#so perhaps ramsay writing was only a matter of time

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

43 - Waving Tides of Turmoil

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 14.6k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, slight canon lore divergence, animal death, past character death, religious discussion, non explicit mention of past rape/sexual assault, light smut, oral (f receiving)

Notes: The lore change is slight addition to an object from a book specific plot point, in order to write around a certain talking door that I really did not want to adapt. But it shouldn't change the overall lore of the story. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

There was a specific memory Jon was unable to ever get out of his mind. But he knew it was odd it was the one it was. In his bed at Castle Black, he had woken up far earlier in the morning then he wanted to be, but he had much to do and too little time to get it prepared. But when his eyes fluttered open, it was that sight he felt his heart flip at.

Pulled tight back into his arms, you were fast asleep. He never had this. Not the way that morning was, you were a beautiful sight for him in a way no one else could possible understand. The only peace Jon had and would see on you for months as he leaned up more. Pulling your hair out of his path, but he was hesitant to do what felt so natural. Press his lips down to your cheek, neck, whatever he could reach but he wouldn't do it.

Things then were unsure, and you were trapped within the horrific fear of memory so soon escaped which Jon still did not truly know about. You had lied to him about how bad it was, Theon had lied, later Maester Wolkan would lie. They all lied to him about what Ramsay really did to you at his worst, and he recalled that first morning waking up with you in this arms he despised that he would be leaving you to awake thinking he abandoned you.

It took months to coax you into a state that wasn't always terrified, and even now he saw the cracks of it appear behind your dedication to seeming as if you were beyond that struggle anymore. But he knew that pair of pale blue eyes haunted you, and the longer you were here at the Nightfort the more Jon was starting to think perhaps you were forgetting how well you had been doing.

Reminded of that horror, but that morning as Jon awoke, did he no longer hesitate to lean over and press his lips to your neck. Drifting a hand to your side, and prompting your sleeping self to turn into him so he could kiss you properly. You wouldn't even respond, you were still asleep, but it took Jon a good while to pull from your lips and kiss your forehead. Both of you bare, Jon so desperately wanted to pry your legs open. Slide gently inside of you and lull you awake that way. Start your morning by filling you deep or perhaps he'd attach his mouth between you and drink every perfect taste you could gift to his tongue. You'd awake so shy about it he knew. He adored it as much as it drove him mad.

Jon knew he needed to ensure you stayed with him. Be with you gentle and tender, to not allow you to fall back into such horrors in memory. But as your brows narrowed at the sound of a knock at the door, Jon pulled you firmly into his torso and covered with the fur, what of your bare frame he had let slide down as you slowly woke up to the sounds around. Knowing he needed to get you both dressed, Jon sighed. He had one single night with you, and back into the never ending fray of mystery and death which haunted every facet of your lives now.

At this rate to Jon, it felt like he never would have a life with you where he'd get you all to himself even just for a little while. Even though he knew you both desperately needed it, he never could or would force it. No matter how much Jon wanted to force everyone from his life with you, even just for a few days.

Just enough to stop feeling so on edge, for both of you. But it felt impossible to Jon presently.

Every other abandoned castle along the Wall had their tunnels plugged with rocks and ice to flood, yet the gate rose up without any force, it opened as easy as the free one of Castle Black did. Only you all knew it was not the normal outer gate which would be found at the opposite side. The wind blew high and cold as the gate slowly begun to rise up. It was far more well preserved and functioning then you would have expected for how long it had been abandoned.

Commenting to Sam that it seemed strange, he had said, “That isn't the strangest thing about it.”

There up above on the ceiling seemed to be something like a passage way, if glancing through, you could see the structure of what looked like a well, as if what was down here sat in disguise from the remainder of the buildings. Empty now, but Sam had said it was in there which he and Gilly had come through and met Bran. Yet it was how he came to the gate in the first place which was the intrigue. How he got inside.

The tunnel unlike the one of Castle Black appeared to glow by the end. Where in one was only darkness other then torch fire hung from the walls, there was a glow of white by the end as if something had been painted there using the stars bright in the sky. Nor was it made of steel either. No, it was made of wood and it was as if the bark on it was not white paint at all, it was the base of the white branches routing through the fort.

One just like you had known in Winterfell, on the white bark, was a face.

