especially thinking of things I wanted to convey in a way that sounds good. “Hymns” fits both musicality and religiosity, and “Struggle” conveys a feeling of, well, struggle. And together, I intended to give the idea that people are praying through their suffering, with hope (either pointless or good).

Wonders of Heresy: I wanted to keep the same basic rhythm in titles, so this is where the pattern (blank) of (blank) starts. This in particular is supposed to point out the things Francine brings that are amazing, even if they distract or go against Sammy’s faith. This goes for both her phone and new knowledge as well as her meeting Alice. I also think it especially fits the very last chapter where Sammy is trying to teach Francine how to sing/pray to the ink demon and she just… *plop* to the floor like a little kid.

Parables of Empathy: I already knew ahead of time I wanted this part to be about Francine getting to know Alice and the Projectionist better. “Parables” in this case refers to biblical lessons meant to be modeled after, and so this part is about trials Francine (and Sammy secondarily) goes through that she and others will learn from and use in the future.

Flickers of Faith: “Flickers” simultaneously refers to a flame dying and a flame sparking to life; it’s an in between state and by the name alone, you can’t really tell where you are. It’s precarious, and dangerous, and the characters both physically and emotionally are threatened. My first chapter for it is called “The Last Stair,” which tries to convey the idea that sometimes the in-between is more distressing than whatever outcome is next. And so, Sammy for the first time has doubts in his faith, and Francine for the first time begins to question what Sammy has told her and goes out to test it herself.

Tides of Longing: In Flickers of Faith, I use the title here to refer to Francine’s want of something more eating something up Sammy holds dear- if I recall right, his sense of security in the ink demon. Here, I use it to also refer to a recently revealed Joey swallowing the studio up in his curse because he longed for his son. Joey, Sammy, and Francine are all shown here to deeply want something, and they face the moral complications of the pursuit of it.

Cares of Communion: In a way similar to Parables, I knew I wanted to talk about people “communing” or talking and being together. I knew I wanted Francine to talk to Joey again- inevitably so, as they are both very drawn to one another despite justified apprehensions on both sides- and I wanted Sammy to talk to Alice after Francine met with her again. This is probably my weakest title choice, but it’s still not necessarily bad imo because it sounds good and rolls off the tongue. I want to say I changed the title at least three times, even after posting chapter 1 of it.

Dances of Duality: I was talking at either @startistdoodles or @aceofintuition‘s stream and I was asking for ideas for titles of upcoming arcs in general, and Ace suggested either the whole title or at least the Dances part. In this section, I try to make it more apparent that something deeper is happening, that there is mirroring between Joey and the rest of his studio and between Francine and Henry. 

“Dances” is both literal and figurative, of course; it can both be something fun and intimate as well as an analogy to dodging one another in a fight- predicting their next move. It goes for Joey especially as he does his best to analyze Francine while simultaneously marveling at the warmth she brings other people, and so Joey ends of in one moment letting himself go and allowing himself to enjoy the otherwise horrid, murderous whimsy/power of the studio with her…and in another moment he has to predict what she is going to do, and what the demon is going to do. And well. I actually already drafted two dancing moments prior to writing this arc, so “dances” kind of fell in my lap…and especially so with Sammy’s dance mirroring Joey’s.

A Rock in the River: I had a big, long talk with Ace about this one. I was pretty attached to the title pattern at this point, but they convinced me that the finale needed something different, because something different is happening in a major way for the story and the characters. And so the title itself represents that- a change. The path of life is being redirected by something towards another direction. 

We first came up with the idea that something nature based and/or like a fairy tale is fitting, and a lot of the analogies I use of such things (candles, bodies of water, trees, rain, etc) would be brought full circle. In particular, I was thinking about the second or third chapter of Tides where Joey is described as having the belief that time is like a river, and when Henry left, fate was going in the wrong direction. Joey had faith in magic and believed that it brought him and Henry together, and therefore as a man of magic, he had the ability to change the flow of fate and put things where they were supposed to be. Of course, he only ends up in the most ironic way shifting it entirely away with his selfishness and lack of introspection, and so no one was allowed to continue living as their were supposed to not just as employees but as human beings with proper bodies and souls that can rest in death. Time is askew and means nothing to the studio, and this is not a world these people are meant to be in. 

There’s a few people that I could say are the “rock” that comes and changes everything to the way it’s truly supposed to be; most obviously, Francine brings about change and it’s entirely plausible the studio would not be set free if not for her influence. But I also really wanna give credit to Sammy, for one. Sammy goes against everything he’s taught himself to emotionally survive what he’s been through for nearly a century- he runs away with his faith and believes in himself and his friend. He basically kills his “god” in order to set himself free, he is the change he prayed for.

 …I really, really need to mention Henry too, though. Henry changed the studio- his game-canon arrival creating the setup of Hymns- but also in his own personal story, he sought for his dad and ultimately left again after realizing (one way or another) that he not only did not change in a way that mattered- and actually got even worse as his destruction created an eternal cycle of self-hatred and perpetuated harm and possessiveness. I haven’t written about this yet, but Henry presumably had to struggle with the aftermath of his decision and try to reconcile the truth that he did what was good for himself and his family. And in the end, Henry survived and left the studio, and he had his own peace living a full life with a loving family. And Joey realizing Henry in spite of Joey’s mistakes still had his own life in his hands of course couldn’t take back everything the 50 years of believing he killed his son did to him emotionally and to the studio, but it managed to undo the knot for Joey to let go; he let go of his son, and his son saw the sun again, and so could everyone else without him. 

It’s also less directly relevant, but I feel I should be fair and give a shoutout to Alice for changing too, going from someone that harms others because she believes they’re wasting away anyway- using their bodies to make herself who she wants to be- to someone willing to throw away the body she’s worked so hard for and put her fate into someone else’s hands. She learned to love, and to let someone care for her instead even after being reaffirmed in her first life and the eternal one that no one was really looking out for her.

As another note, I also already planned out the ending where everyone is released at Joey’s “heart”- or his sacred childhood home in a beautiful, natural scene like a fairy tale, and so the title helped wrap everything full circle that way too.

[prismjumpprince]

Hello there!

I recently got a handful of new followers after posting my resin prism stones, so I figured I’d make a new intro post.

Prism Jump Prince is a blog I run as an escapism exercise and I prefer it to be fairly disconnected from my real life, and as of such I keep somewhat anonymous on here. I am male, of legal age, and I live in the USA, and I am married. I am very introverted and very anxious.

This is primarily a Pretty Rhythm/King of Prism fanblog. I particularly love Pretty Rhythm: Rainbow Live but that isn’t to say I dislike Aurora Dream and Dear My Future. I am working my way through the Pripara anime now but I’m not super far in so please no spoilers-- I also haven’t seen King of Prism: Pride the Hero yet so please no spoilers on that especially.

I don’t have any interest in real life idols for various reasons, many related to the idol industry itself, but I do like a few 2D idol series and games. I like Ensemble Stars (mostly Undead & Knights), i*chu, Lovelive, and Pythagoras Project. I also really like Idolish7 and Aikatsu, but I have only played the games, never seen the anime or read any related manga. My husband is much more into Aikatsu than I am though! I also like Yumeiro Cast, which is on topic enough. While this is primarily a Pretty Rhythm blog, I don’t consider other 2d idol fandoms to be off topic; I tag these with “not pretty rhythm” if you’re uninterested in these.

I cannot play the Pretty Rhythm or Pripara arcade games, or the Aikatsu arcade game as I live in the USA. If you live in an area with Pripara, I would love to have one of your tomotickets; I’ll pay for shipping and your trouble. I do play the 3ds games, however.

I collect prism stones, Pripara cards, Aikatsu cards, and other idol arcade game cards (like Love & Berry), and doujinshi.

For non-idol stuff I also like Yuri on Ice, Touken Ranbu, Zelda, magical girl/boy series, and a bunch of other stuff-- it’s rare I’ll post any of this here though unless it’s somehow related.

Thank you for visiting.

[millepara]

idol time pripara episode 42 spoilers (mascot-related ones)

don’t have much to say about this one bc it was just Good but

excited that the new antagonist is a mascot. just a mascot

super duper looking forward to the Morning (Chuppe) / Noon (Punicorn) / Night (Pitsuji) coords that will enable MY☆DREAM to travel back in time!! (mascots turning into coords is also very pretty rhythm...)

basically a Pitsuji-and-night-themed coord sounds like The Ultimate Coord to me

if those mascots turn into coords... surely Powan will as well? she came from the same place as the rest of them... I guess Pakku might too but it doesn’t make much sense if Pakku is the antagonist.

that’s about it, I guess. I’m not a fan of Mia or dear my future’s songs so I don’t have much to say about her performance... it was ok? I know there’s a lot of people other than me that are really happy about it though, so that’s good.

seeing Beef or Chicken or Fish in the audience before her performance made my entire day, though

next week seems to be a predictable Shion-senpai vs Nino ep, but that’s ok because I sure do love Shion-senpai and Nino and kakkin buddy. I’m listening to it now in anticipation

[scolek]

why the fuck did i cry at pretty rhythm dear my future episode 28? what the shit? 

like, this is why spoilers don’t matter if the writing is good enough. i knew what P&P’s song was about, I knew Hibiki and Rhythm had already been married for a year and a half, I knew that Kanon had accepted it. 

But it still elicited tears! The fuck is this shit?

[anoldwound]

last of the ladies - Jaime/Brienne [ASOIAF]