Dark and almost black with a wide open mouth as all others, only this was taller then any and all of you. Not the gate alone, the face was carved to fit the whole thing. The glow seemed to touch hardly anything outside of the gate itself but it illuminated the vision of all four of you as you all slowly came to a stop.

All were quiet as you looked at it, unlike anything seen at the Wall before it appeared to be as old as the ice it was guarding in between. Something sat in the air here as the roots wound about the room as if at any moment they could come to life and wrap themselves around you in attack. Hardly even wind blew anymore, and no torches were even around to hang. Only the milky moonlight radiating from the face before.

But it was not a face alone you could see, no it was what led you all to such a clue in the first place. A faint carve in the wood all around the sides were runes just as you knew them. Some were ones Sam had transcribed, others were but a mystery you had yet to lay eyes on but scouring all along the frame you sought out one as Jon did the other.

Rasping out beside you, Jons attention drew all eyes up to the left corner. “There, that's the one we saw at the Fist of the First Men.” Spirals drawing outward from what looked to be one small circle in the middle, it certainly didn't look quite as uniform as what you could recognize of the rest.

Tormund muttering from the other side of Jon, none of you tearing your eyes from the gate. “Wouldn't be surprised if there's more here we haven't seen. Between Mance and me, saw more of them the more years went by.”

Sam stood beside you at the end, the only one who wasn't as in a strange awe being used to this sight from before, but no less curious of it. “How far back did you first see something like that?”

Thinking in a quiet, a distant rumble sat vibrating within Tormunds chest as if it blended well with the out of sorts cold which permeated so close to his once home. “Heard stories as a boy, but it wasn't until damn near thirty years ago did anyone actually see something. Came across a pair of spear wives, going on about how their men came back from a hunt and tried to kill them. Had to kill 'em twice, since they got back up the first time. Was no older then that sister of yours,” Tormund glancing over to Jon, whose eyes had barley peeled from the symbol to the face in the gate. “The lad who said he had to burn his hut down just to stop some stranger walking in from coming after him. Lived near the very edge of Thenn territory, so we went over to cut them to pieces for it, but we got there and they were already cut up into plenty of naked pieces all over the ground. That one there's what we saw.”

Pointing up to another by the lower right leading towards the ground, a symbol you hadn't recognized sat there just on the cusp of standing out as unusual. An opening sat near the middle bottom of what should be a circle, but designed that like of a maze. A thick loop closing off each end right at said middle, and inside it another smaller copy and a smaller copy inside the next until there was no more space for such.

Your own eyes found it near the edge of the corner by you, just as you could see it fresh in the snow it sat carved beyond on the wood of the gate. A circle interrupted what almost a hilt of a sword down the middle, and four dots around it's edges which you could feel a shiver in your bones thinking of. In that sight, such dots were heads bloodied and skewered onto spikes. Whoever you were looking through the eyes of in such a vision, you could still feel the creeping feeling of confusion when bringing his companions back to a sight of nothing.

How he had turned around, and up against a tree all on her own as if a warning sat a little girl with bright orange curls. Her eyes remained wide open but without fear as if she had died before grasping the terror of what was to come, and how those same eyes turned around to look at you in a bright glowing blue just as you heard screams.

Feeling Jons warmth lean more to you, his voice low as he asked you, “Is that the one you saw?” Not even blinking, you nodded slow only once as he leaned over your sight more to Sam. “And you're sure these match?”

Stepping closer, Sam looked between them and the face on the gate. There wasn't anything else like this in the other forts along the Wall from what you were told. It was here, just here. Sam however answered with another question, “Did you notice something? About these symbols?”

Quiet in thought for only a moment, Jons brows furrowed as the rest of him twisted in a fallen frown to pull the horn from where it sat safely on his person. All of you turning to him, he turned it all around slowly as his gloved fingertips traced against the marks. Looking at some, then others, then the horn once more before his grey eyes shined wide looking up in a wonder. “Not all of them are on here.”

Sam only adding, “Maybe they took out some of them when they made this.”

Only a whisper but in the eeiry silence the three men heard regardless. “Or they etched them into the horn first, and added more later.” Eyes flickering up to Jon, you weren't entirely sure but any suggestions were better then only one with such things now. “If the Wall came first, why would they leave out some things and not the other.”