Title: last of the ladies Characters/Pairings: Jaime/Brienne, Sansa/Sandor, Sansa/Petyr, Sansa/Myranda Rating: PG-13 Word Count: ~10,700 Warnings: Some very mild sexual content. Summary: "She was tired, so tired, of her feelings and thoughts being deemed irrelevant while the lords made their matches and won their thrones and castles." Alayne Stone makes some new friends at the Gates of the Moon. Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, and neither does the world they inhabit. A/N:         This is part of the Made of Steel series, but can be read as a stand-alone fic. And I still haven't read A Dance With Dragons yet, so my apologies if there are any inconsistencies.    Spoilers ahead for all of the books. (also at AO3) Alayne Stone was nervous and annoyed and nibbling on the last lemon cake left. She was nervous because the wedding to Harry the Heir was mere weeks away and she wasn't ready, she was annoyed because Harry had once again made several comments to her about how she should cut down on the sweets or she would get fat, and she was nibbling on the last lemon cake because... well, because she could and she wanted to. And it was to be the very last lemon cake for some time. Winter had come to the Gates of the Moon, and lemons were in short supply now. She didn't know when she would get another chance to have her favorite dessert... one of the few remnants of her old life left. She'd hidden herself in the kitchens for the present. Down here, she didn't have to listen to ladies fussing about her, congratulating her, staring at her enviously, dubiously, asking if she was excited, giving her the side-eye and whispering “bastard” behind their hands. Their song will change at the wedding, once who I truly am is revealed, she would tell herself, but that didn't make it any easier. If anything, she dreaded it. The fake sweetness and niceties turning into just-as-fake declarations of loyalty and sisterhood. The prospect of marrying Harry was daunting as well. He was certainly a good-looking man, but not especially kind, although he did not appear to have Joffrey's cruelty. Many times he had attempted to bed her before the wedding, with charming words and sultry looks, and she could see how he had fathered two bastards already. Harry was silk and velvet and an underlying layer of something else that she couldn't name, but made her ill at ease. Alayne had tried voicing her concerns to her father, who had waved them away carelessly. “You'll come to like him enough, in time,” he'd said. “And nothing in this world is permanent, my sweet.” She didn't know what to take from that, but she was tired, so tired, of her feelings and thoughts being deemed irrelevant while the lords made their matches and won their thrones and castles. If only there was another way for me to go home, she thought, but what choice did she have? She had no other ideas – none, at least, that would give her as much power as Petyr was offering her.   “My lady?” She was startled out of her reverie by the ugliest woman she had ever seen in her entire life. Her jaw, hips, and shoulders were broad and masculine, her lips wide and swollen, and a mass of freckles covered her face, which had a large bandage covering one cheek. The woman's nose clearly had been broken numerous times, and her teeth were crooked and sticking out at odd angles. She couldn't help but pull away slightly in revulsion. Gods, what a grotesque creature. How hard her life must be. “Yes, what do you want?” The kitchen wench was impossibly tall and large in addition to being ugly, and stood over Alayne like a mountain, although she strangely did not feel threatened by her imposing presence. She was staring down at the top of Alayne's head, which she began to touch self-consciously. “What?” she asked again, annoyed. “N-nothing, I just – do you favor lemon cakes, my lady?” “Um... yes, I enjoy them, I suppose,” Alayne said carefully. The kitchen wench glanced around, then knelt to Alayne's level where she sat on the barrel. “If you like, I could make you more lemon cakes,” she whispered. “Whenever you want them.” “But how? There aren't any lemons.” “I bought an extra bag before the snows came,” the kitchen wench said. She was so unpleasantly featured that Alayne could hardly bear to look at her, so she stared at her feet instead of her face. But even her feet were freakish. “Why would you do that for me?” she asked. A pause. “No sense letting them go to waste.” Alayne suddenly felt guilty, and made herself look at the ugly woman's face. She was surprised by how pretty her eyes were – big, with long lashes, and an incredible shade of cobalt blue that you could almost swim in. “I thank you,” she said. “You're very kind to do that for a stranger. Those lemons must have been very expensive.” She shrugged, and a red blush crept up her neck. She's hiding something, Alayne thought, but for some reason didn't feel too troubled by it. “What's your name?” “Daema, my lady. Shall I make the lemon cakes for you?” “Not now. Some other time.” She stood up, and Daema the kitchen wench did the same. “May I ask your name, my lady? If I may be so bold.” “Of course. I'm Alayne Stone.” Daema raised her eyebrows. “You're to marry Harrold Hardyng. He's just inherited the Eyrie.” “Yes.” She felt her stomach turn, and went to leave. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Daema.” “Likewise, my lady.” And she did look very pleased – almost too much so. This gave Alayne some pause, but she highly doubted Cersei Lannister would have sent a woman – especially such a woman as this Daema – to drag her back to King's Landing. Besides, there was something about her that was oddly... reassuring. * * * When Alayne was examining herself in her mirror later that night, she noticed that her red roots were showing again. Oh no. She had used the last of the black dye only two weeks ago, and the wedding wasn't to be for another month. She frantically ran her palms down her scalp. Would anyone notice? Or had they noticed already? The door creaked open, and Lady Myranda Royce's face peered in. “Alayne?” She jumped back, and her hands fell to her sides. “Myranda! Hi. What – what is it?” “I was wondering if you'd like to sleep in my chambers tonight,” she said, her fingernails tapping against the oak door in a steady rhythm. “We can talk about the wedding.” “I'd rather not, if it's all the same.” She was unable to keep the venom out of her voice. “But I'll come sleep beside you anyway,” she added, more gently this time. Myranda quirked an eyebrow, and shimmied inside, closing the door behind her. “So everything isn't peaches and roses in your fairytale engagement to our Young Falcon, hmm?” “I... no, that's not what I meant. I'm quite happy. I'm excited.” “You're certainly very convincing.” Alayne sighed. “I'm just tired. It's been a long day.” Myranda pursed her lips, and seemed to be deep in thought. “On second thought, I'll sleep here tonight instead.” “No, don't trouble yourself – ” “Nonsense. I've had a long day too.” She collapsed backwards onto Alayne's bed, her arms spread out. “And your bed is so comfortable, I may fall asleep in mere moments.” “What was your day like?” Alayne sat in front of her mirror and began brushing her hair. She couldn't keep her eyes away from her roots. Please don't let her see... “Gods, don't even get me started,” she groaned, and sat up, leaning on her elbows. “Everything that could possibly go wrong! I've been trying so hard to make sure your wedding is going to be beautiful and perfect, but everyone else is making it impossible. I swear, I'll never host another wedding again as long as I live. Well, except my own.” “I'm so sorry your problems are because of me.” “Oh, it's not you, my dear. Unless you conspired with the Malloy twins to break half the strings off of the finest harp we have.” Alayne laughed. The little Malloy boys had arrived at the castle around the same time she had, and had left destruction in their wake nearly every day. “Here, let me brush your hair while you tell me of your trying day, sweetling,” said Myranda, standing up and reaching for the brush that was still in her hand. Alayne flinched away instinctively. “Oh, you don't have to...” “No, but I'd like to.” Myranda extended her hand, and Alayne reluctantly gave her the brush. Please, please don't let her see the red. “Tell me what happened with Harry.” “Nothing happened with Harry.” “Alayne. What did he do?” “He... he just said I needed to stop eating so much or I would get fat.” Myranda scoffed as she ran the soft bristles through Alayne's hair. “What an ass.” “He's probably right.” No, he isn't. He is an ass. He drinks and he's a scoundrel and I don't want to marry him. I don't want to marry anyone at all. “Don't let him get in your head like that. Trust me. You don't want to spend the rest of your life feeling inferior and subservient to Harrold Hardyng. The man may be charming and handsome, but underneath that is slime and an insatiable lust you alone will not be able to satisfy. Though I suppose I shouldn't speak of him that way to his future wife, but it's true all the same. And don't think I'm telling you this because I still want him for myself – believe me, I most assuredly do not – but you need to be prepared.” She wasn't telling her anything she hadn't already sussed out herself, but she felt grateful for Myranda's honesty. It was such a rare quality. “Please don't take it the wrong way, dear,” Myranda said soothingly, mistaking Alayne's silence for sullenness. “You're extremely beautiful, and lovely, and graceful, and by the Seven he does not deserve you.” “Thank you.” Myranda had stopped brushing her hair, and was now gazing curiously at the top of her head. Alayne's heart quickened. Oh no, no, please no – “Ah,” Myranda said, her index finger tracing the red roots of Alayne's hair. “I knew it.” “Knew – what?” “You're Sansa Stark,” she said simply. “Who?” Just play dumb, deny it, she can't prove it, she can't, she can't do anything, she can't tell anyone, no one will believe her, don't say it, don't tell her, she can't prove it if you don't say anything, deny deny deny. Myranda rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “How else could you know the name Jon Snow? And why else would you dye your hair black when it's Tully red? And Lord Petyr Baelish suddenly shows up weeks after Sansa Stark's disappearance with a bastard daughter no one has ever heard about? Not to mention it explains why Harry is marrying you. Yes, he'll be very powerful indeed. Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and the Lord of Winterfell to boot. A very nice, big slice of the pie. The two of you will be ruling over half of the Seven Kingdoms before long. It's quite genius, really. Your... 'father' is a very smart man.” She had stood up and hadn't even realized it. Every inch of her was shivering. It was like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice on her, and the cold water was settling deep into her skin. Myranda knew. She knew and there was nothing she could do to convince her otherwise. ...It was actually a relief. “You can't tell anyone,” she said, so quietly she almost couldn't hear herself. “Tell? And miss out on all the fun?” Myranda grinned at her. “Besides, I've gotten too many headaches preparing your wedding to give you up.” She squeezed her shoulder. “I like you, Sansa Stark. You should get your home back.” * * * Over the next week, Sansa – Alayne, she was still Alayne, for now – had gone to the kitchens every night after supper, where Daema the kitchen wench and a small lemon cake on a silver plate would be waiting for her. Daema would put a  dollop of whipped cream with just a hint of lemon zest on top, and Alayne would gobble it up with gusto. They were some of the best lemon cakes she had ever eaten, and when she complimented Daema on her baking skills one evening, she had smiled shyly and said, “It's nothing, my lady, but thank you.” After eating her lemon cake and bidding Daema a good night, she would return to her chambers, where Myranda was usually already in her bedclothes. They would sit and talk for a few hours – mostly chatterings of everyday things, but sometimes Myranda would probe her about her past, her time in King's Landing, or what stupid thing had Harry done that day, and while Alayne didn't tell her everything she wanted to know, it was a comfort to be able to confide in someone that wasn't Lord Baelish. She still felt somewhat distrustful of Myranda, though, but whether it was a real concern or it was Petyr's seeds of misgivings, she couldn't say. In her time at the Gates of the Moon, she had been spending less and less time with him and more time with others, which she could tell was displeasing to him. He wants me to depend on him and him alone, she thought to herself one day after the look he had given her when he'd seen her in Myranda and Mya Stone's company. He wants me to have no true friends except for himself. And even then he wasn't a true friend, not really. Yes, he had saved her, and yes, he was trying to get her back home, but Sansa – Alayne – knew that Littlefinger, in the end, was only interested in Littlefinger. The problem was, she didn't know how his plan to wed her to Harry the Heir benefitted him. It was this line of thought that led her to ask Daema what she thought of Harrold Hardyng. “I'm afraid I don't know him,” Daema said, looking bewildered at having been asked. “You would know better than I do.” “You're a servant, though. You must hear things,” she said, taking a bite of cake. The tang of the lemon left a delightful zing on her tongue. “I don't leave the kitchens much, my lady.” “Do you leave the kitchens ever?” She had never seen Daema outside of this room. She flushed slightly. “No, I do not. Except to sleep, of course. In the servants' quarters.” “Why?” “I don't think the lords and ladies would appreciate looking upon such a face as mine.” Alayne frowned. It was true enough, she supposed, but something about this answer felt incomplete. “I don't think they would care. You're a kitchen woman, not a highborn lady. No one expects you to be beautiful.” Daema bristled, and she abruptly stood up and went over to the sinks, where she began washing dishes with large, callused hands that reminded her of her father's – her real and dead father, not her fake and living one. “I'm... I'm sorry if I offended you,” said Alayne, but Daema waved her hand dismissively and kept scrubbing. “You didn't offend me,” she said, but her voice sounded a little fragile. They were in silence for a while, as Alayne continued eating and Daema continued washing. Several people came in and out of the room, carrying pans and plates. She felt bad for hurting her feelings, but should she have lied and said she was beautiful? A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant. She had the feeling, however, that such a lie would not have gone over well either. The woman must know she's ugly. False flatteries would likely hurt her even more. “Daema.” The kitchen woman didn't turn. “Daema?” Still nothing. “Daema!” She whipped around, her blue eyes wide. “Y-yes, my lady?” My lady. She keeps saying 'my lady'. Shouldn't she be calling me 'm'lady'? “Your name isn't Daema, is it?” Her face went white. “Of – of course it is. What else would it be?” “I don't know.” Alayne studied her coolly. She can't possibly be a Lannister agent. She's too awful at this. “Who are you?” “I am Daema, my lady. Daema of the Fingers.” “No, you aren't. Who are you, and why are you pretending to be someone else?” The kitchen woman seemed speechless. She didn't move for several moments. Then, at once, some force seemed to overcome her, and the door to the kitchen was slammed shut, and the lock latched with a click. The woman pressed her forehead against the wood, as though about to lift the weight of the world off of her shoulders. Alayne didn't feel scared. She waited for the woman to turn around, and she did, with an expression that Alayne couldn't quite read. Was it fear? Resignation? Or... hope? “I'm looking for a highborn maid,” she said, “with auburn hair and blue eyes, around three-and-ten years old. She may have been seen in the company of a fool, and she may have been headed to the Eyrie.” She held her head higher. “Have you seen such a maid?” “I have not.” She already knows. The chill she had felt when Myranda had figured it out, though, was absent. “You still haven't told me who you are.” “I am Brienne of Tarth. And who are you?” “I am Alayne Stone.” “You are not.” They stared at each other for a while. She could hear the wind whistling against the windows. “I do not wish to hurt this highborn maid,” the woman named Brienne continued, “although there are others who would, if given the chance. I have been charged to keep her safe from those who would do her harm. To bring her home, if I can.” “A strange thing, to send a woman on such a quest.” “I am no ordinary woman.” “That much is clear.” “I am a knight, my lady.” “What? That's absurd. Women can't be knights.” Can they? “This woman is. I am Ser Brienne of Tarth now, though I have also been Lady Brienne, the Maid of Tarth, Brienne the Blue, and Brienne the Beauty – a name given to me by those who wish insult and belittle me. The mother of the highborn maid I wish to find took me into her service, and sent me to bring her daughter back home. That lady is dead now, but... but she was an extraordinary woman.  It has been a very long journey, for me to find this maid. Perhaps someday I shall tell you of my travels, should you like to hear them. But for now, I'll simply say I have suffered many hardships, many wounds – ” (her finger grazed across the bandage on her cheek) “ – and lost and gained both friends and enemies alike. There were so many times when I thought I would never find her. That I would be forced to forsake the oath I swore to this maid's lady mother. And now... finally... I believe my search has come to an end.” During this speech, the lady knight's eyes had filled with tears, and she had fallen slowly onto her right knee, as though Sansa was about to knight her herself. The anguish and pain on her face... Sansa felt it as though it was her own pain, brought to life and kneeling in front of her. She would not hurt me, she thought, she knew, just as she had known a certain other knight would not hurt her either. “You have found her,” Sansa finally agreed. Brienne's homely face lit up in such a way that she was almost pretty. She bowed her head and vowed: “My Lady Sansa, I am completely and utterly in your service, from this day until my last day. I will be your sword and your shield, so that no harm shall ever befall you whilst I live. I will keep your counsel, keep your secrets, obey your commands, and die for you if I must. I swear it by the Seven, and by the Old Gods too, if you wish.” Sansa stood before her uncertainly. She guessed she was supposed to make some oaths towards her as well, but didn't know the words, couldn't remember them. “Okay,” she said lamely. “I swear to... to...” Before she could think of something to say, there was an urgent knocking at the door. “Why is this door locked?” someone yelled from the other side. “Open it immediately!” Brienne had shot to her feet, and Sansa – no, no, she was still Alayne, she had to remember – went and unlocked the door. The door swung open violently, and Lord Petyr was in front of her, a wild look in his eye. “What's going on, Alayne?” He didn't even look at Brienne, who had backed away towards the sink. “Why was the door locked?” “One of the servants has... well... she's been giving me lemon cakes, my lord,” Alayne said apologetically. “She smuggled in lemons before the snows came, and if anyone should