More gears were turning in his mind then you could keep up with, not wanting to imagine just how much of every waking moment was spent trying to put this into any understanding for him. Nothing short of an oddity that Jon didn't look as exhausted as you did these past weeks, knowing he was getting less sleep then he was being honest about. “What if they're trying to speak to us?” Eyes narrowing as you asked what he means, but Jon was distant in his thoughts. “Three symbols on the horn and gate that they left behind for us to see. They're using what used to be our language out there, it might mean they think we can understand.”

The air was heavy until someone found the strength to speak up, “Wouldn't that mean they don't know we can't anymore?” Jon's head turned down to the side to meet your eyes, and the answer sat right in his gaze, both in it's uncertainty and somehow unwavering confidence.

Calling Sam's name, Jon found his command once more, gesturing to the symbols new to their understanding now. “I need you to figure out what these say. Can you do it by tonight?” Sam replied saying he would try, did you and Tormund find yourselves walking up to the carved face.

It was high in the air. Taller then any gate needed for any man, but most of them were. The question of why sat unspoken in your mouth. Rumbling as he leaned toward you, “Why call it the Black Gate if it's as white as a Weirwood?”

Almost on instinct, your gloved hand reached up as it to brush against the carved face as you would smaller ones but pulled back the last moment,. Fingers curling into your fist, as your lips sat slightly parted trying to strain your neck looking at it's enormity. Standing on your toes would you'd still never would even be able to reach up to Tormunds height, “Stories used to say when the cold winds came and white walkers rose up, a never ending darkness flooded the lands with them.”

“Winter north of the Wall's always dark.”

Looking at the Black Gate with carved and made with that of a white Weirwood, you could somehow see through it as if a form of night you never would have once comprehended lay behind it. “Not this kind of dark.” Tormund's brows narrowed in question at you but you had no answer or look back to him. You continued to look a the face with it's closed eyes and open mouth as if ready to speak. But nothing is ever that simple.

An approaching warmth came up to your left and a hand running up your spine with enough pressure you could feel Jon even through his gloves, and the layers and fur over you. Tormund asking to break the quiet first, “Now how do you open a gate with no way to raise it?”

Jons hand curled just the slightest into the white fur around your shoulders as if to subtly pull you just a bit closer to him, and the slightest bit more away from Tormund. “Sam said it opened on it's own after he recited the Night's Watch oath.” Both men looked at one another with you in the middle feeling lost amongst the white and a dizzying feeling the longer you stood so close to it.

“Horn that can bring the Wall down, runes that match a door with face on it that only opens to you crows and your oaths and no one knows why? What's the point of manning the Wall if no one understands what they're doing?” There wasn't a tone of condescension on Tormund's tone but you couldn't help but feel the answer was somehow staring you in the face. But it wasn't. Only the carved one in the gate.

Jon inhaled deeply, jaw set a little harder at the thought. Lord Commander turned King in the North and you knew it wasn't easy feeling as if he had so little information to lead from. “The Nights Watch has manned the wall for eight thousand years, we've barley been able to get eight hundred men between three castles in centuries.” Once more the hand curling around the fur on you tightened. “The less resources you give people to do their job, the less likely they'll be to ask why they should care about doing it.”

Or maybe you thought, they were hiding the secrets they wanted to protect from those they didn't trust. You couldn't say why you thought of it, but the black gate sent you into your memory of charred black bones and the creature roaring into the open air to cause them. Only one Targaryean ever tried riding their dragon beyond the Wall and it was said the creature refused to go anywhere near it no matter what it's rider wanted.

It was possible in your mind that it wasn't just dragons the Wall was to keep out of the far north, perhaps the men guarding it, was keeping it's secrets safe from the dragonriders themselves. Magic keeps the creature from burning it's frozen land, the men hide their secrets and reasons from the pillars of destruction and massacre who conquered the lands the Wall protected. Once you you couldn't stop the feeling, ice and fire were fighting before your eyes, and even with the slash in your palm and bruise now discoloured around your neck, you'd still choose ice.

The question caught both men off guard but your mind wandered too far to return to keep up with their pace and topic. “There are animals beyond the Wall we don't have here, correct?” Turning when neither responded up to Tormund, he looked at you almost amused for a moment.

Nodding, “Aye, we do. Pretty Crow thinking of getting a wild pet all of her own?”

The seriousness painted in your gaze up at the gate either did not take them off guard or they did so in a silence you could not see. “Have you ever seen a raven with red feathers?” That came to be an easy no, but the next question caused a silence that stumped you and Jon both. “What about a crow with three eyes?”