find out she's been hiding... well, she'd get in all sorts of trouble, so I – ” “Yes, yes, fine.” He took her face in his hands, which were cold and clammy. “You're not to disappear like that again, my daughter. Do you understand? You had me worried, sweetling.” Lord Petyr kissed her on the forehead. “Come. Lord Harrold is waiting for you in the practice yard.” “The practice yard?” “An unconventional meeting place, yes, but it's where he feels most comfortable, even with all the snow.” Of course he does. Harry loved swords and fighting with them, if nothing else. Alayne gave Ser Brienne of Tarth one last look before following Lord Petyr out of the room. Help me, my lady knight, for no one else will. * * * “Why do you wander around in the kitchens in the middle of the night?” Myranda asked her at supper several evenings after. “One of the servants told me they see you down there, sometimes.” Alayne fumbled with the glass of wine in her hands. The crystal glimmered in the candlelight. “I have trouble sleeping.” “You should let me stay in your chambers again. You always slept soundly when I was beside you.” “You know Lord Baelish said I should sleep alone until my wedding night.” “Littlefinger is a fool. Now is precisely the time you shouldn't be sleeping alone, so you can get used to having someone else in your bed.” Myranda's eyes scanned the dining hall before she leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Though you should be somewhat used to it after Tyrion Lannister, hmm?” Alayne's ear felt very hot, and she turned her head towards the window, where the snow was pelting the panes with great ferocity. Normally you could see the moon from this window, but the storm was too strong and thick to make it out now. The days were getting shorter and shorter, the nights getting longer and longer... and her marriage to Harry crept closer and closer. “Do you like him?” Brienne had asked during one of their nightly talks alone. “Is he good to you?” Sansa had swallowed. “Not especially. He's not cruel, but... there's something about him that reminds me of someone, or something, but I can't place who. Like today, he was practicing sword play with one of his bannermen – he makes me watch, I guess because he expects me to be impressed with him – and he was so... fierce. So brazen, so boastful of his own prowess. But I knew he was drunk, very drunk, and in the end he lost. I felt... disgusted. Not because he lost, but because of the manner in which he lost. He drinks and he says awful things and thinks he's so clever when he really isn't, and expects me to worship the ground he walks on because he's this great warrior. And maybe he is. But I know he won't treat me the way he should, once we're married. He's already fathered two bastards. I don't think that part of him will change. I don't want to marry him, but what choice do I have?” “You always have a choice,” Brienne had said firmly. “Do I? Even if there was a way to escape this place, what would I be going back to? A ruined castle I couldn't hope to repair on my own, that's probably crawling with Boltons? With Harry, I could return to Winterfell, and take it back, and re-build it. I would have power. I would have armies at my – Harry would have armies at his command. He will rule the Vale and Winterfell and I will be his wife. How much higher can I aim than that?” Brienne hadn't said anything. Just studied her for several long minutes that Sansa took to finish her cake and lick the crumbs from her fingers. “My father tried to marry me off three times,” Brienne had finally said. “First, when I was a little girl, to Lord Caron's son. He was dead two years later, of the same sickness that took his parents. I only ever met him the once. Then, when I was twelve, to a young man named Ser Ronnet Connington. He said there were cows more beautiful than I, threw a rose at me, and vowed that was all I would ever get from him.” “How awful!” Sansa's hand had clenched into a fist. “He was unworthy.” “Thank you, my lady,” she'd said, with a tiny smile. “And the third, an old man who wanted to keep me in dresses and force me to give up fighting and my dreams of knighthood, and wanted to stop me from being... well, me. He said he would chastise me if I did not obey him.” Her smile had grown wider. “So I  challenged him to a duel and told him I would only accept chastisement if he could best me in battle. He lost, and my father never tried to betroth me to anyone ever again.” Sansa couldn't help but giggle at the image of Brienne giving an ancient man a beating in the sword ring. It was all too easy to picture her in armor, standing tall and strong over some quivering old fool of a lord. “You're braver than I am.” “No, I'm not.” A serious look had come over her face. “There are not many in this world who could go through what you have been through and still remain standing. You haven't given up. I know you haven't. You're a fighter, too. Maybe not with a sword, but you have your mother's courage. And you don't need to marry Harrold Hardyng to take back Winterfell.” She'd been about to ask her how in the world that could be possible, when she'd yawned and realized how late it was. Reluctantly, at Brienne's insistence, she'd left for bed, and thought about what her lady knight had said until she'd slowly fallen asleep, dreaming of Winterfell and a bronze crown. “Alayne?” She blinked and turned. “Sorry?” “I was just asking if you wanted to retire for the evening,” Myranda said. Alayne looked at the rest of her meal and wine. “I'm not finished.” “No,” she concured, “but join me in my chambers anyway. I wish to get away from the ruckus.” Alayne saw that the Malloy twins appeared to be starting a food fight a few tables away. “Okay.” The pair hastily retreated from what was soon to be a battleground of tomatoes and cabbages and puddings. Once those boys instigated their particular brand of chaos, there was no stopping it. She could practically feel Lord Petyr's gaze following her out of the dining hall, but did not look back. Myranda was not heading to the rooms, but downstairs towards the servants' quarters. Uneasy, Alayne asked, “What are we doing? I thought we were going to your bedchambers.” “I'm informing the housemaids of the mess they will have to clean shortly,” Myranda said, but Alayne didn't believe her for a second. She was even more sure of it when Myranda suddenly made a right turn instead of a left, which meant they were going in the direction of the kitchens – and Brienne. She stayed silent, however, and let Myranda continue to lead the way. When they reached the door to the kitchen, Myranda didn't knock as Alayne always did, but burst right in like the lady of the castle she was. “The Malloy twins have started a food fight,” she announced to the workers who had all frozen in place at her entrance. “I suggest all of you get up there, and salvage what you can from the wreckage. We need to keep as much food as we can.” When no one moved, she snapped her fingers and shouted, “NOW!” The servants all scrambled out into the hallway, including Brienne, who only made brief eye contact with her before trying to make her way past. But Myranda laid a hand on Brienne's arm and looked up at her. “Not you,” she said. “My lady – ” “No arguments.” She pointed at one of the barrels containing oats. “Sit.” Brienne looked at Alayne, who gave a slight nod. She must have took this to mean everything was alright – which Alayne was not sure it was – and went and sat on the barrel. It wobbled slightly under her weight. “Now,” Myranda said, sweeping her gown as she strode in front of Brienne, “who are you?” “I am Daema of the Fingers, my lady.” “What is your job in these kitchens?” “I wash the dishes.” “Do you? Big, strapping wench like yourself? I would think that they would have you churn butter, or butcher the animals.” “I churn when asked, my lady, but I'm not asked often. They already have others who do that.” “Do you know who I am, Daema of the Fingers?” “You – you are...” She looked panicked, and Alayne felt the same. “What is the meaning of all of this?” Alayne murmured in Myranda's ear. “Why did you bring me down here to watch you interrogate some kitchen girl?” “All in due time, sweetling.” She focused her attention back on Brienne. “I am the lady of this castle. Lady Myranda Royce? How strange that a kitchen servant should not know the lady whom she serves, especially when this lady has lived in this castle her whole life – and cannot recall ever seeing this kitchen servant, either.” “I – I am new, my lady,” Brienne stammered. Alayne wanted to hit her for being such a horrible liar. “I have not left these rooms since I have arrived, so please forgive me if I did not recognize you.” “I hire all of the new servants personally,” Myranda said, eyebrow arched. “Now, tell me again. Who are you, and what are you doing in my home?” Brienne gaped at her like an idiot, eyes moving back and forth from Myranda to Sansa, from Sansa to Myranda. “That's what I thought.” Myranda swept her gown again as she faced Sansa. “My lady, this woman is a spy. I believe she has been sent here to bring you back in chains to King's Landing and that cunt of a queen, Cersei Lannister.” Sansa glared. “She has not. Leave her alone this instant. This woman is my friend, in my service, and under my protection. And you are not to harm a hair on her head.” “She's deceived you! Are you so easily tricked? Why else would she have snuck into this castle and pretended to befriend you? She's a lying Lannister toady, and she's here to betray you.” It was this that made Brienne rise from her seat, rage making her tremble and shake so much that Sansa feared she might burst into flames. “I would never betray Lady Sansa,” she said with such passion and violence that Myranda took a step back. “I would rather die than give her to the queen. I swore a holy vow to Lady Catelyn Stark to keep Sansa safe and bring her home, and no one will stop me.” She drew a dagger from underneath her skirts. “And I mean no one. Not you, not Littlefinger, not the Knights of the Vale, not the Gold Cloaks or the Lannister armies or the queen herself! If anyone should hurt her, I will cut them down to pieces. I am a knight, knighted by knights, and you will stand aside.” And stand aside she did, hands raised slightly in surrender. Sansa laid a gentle hand on Brienne's wrist. “Put away the dagger, Brienne,” she said. “She was only trying to help.” While Brienne slid the dagger back under her dress, Myranda shakily tucked her hair behind her ear and pointed a finger at her. “I should have my guards take you,” she said, “and throw you in the dungeons! How dare you threaten me – ” “Myranda, stop. Both of you, stop this.” She was, quite literally, in the middle of the two, her arms and hands in the air to keep them apart. “It was a misunderstanding. Let's leave it there and move on.” The two seemed reluctant to let the matter go, but they both nodded in acquiescence anyway.   