When Tormund said nothing, you and Jon both looked over at him and Tormund slowly met the action with a curiousness in his eyes burning more intensely. “And where did you see that?” Not just you, and not see it with your own eyes.

Jon spoke for you, the hand now tight enough were he not hidden by gloves one would see the strain in his knuckles. “What does it mean?” Tormund played games, pretending it didn't mean a thing but you looked at the gate still. “Tormund.”

Your hands twitched at their side to pull the gloves from your skin and run over it's bark.

“Doesn't mean anything. Only interesting crows I've ever seen out North were you and Mance. And you'd look a lot less good at her side if you had a third eye, Snow.” Keep your gloves on you told yourself, why was it begging you to do this now?

You needed to leave. You were too tempted looking up at this gate to grasp hold of it and ask the old gods to just give you the answers Jon needed, and you weren't going to do so in front of him here and now of all times. But Jon kept you at his side as long as he and Tormund stood there.

Not really noticing how easy it was to let Jon speak for you sometimes, while your head still sat in this utter mess. The dizzy feeling however, only had you grow both far colder in blood and warmer on skin then such a place asked for.

The three eyed crow in your dreams didn't feel a threat, but if that were true, why did the stranger call himself the Crow's Eye? How did this all fit together here and now? Who were any of these people now invading your visions and dreams as if they had any right too? None did but the wolf by your side.

“Is this what you looked like waiting for him to come home before?”

Your head turning to the side, seeing Theon walking up as you leaned against a stone railing looking higher up out to the south. Your hands folding and unfolding whatever paper it was which had been preoccupying yourself without your gaze blinking once against the unchanging sight of snow and fields set against the late morning sun. A graceful, “Huh?” Left you just as Theon leaned next to you in a similar position as yourself.

Gesturing out to the sight with his head he elaborated. “Waiting for your father to come home, can imagine you up on the cliff sides watching for his ship to appear.”

A low voice left you sitting with as much nostalgia as it did defeat. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

Though you both were not terribly dissimilar to one another in that regard. “I remember watching my Uncles fleet sail off when it all started. Never watched them come home though, first ship I ever saw come into our waters was Robert Baratheon's.” You could hardly recall those days anymore, your time on Dragonstone during the Greyjoy rebellion was spent so heavily with Shireen you had little time to reflect on where your father was.

Your hands stalled on the paper but kept it folded tight as if maintaining the tensity in your fingertips as well. Terse was the manner which your voice came out, “I used to bring Shireen out with me, she was just old enough then I could walk her around the main grounds and I'd bring her to the stone path and watch with her until the sun set.” The huff which left you wasn't quite a laugh but enough so it might have passed as one. “I remember being so relieved the day I saw his ship in the harbour, now everytime I know he's coming my way I dread it more and more.”

“He's a tough old goat your father, I'll give him that. Not sure why none of that passed to you.” A glare flickered towards him from the side was met with a jesting smirk, your own rolled into the back of your head as you shook your head. Gaze back on the sight of nothing. “He doesn't think you're a traitor anymore, he likes Jon well enough, what else do you have to worry he's going to say? If anything, I'd have guessed he wouldn't care much that you remarried.”

Were Theon drinking anything, he may have dramatically spat it out as you so dryly commented, “I would wager you right on that. Considering he so very casually asked me in White Harbour if Jon and myself were bedding one another.” You could see his head spin to look at you incredulously but you only shrugged. “Not ones for tact, my family. If you haven't noticed. Will cut right to the very awkward chase.”

“What did you tell him?”

Once more your voice was far too monotone for what came with it's words. “Oh I relayed to him in explicit detail the manner in which Jon fucked me against the wall in the Castle Black right after he stopped being a corpse. What do you think I would have said to him, Greyjoy?”

A mighty laugh left him, a lift tugging at your heart. Little by little he looked a little more like the Theon you once knew, at least when it was just the two of you. Shaking his head he almost looked a bit shocked if not amused. “I knew something happened that night, but this? You really brought a man back to life and let him just have his way with you right after? Not quite the rigid girl with far too much self respect for your own good which I first met.”

Perhaps you'd laugh, if you didn't feel a wave of guilt slam right away. You changed your mind, you didn't want Theon to go back to the man he was before. He should be nowhere near what led to what Ramsay did to him ever again. Instead, you swivelled it back to you as if keeping your own mind away from the thought. “I'm nothing like that girl, anymore. Not sure she would recognize me were I to see her here and now.”