Satisfied for the moment, Sansa took Myranda's arm, led her to one of the barrels, and bid her to sit. “How long do we have before everyone comes back?” she asked her. She shrugged. “I'm not sure. Maybe an hour? It depends on how much damage the twins caused...” Knowing them, quite a bit. “Brienne, we can continue our conversation from last night,” Sansa said, and sat on the barrel next to Myranda. “I believe you mentioned something about a prisoner you were traveling with at one point?” Keeping an eye on the door, and speaking in low voices, Brienne told them of a man called Goldenhand, an escaped prisoner she had caught and attempted to escort back to King's Landing before they had been overtaken by a band of outlaws known as the Bloody Mummers. She told them how she had hated this Goldenhand, how he called her an ugly wench and laughed at her, and how he had attempted to escape her by dueling her. She'd won, but he'd given her a hell of a fight, even in chains, and after that they'd had a strange respect for each other that neither could really explain. She told them of their capture, and how the Bloody Mummers had cut off his hand and brought them to Harrenhal, where they threw her into a dress and a bear pit with only a tourney sword, but he had jumped in after her and protected her before other men brought down the bear with their crossbows. “He tried to fight a bear with no weapons?” Myranda asked disbelievingly. “Why?” A strange, starry, far-away look was in her blue eyes. “He said he dreamed of me.” Sansa was enthralled as Brienne continued her story. She frequently double-backed and told them other details, like Goldenhand yelling “SAPPHIRES!”, and the bath they had shared where he had told her the true circumstances of the crime he had been accused of. She wouldn't tell them what the crime was – Sansa suspected it must have been something truly horrible, like kinslaying – but it almost didn't matter. She was hanging on Brienne's every word. “There are many who would say he is a bad man,” Brienne said. “I had certainly judged him to be such. I wasn't wrong, but I wasn't right either. He has done horrible things, but – he's trying to be a better person. He wants to be better.” Her entire body seemed to have changed from its usual stiffness and awkwardness to something more soft, sensual. Her sapphire eyes had taken on an otherworldly quality. “You're in love with him, aren't you?” Sansa asked. Brienne looked at her with some alarm. “What?” “You're in love with him.” She could see it was true, and didn't need Brienne's embarrassed nod to confirm it. “Does he love you?” She hoped so. It would be horrible if he didn't. “I – I don't know. I'd like to think he does. He... he came with me, actually. To help save you. He's not here in the castle, but he's waiting for us, if you ever decided that you wanted to leave.” She was giving Sansa a pointed look that she chose to ignore. “How did you fall in love with him?” Brienne thought. “Slowly,” she said, “then all at once.” “Gods, it's been over an hour now,” Myranda said with a start. She looked   like she had been just as absorbed with Brienne's tale as Sansa was. “We should go back.” When they had, and Sansa was curled up underneath the sheets, so warm, and thinking a thousand thoughts, Myranda lay next to her and ran her fingertips down her hair. “Your roots are getting more noticeable,” she said, but Sansa was already half-asleep. Fly home, little bird, a gravelly voice was whispering. * * * Lord Harrold Hardyng burst through the door to the main hall, holding some dead, large beast in his arms, a huge grin on his handsome face. Alayne straightened the simple white bonnet Lord Petyr had given her to hide her growing red roots as she took another look at the animal. The beast was a boar. With a lurch of her stomach, she finally realized who it was that Harry the Heir reminded her of. “I have a present for you, Alayne!” He walked over to her with a confident strut, and she eyed the boar once again. He was close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath. “Oh, the boar isn't the present,” he promised, handing it off to one of his men. “That is in my bedchambers.” He was giving her an awfully suggestive look that made her skin crawl. “I shall wait for you to get it for me, my Lord,” Alayne said politely. He looked disappointed, but snapped his fingers impatiently for one of his bannermen to go fetch the present. The man returned a few minutes later with a box, which Alayne accepted from him. “Go on. Open it.” Harry looked so eager, Alayne felt herself soften a bit. She opened the box – It was an emerald tiara. “For the wedding,” Harry was saying, but Alayne barely heard him. Everything was the tiara, it was swallowing her eyes, and there was a loud and fat king and a beautiful golden queen who hated him, hated the world, hated everyone except her children, and whose husband was a drunkard and a philanderer. A bitter life, filled with regret and power and a thirst for more that would never be satisfied because women aren't allowed to rule kingdoms, they must sit and look pretty and plot to kill their king husbands with wine and boars and have sons even more monstrous than their fathers and it was a cycle that never ended, never stopped.  She wanted to vomit all over this stupid tiara and all over him. “It's beautiful,” she said. “I'm glad you like it.” His cheeks were flushed, but whether from the wine or something else, Alayne couldn't tell. “This is the first time I've ever been able to get something like this for a girl. A lady, I mean. I think I shall like being Lord of the Eyrie.” “And I shall like being your wife.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and she felt his skin grow warmer under her lips. “Try it on! I'm gonna go help butcher that boar, and when I come back I want to see you wearing it, eh?” Harry's perfect teeth flashed at her briefly before he was running down the corridor, his new pale blue cloak flapping behind him. His men followed, leaving her alone in the grand foyer. She let her arms fall, tiara still held lightly in her hand. Brienne, she thought. I have to speak with Brienne. She wanted to run to the kitchens, tell her to please get her out of here, take her home, however impractical and impossible it would be. She's so stubborn and headstrong she might just throw me over her shoulders and carry me out the front door if that was all she could think of. That was why she knew she needed a plan. * * * Thirty-six hours until the wedding. There had not been as much pandemonium before her wedding to Tyrion.  The ladies of the court ran and fluttered about the place, and so did the servants, who were hastily arranging the flowers and hanging the decorations. Lady Myranda was overseeing everything, from the music (all of Sansa's favorite songs), to the feast (a large lemon cake was to be the centerpiece of the evening – Brienne's recipe, though no one knew except for the three of them), to the ceremony itself. She was doing a beautiful job, from what Sansa could tell, and it was sort of a shame that she would not actually get to experience any of it. Lord Baelish had already secretly arranged for the direwolf cloak, and the black dye had almost entirely faded away by this point. She was keeping her hair in a secure bun underneath the bonnet he had given her, and was to wait until the night before to finally wash all of the dye out. Then, at the ceremony, she was to dramatically remove her bonnet, revealing her waves of auburn hair, and someone would throw the direwolf cloak about her shoulders before she began to walk down the aisle. Or, that was his plan, at least. Hers differed slightly. “You must be extra careful,” he was warning her right now, in his locked study. “There is a knight I'm convinced is working for the Lannisters. Ser Shadrich, the Mad Mouse, you may remember. I'm fairly certain he doesn't know who you are, but you must tread lightly.” “Haven't I been doing so?” He grinned at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That you have. You've impressed me very much these past months, Alayne. You have a great mind for the game – just as I knew you did. It always pleases me to have been proved right.” Sansa smiled demurely. “It pleases me to have pleased you.” It was like she had lifted the mask from his face for a quick and fleeting moment. Littlefinger was gone, even the great Lord Petyr Baelish was gone, and in their place was simply a man who wanted her. And she, too, for the same transient moment, almost reconsidered. But that moment passed, and they were Lord Baelish and Sansa Stark once again. And she was now completely confident in her suspicions of his grander scheme, which would make the rest of this much easier. A sigh fell from her lips, and she cast her gaze onto the carpet. “What's the matter?” “Nothing, I just – well, Tyrion isn't... I mean, is this marriage to Harry even something that can happen? I'm still married to him, technically...” “That doesn't matter. Lord Tyrion should be dead before long, despite his escape from King's Landing. And if he isn't, well... we'll figure that out when it happens. We're good on our feet, you and I.” “We make a good team, don't we?” “That we do. Now, go get some sleep. You'll want to be rested for tomorrow.” He went to kiss her on the forehead, but she touched his cheek with the pads of her fingers. He looked down at her curiously. “Sometimes I wonder if it's you who I should be marrying,” she said in a low voice that seemed to make the air hum. “Harry is such a fool, and you're so clever.” He was clutching her hand now. “Sansa. Harrold is a great warrior. A knight, handsome and strong. Why do you think you wouldn't be happy with him?” A single tear fell. “I don't want some stupid, oafish knight. I want you.” When you know what a man wants, you know how to move him. She was being gathered in his arms and kissed so fiercely that her first instinct was to struggle away, but she knew she mustn't, so she gave herself over to him, threw her arms around his shoulders. “Petyr,” she pleaded, pulling away from his lips. “I don't want to marry him.” “I know, I know, my sweet Sansa.” He wiped away the tear that had rolled down her cheek. “But you must be patient. We must wait until after Winterfell has been restored to you before Lord Harrold can be taken care of.” “Like... like you took care of Sweetrobin?” “Not exactly. But rest assured, we shall be together, my sweetling. You and I will be husband and wife, and we will rule together, from the wild woods of the North to the mountains of the Vale, from the rivers to the west and the rivers to the east.” He kissed her again, and removed the bonnet from her head. “The world will be ours.” Her red-black hair cascaded down her back. “The rivers?” “Why, the Riverlands. Surely you must know that Riverrun shall be yours, should the Blackfish and your uncle perish?” “You're going to kill them, too.” A deep coldness settled in her spine. “No, no, not kill them. Not personally, at least. Certain events may unfold that result in their demise. If not... we'll take it. We'll have enough armies, to be sure.” Petyr tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I have Harrenhal. We will be the most powerful couple in the Seven Kingdoms.” Sansa held back the urge to slap him across the face and simpered adoringly at him. “I think I will like that.” He laughed. “I think so, too.” One more kiss, a light one this time, and he handed her back her bonnet. “Sweet dreams, my lady.” * * * It had taken a lot longer than she'd thought to wash out the remainder of the black dye. Everything was going well so far. No one had suspected a thing when Daema the Kitchen Wench had vanished, for just last night Lady Alayne Stone had loudly and publicly berated her for knocking plates over in the dining hall, and had ordered for her to be escorted from the castle for her clumsiness. No one knew that Daema the Kitchen Wench was really still there, hiding and waiting for the opportune moment. And no one knew that Lord Harrold Hardyng knew that Alayne Stone was really Sansa Stark. She had told him, in the practice yard, early in the morning. He'd thought that she had sent for him in order to have a secret tryst, and had been disappointed when it was clear that was not what was happening. But once she'd removed her bonnet and her Tully hair shone in the rising sunlight, his song had changed.   “I just couldn't keep it from you any longer, my darling,” she'd said. “But you must be careful to not tell a soul. If any should find out who I am before we are wed... I am certain I would be taken prisoner back to King's Landing.” “I'll kill the man who tries,” Harry had declared. I might have liked him, in another life, she thought later. Sansa had memorized the movements of Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse, and had noticed that he was an unusually early riser. His frequent haunts in the wee hours of the morning included the dining hall, the library, the armory... and the area surrounding the practice yard. She knew he must have seen them – at least, she hoped so. But it was mere hours before the wedding and he had still not tried to snatch her away. Granted, she had not yet been alone today... No matter. Even if the Mad Mouse had slept in that morning, the rest of the plan shouldn't be too affected by it. The Malloy twins were still set to wreck the ceremony before she got there, Brienne was still waiting for her in the abandoned cellars, and Harry would still send his armies towards King's Landing after her disappearance. Petyr would not think she had escaped on her own after their confessions to each other last night, and the men under his and Harry's command would be going south. She would be going north. Brienne would protect her, along with her friend Goldenhand, if he was truly with the mountain clans as she'd said. There was just the small matter of actually finding their way out of the castle without being seen. Well, it was not a small matter at all. It was a very big problem, one that she had not found the solution for yet. Lady Myranda was the person to ask, she knew, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.  Was it because of a lack of trust, not wanting to involve too many people in her breakout, or because of guilt after all of the effort Myranda had put into the wedding? She wasn't sure, but it was most likely a combination of the three. In any case, Sansa would prefer it if no one helped her except Brienne. She is the only one in this world who does not want something from me. Her handmaiden arrived just as Sansa had tied her hair back and put her bonnet on. As the handmaiden undressed her, Sansa went over the details in her mind once again. The Malloys would create their distraction (hadn't been hard to convince them to do so after promising sweets), she would slip away, find Brienne in the cellars, then... what? A knock on the door. The handmaiden threw a robe around her shoulders and went to answer, but the door swung open before she could do so, revealing Myranda with a glass of white wine in each hand. “A little pre-celebration,” she said. She nodded towards the hallway. “Leave us.” The handmaiden silently obliged. Sansa accepted the wine Myranda offered her, and pulled her robe more tightly around her body. “Shouldn't you be downstairs?” “Probably. But I have the most tremendous headache.” Myranda leaned against the bed post and took a sip of wine, peering at her over the glass. “I needed to get away for a few moments. And I wanted to see your dress! Put it on, darling.” “Maybe later.” Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, and Myranda did the same. “Are you nervous?” She lightly bumped her shoulder into hers. “You can tell me.” “Yes. Very.” She swung back her wine, and Myranda laughed. “Which part are you nervous about? The wedding, or the bedding? Because if it's the latter, I might be of some assistance in that regard.” Sansa nearly choked. “Um... in what way?” “Oh, just general advice, should you want any. Or practical demonstrations, if you like.” “I think I can handle myself just fine, but thank you.” She tried to sound brazen but instead the words came out meek and small. Myranda shrugged and took another sip of wine. “As you wish, my lady. I'm going to go back down to the seven circles of hell now, but let me know if the bride needs anything.” She smiled and patted Sansa's hand before standing up and smoothing her skirts. Sansa, flustered, drank the rest of her wine as she watched Myranda head towards the door – when her attention seemed to become arrested by something underneath the vanity. “What's this?” She stooped over, and before Sansa realized what she was reaching for and could stop her, it was too late. She had pulled out the bag full of small provisions and clothes, which she had so stupidly left out in the open. Myranda didn't say anything for a few moments, and neither did Sansa, who was gripping the stem of her wine glass so tightly it was surprising that it didn't shatter.   “So,” Myranda said, gently easing the bag back under the vanity with her foot, “you're planning a daring escape and you don't even tell me?” “I didn't – I didn't want to involve you.” “Whyever not?” She didn't look angry, or hurt, or anything at all, except curious. She set her empty wine glass on the table. “You know I can keep a secret.” “I know, it's just... I didn't know if you would be cross with me. You've been working so hard on the wedding.” “True. But that can't be the only reason. And besides, if you had told me in the first place, I wouldn't have spent quite so much damn time on the thing.” “I thought that, if you were angry enough, you might... tell someone.” This seemed to rouse Myranda, and her brown curls bounced as she stood up straighter. “I would never. You're my friend, San – Alayne. I only want the best for you, dear. Do you really want to leave?” Sansa nodded. “Is it that Brienne woman? Has she talked you into this?” “No. It was my idea.” “Well.” Myranda sat down next to Sansa again. “Tell me the plan and I'll see if I can help.” She dared not speak it aloud here, where there were numerous people in the hallway who could be listening, so she wrote it carefully on a piece of parchment as Myranda read over her shoulder, so close her perfumed hair swung against her cheek. Roses, it smelled like. She ripped the paper and threw it in the fireplace after. Myranda contemplated her, chin resting against her hand. “You don't have a way out of the castle.” Sansa shook her head. A deep smirk spread across her face. “You're lucky to have