“Good. No one wants you to be.” That was how you knew it was true, the sheer fact of not having the inclination to argue or debate back with Theon of all people even if just for the sake of it. You still felt dizzy even after being out of that tunnel over an hour.

Olly had to bring you water himself because you at one point felt as if you were warm and cold and sweating and wavering on your feet. You hadn't left that spot since then, leading to the current quiet tones between you and Theon. You felt no better however. You felt just as dizzy and hazy in your mind then you did standing right up in front of it, even worse, your hands still twitched to run over it with your bare fingertips as you would the Weirwood in Winterfell.

A childish part of you wanted to return to your chambers and crawl under the sheet to block the world out until the haze dissipated but the last thing you wanted to do was hide away and act as if you couldn't handle the world. Everyone around you already was working and you had spend the past hour or so trying not to faint. Maybe you'd dream of ravens and crows if you did. Or maybe just one. Or worse.

Perhaps sleeping was a bad idea for many reasons currently.

The first to arrive was not what you expected, nor any. They came alone, and with an urgency that could only relate to one thing. Black fur adorning over their person, the only to come to the Nightfort for now was a man of the Nights Watch. Riding through the gate, some very specific came first to greet them as you stepped into the cold once more but without the same enthusiasm.

Much like as you could see Jon and Sam reunite and stood far away, you felt it was not your place to intrude on now many people's reunion as Edd came through the gate, climbing from his horse. A glance to your right, your eyes found Theon and with a luck he read your thought process with an ease. The read of your expression not much of a mystery when it was painted in a blatant insecurity.

The sight of them all happy to once more see each other was something warm in the cold trapped in your chest, nor was it the fact that you were fairly sure none have ever been as thrilled to see you as they all were one another. No you moreso grew to realize, you had no idea how to stand in the background when you had no place and not look uncomfortable or off putting.

You barley fit in with a crowd anymore, and so much like the last time Jon and Edd reunited in the courtyard of a castle at the Wall, you and Theon slunk off out of sight before it became obvious the degree to which you otherwise felt you'd be intruding. Theon beside you not unfamiliar with the growing isolation he continued to watch you fall back into.

“Almost couldn't recognize you. What are you, half the size you were bumbling into Castle Black the first time?” It was easy to tell Sam was attempting to not appear so bashful, but in all likelihood hardly any had commented on anything of his size in a long time. None in Winterfell did nor did Jon imagine that was anything Maesters of the Citadel would comment on but one could always rely on Edd being the man to say the first blunt truth which came crashing through his mind.

Trying to deflect, Sam almost backtracked into a stumbling of words. “Perhaps not half..”

Jon felt a smirk grow easy, the swiftness in which Edd tossed back at him as if no time passed since the day Sam left. “If I didn't know any better I'd ask if they were starving you.”

Tormund was another easy greeting between them. Edd once resistant to the plan Jon put forth when he and Tormund were to go to the remaining free folk at Hardhome, but once Edd had joined he found what many of them found when giving each other a chance. Once they set aside the killing each of them had done to the other group and many of them were just men fighting for their survival.

“Everytime I think I forgot what being around so many crows feels like, one of you comes along and reminds me.” Gesturing vaguely behind him to Jon, “They named this one King and he still can't figure out how to stop dressing like one of you.”

Jon didn't know why he thought of it. Why he could see the two of them that day in the courtyard as he readied his horse that morning.

“Next time I see you, you'll be all in black.”

“It was always my colour.”

The last hug with Robb he ever shared fresh in his bones and the way Robb nodded just before parting ways, over to where you stood in a more solemn silence with your own horse ignoring the two wolves goodbye. As if to tell Jon to not let you part ways with him without a proper goodbye, knowing you'd avoid it if they let you. Their last interaction ever, Jon thought. And it was about you.

The talking around him continued, and overpowered the ability he had to stand there and contemplate why he was even thinking about it. But really, he knew why, and it sat odd in his stomach enough he shoved it all down as soon as the thought cropped up in the first place. Not right now he thought.

Cutting through the noise, Jon asked him plainly, “What are you doing here, Edd?”