me, then, aren't you?” * * * Go. Go. Go. The word was like a prayer. Sansa, let's go. My lady, we must leave. Ser Shadrich is dead. We have to go. Do you think Littlefinger is on your side? Ser Shadrich's laughter had echoed and echoed in the empty passageway. This is the man who held a dagger to your father's throat and turned the City Watch against him, little girl. He'd tried to grab her, and Brienne had held the dagger to his groin. The name “Mad Mouse” suited him very well. He'd clawed and scratched and punched but Brienne had subdued him. Ser Shadrich is dead. We have to go. There's something I've forgotten. She'd dashed back into her room through the passageway and dug the amethyst hairnet from her hiding place. She fingered one of the jewels, imagining putting it in Littlefinger's wine, the life going out of his eyes and his face turning black the same way Joffrey's had. But there was no time for that. Go go go go go. Fly home, little bird, fly home. “Invite me to Winterfell once you've taken it back,” Myranda was saying to her now, at the end of the passageway, with Brienne opening the trap door. She embraced her, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Don't forget me when you've taken over the world, my sweetling.” “I won't.” She hesitated. “I'm sorry for... for ruining the wedding.” “Oh, don't worry about that.” A loud crash from upstairs. The Malloy twins were doing their job well. “Someone's going to get married, by the Gods.” “And Ser Shadrich – if they find him dead, they'll know he didn't kidnap me – ” “I'll take care of him. No one will know, I swear it.” Brienne cleared her throat. “Sansa. I don't mean to rush you...” But she'd already jumped down the trap door. This second passageway was more like a cavern than a hallway, and felt like it went on for miles. She stumbled so many times over the jutting rocks that she held hands with Brienne just to keep herself steady. Cobwebs got in her mouth. It was so cold. “We're almost out, I think,” Brienne said, and she was right. Mya Stone was waiting for them on the other side of the bars, her faithful mules by her side. It was taking a while for the three of them to knock out one of the bars. The wind was blowing so fiercely outside that Sansa became worried she had made a terrible mistake. Brienne seemed to sense this, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “The right thing is almost never the easy thing,” she said. The bar came loose and the two of them slid through to the mountains. “You'll have to lead the way,” Mya said to Brienne. “I don't know where we're going.” Brienne looked at the landscape. It seemed that they were very far from the castle now – in fact, Sansa wasn't entirely sure where they were. None of the mountains looked familiar to her. They didn't seem to look familiar to Brienne, either, until she seemed to spot something she did recognize. Her eyes became a calm and waveless ocean. “Come along,” she said, and nudged her mule. The mules seemed to be slower than the last time she had ridden them. The trio trudged at a snail's pace that made her long for a swift horse to gallop across this treacherous terrain. “How come you agreed to help us?” she asked Mya, tired of the silence and the wind. She just shrugged and didn't respond. Sansa sighed. It was going to be a long ride back to Winterfell. * * * A deep, unsettling night had fallen. Sansa had forgotten that she was supposed to be brave and was clinging onto her mule's neck for dear life. She could see almost nothing in front of her and could not fathom how Brienne was still navigating with such deftness. We must be close to Goldenhand. “We're almost there,” Brienne announced, as though reading her thoughts. “Not so loud,” Sansa shushed. They must have sent out scouts by now. “My apologies,” she whispered. “But we are approaching the clan, where we'll keep you for a time, until it is safe to venture out again.” “And Goldenhand is there?” She could scarcely wait to meet this man she had heard so much of. She had made Brienne tell the story again on their journey across the mountains, and even Mya had appeared interested. “Yes, and Goldenhand.” But she said this tightly, uncomfortably. “What is it? What's wrong?” Brienne said nothing for a few moments. “Ser Shadrich. I... I killed him.” “You had to.” Sansa wanted to reach out and comfort her, but her arms still clung to her mule. “He would've taken me. He probably would have killed you, if you hadn't killed him first.” “Still. I don't like what I am becoming.” “What do you mean? Brienne?” But she wasn't answering. It wasn't too long before they had reached what appeared to be an entrance to some kind of cave. Two extremely large men wearing bear pelts were on guard, holding shiny steel blades that glinted in the moonlight. The men waved them inside, and Mya gathered the mules together as Sansa and Brienne climbed off and made their way inside. There were less people in the cave than she had expected. She'd assumed that the entire clan would be here, but instead the cave contained only a few sleeping figures wrapped in thick pelts. One of them was a small person wearing a bear pelt that was far too big on them (for one crazy second she thought it might have been Tyrion, before realizing the person was not quite that small); another was in an elk's furs, their broad shoulders moving slowly up and down, their face hidden from view. The third was clothed in a mountain lion's pelt, and was woken by their entrance. “Brienne? Is that you?” The mountain lion fell away from the person's face, and Sansa felt fear seize inside her chest. She couldn't breathe. The world was spinning, sliding, careening around her, the cave ceiling was about to collapse on her, on all of them. “You – you – ” She stumbled backwards into Brienne, who caught her before she fell, but she yanked herself away. “You – you brought me to – to him – ” This was impossible, Brienne would never betray her like this, she must have been tricked, lied to by someone, there was no way in seven hells Brienne, her friend, would bring her right to Jaime Lannister's doorstep – “Sansa, please.” Brienne had locked Sansa's arms down to her sides, I really can't trust anyone, anyone at at all, I'm so STUPID STUPID STUPID. “It isn't what you think; it's okay, it's okay.” “Do you know who that is?!” Sansa shrieked. “It's the queen's twin brother, you idiot! The Kingslayer! He's going to take me back to King's Landing and have me executed!” I should have stayed with Petyr; there is no one alive who is great a fool as I am. “Ah, that blasted name again.” Ser Jaime groaned sleepily, and shrugged the pelt off entirely, revealing a bruised and battered body, and... “Your... your hand...” “What, this?” He lifted his solid gold hand. “You should see the other man.” Sansa stared at Brienne incredulously. “He's Goldenhand?” “Everything I told you was true,” Brienne insisted. “I just... left out a few details.” “Like the 'little detail' that he's Jaime Lannister?” “Yes, that one.” “And also she probably didn't mention that we're not bringing you to Winterfell,” he said. “At least, not quite yet.” Sansa wanted to scream. She wanted to claw at Brienne's big, ugly face and run all the way back, and maybe the scouts would find her before she died in the snow and the cold. Brienne had enveloped her in a wolfskin blanket and guided her towards the Kingslayer, who, to be fair, looked exhausted and contrite. His long, golden hair had moved from his head onto his face, and the hair that was on his head was dirty and short. Sansa looked at him and tried to believe that this was the man who had jumped into the bear pit, who had given Brienne the sword called Oathkeeper, but all she could see was Queen Cersei and an executioner's axe. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” he was saying. “I don't know what Brienne has and hasn't told you. But I can tell you, with complete and total honesty, that I have absolutely no intention whatsoever to cart you to my sister.” “Where do you intend to cart me to, then?” she asked, with a dead voice. “Winterfell is the final destination,” Brienne said. “But first we have to bring you to your mother.” “My mother?” Sansa was beyond confused now. “My mother is dead.” Isn't she? “Lady Catelyn is dead. But your mother lives.” “I don't... I don't understand.” “Come with us, little bird,” said the figure in the elk furs, “and we'll show you.” Sansa's heart leapt into her throat. The Hound. “Ser...?” But it was not the Hound that was regarding her right now – it was certainly Ser Sandor Clegane, but something about him seemed very, radically, different. There was no anger behind his eyes, no rage, no madness and no hate. “I... I had not thought I would see you again,” she finally managed to say. He gave her a rueful smile. “I could say the same.” Brienne and Ser Jaime had sidled next to each other, Brienne hugging herself, shivering. Ser Jaime wrapped his lion pelt around the both of them, and Sansa could see that his left hand was holding her right. Brienne looked up at him, and he at her, and there was this great energy between them. The air itself seemed to become warmer. “Have your wounds healed?” he asked her, and removed his hand from her grasp to run it across her bandaged cheek. “A little,” she said. Sansa had the feeling they would have kissed had she not been staring at them. She knew, suddenly, that she could trust Jaime Lannister. A man like him could not fall in love with a woman like her unless there was a mass amount of good in him. And a woman like her could not fall in love with a man like him unless that was so. I see them, and I know the world cannot be entirely wretched. There is love, although in an unexpected place. It is not like the songs, but it is beautiful, even if she is not. Sansa Stark turned back to Ser Sandor Clegane. “Tell me everything.”