Unlike his normal however, Edd answered Jons question with one of his own. “You have the lift up and running yet?” It wasn't yet high on his priority, trying to get the Nightfort even functional was what the day had been about so far, but Jon could see something in Edd's eyes.

Something distant and unnerved, and strangely, not dissimilar to the look you had sometimes when Jon knew you were hiding a vision or dream you had he was not privy too. A much smaller, darker part of himself scolded for even allowing a possessiveness to grow. As if somehow you having something in common with Edd which Jon didn't know about made a sharp edge of territorial urges beg to come forth when it was not needed.

Jon trusted Edd as much as he did Tormund, but at the least Jon could also trust Edd's thoughts towards you were nothing of that sort. But he told himself to get a grip, and focus on the issue which mattered here and now. “If we start now, I can have it running by nightfall.”

Edd didn't have a shred of amusement in that one, and seemed to wait to explain the urgency of why he was here until then. “Good. 'Cus I already received word from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower and they're reporting the same thing we're seeing at Castle Black. Knew if you just got here, you'd have no way of knowing about it yet, but you'll need too.”

A seriousness tensed in Jon's eyes as his voice matched in a gruffness. “Know what?”

Yet he only confirmed Jons suspicion, “It'll be easier to explain after I show you.”

That for now, would have to do. The lot of them had much to catch Edd up on in the meantime anyways, the men all finding somewhere warm to lay out what he and Sam had put together but Jon couldn't stop that same burning possessive feeling. He knew Ghost was around here to keep an eye on you, his hands clenching tight, imploring himself not to invade his direwolf's mind instantly just to figure out where you were, and why you hadn't appeared to greet Edd yourself.

Considering as they moved further into the grounds the man himself asked without a shred of hesitation as your name came up, “You hiding her away, or what?” Jon's brows narrowed as he looked at him in question, but Edd was as casual about it as he was everything. “Wouldn't surprise me, the way you watched her at Castle Black I'm surprised you two aren't even on your first kid, yet. Thought by now you'd have her up to six how much you'd leer at her.”

Almost like jesting boys, Jon argued back in an instant, “I don't leer at her.”

Edd huffed a disbelieving laugh, “Yes you do. Think they invented the word just to describe the way you never could stop staring at her like you were obsessed with her.”

Sam didn't help one bit, the amusement on his voice piping up from Jons other side. “He's still like that, don't let him tell you he doesn't. I made the mistake of interrupting them once and I think Jon was about ready to tear my limbs off for it.”

Jon grumbled to himself, knowing Sam was right and the annoyance at how no matter the months gone between them, his brothers still knew him well enough they could take the piss out of him without thought. They and Robb all had that in common it seemed

It made Arya mad to think about.

For a while, it was a bit easier to forget some of it. Years on the run it felt, most nights never having anything close to a roof over her head, and her family separated or many of them gone. She could think of her family and think that she should find Sansa, as she should the rest of them. And yet, Arya sat there in the hall that day looking over the ravens from Ser Yohn Royce to Jon, which he had given her permission to look over, and it made her mad as more and more memories came rushing back to her mind.

Sansa had every right to be upset she knew, after all, while Arya had chased Nymeria off to spare her, her sisters direwolf wasn't here for far worse reasons. Cersei had taken her ire out on the Starks for an incident Joffery instigated, and when the guard told her there was no trace of Arya's direwolf, just as they thought it was going to be over, the Queen had turned to the crowd and said, “We have another wolf.”

But, she wasn't the only one who lost someone that day. Sansa lost Lady, but it wasn't until the next day did Arya learn Mycah was dead. He got scared and ran away when Joffery had started swinging his sword at Arya and now he was dead. The entire time Sansa had stood there defending Joffery, telling Arya to stay out of things and got angry only at them “spoiling everything” while Arya was the one being properly attacked.

Yes, Sansa had every right to be upset about Lady but Arya was still blamed for it all when her own friend was dead. A friend no one cared about. They had been at the table in their quarters long after settling into Kings Landing, and she could recall feeling grateful when you had walked in.

Since arriving in Kings Landing, she hardly saw her father until evening and then he'd many times be shut away in his chambers scribbling away. When you weren't at her fathers side, you'd normally be out of the castle entirely usually finding your way to the docks by the water. Saying you preferred to ensure things were running smoothly yourself rather then have the men make mistakes and lie about it. But on occasion you would manage to make it to a meal before leaving again.

Not that Arya was in the best of moods, but at the very least when you came in it meant Septa Mordane was given a break from the girls, and Jeyne Poole, normally found at Sansa's side scurried away, being scared of your scowl and short demeanour. You were also the only one Arya's tone could be short with and you'd never take offence to it personally.

Instead of eating, she had been holding the knife sat out with her plate and stabbing it into the wood, her mind still upset and needed something to occupy it. You had looked between the tense silence of the sisters and chose the easier subject to tackle. “What exactly are you doing, may I ask?”

“I'm practising.” She had replied, and when it was Sansa who asked for what, she hadn't hesitated to look over to her and shortly reply, “The prince.” You had called her name in a quieter warning but the lid was off and Arya's temper flared up. “He's a liar and a coward. And he killed my friend.”

Defending him as always, Sansa piped up “The Hound killed your friend.”

They both knew while it was true, that was as fair as Sansa being mad at father for Lady. So Arya, without even stopping the childish stabbing at the table almost lectured her older sister. “The Hound does whatever the prince tells him to do.”

Back and forth they went, as you rather then sitting down right away, moved more to their side of the room in a watchful quiet. Sansa gave no real rebuttal but looked at Arya still and spat, “You're an idiot.”

Naturally, Arya told the truth which was not the accusation she told her sister. “You're a liar. And if you told the truth, Mycah would be alive.” She had stabbed the knife a final time into the wood in as her heart shrunk in on itself at the thought once more but Sansa refused to let her have the last word.

Raising her voice shrill as it was the day she yelled at them by the river but still quiet in a smugness. “Go ahead, call me a liar all you want. You won't be able to when I'm married to Joffery. You'll have to bow to me and call me your grace.”

Arya looking back on it knew it was childish, but she was younger and rash and angry and did it before she knew you'd stop her. Reaching over the table, Arya practically flung halfway across to where her sister sat. Snatching a half orange from the table, she threw it at Sansa's dress. It landed with a plop against the white lace trim against her torso, and fell to the floor as she shrieked while Arya's tone was much more mocking. “You have juice on your dress, your grace.”

In an instant, as if wrangling rowdy horses, you almost didn't even bat an eye as you grabbed Arya before she could sit back down. Pulling her from her seat with a more proper scold, “Enough of that.” Only to have Sansa interrupt. Your hand curled into Arya's shoulder as you kept her mostly behind you at that point.

Yelling at Arya, Sansa shouted what Arya had yet to forget. “You are an animal,” Echoing what the Queen had passively said about Arya and Nymeria that day at the Inn, only Sansa didn't stop there as she tried to hide her tears. “They should've killed you instead of Lady-”

In an instant you yelled Sansa's name louder then you had at Arya. It was the first time both girls in their lives actually had heard you raise your voice at either of them. It had startled Sansa into a quiet as she looked rather wide eyed and guilty at your twisting expression of disapproval. Arya felt herself shrink inward even moreso in the quiet minute which passed just as her father walked in.

“What's happening here?”

But, you did what you always were good at. You understood both girls. You knew why Sansa was overreacting and you knew why Arya was throwing a tantrum and covered with a swift ease for both of them. Your grip on her shoulder easing up, “The girls were riling the other up a little too much is all.”

Arya said nothing, and Sansa looked down to her plate as if nothing happened. Both were smart enough to recognize that you had covered for their immaturity, but Arya knew her father could sense the tension that you'd likely relay a little more diplomatically at a later point alone. Gesturing to her, her father told her, “Go to your room, we'll speak later.”

As Arya's eyes now though read over the raven scrolls, she could look even further back. She and Sansa still were rather young, and Bran while only a year younger then Arya was small enough that he didn't quite grasp things around him just yet. She had overheard after an argument with Sansa, her going to their mother.

Asking if it was a mistake, that grumpkins must have come and stolen her trueborn sister away. Their mother with an amusement on her light voice asking what would that make her now, and Arya in the present day had felt her body stiffen just as angrily now as it did when she and the too young Bran overheard what Sansa had said next. “A bastard, like Jon, she even looks like him she can't possibly be my true sister.”

It had bothered even only a girl of four in that memory as it bothered the now teenager of fifteen. Robb and Jon both were wonderful to Arya where Sansa was mean, but Jon had always been her favourite sibling. From as early as she could remember, he was there for her. Would walk into the hall for meals, passing her by and ruffling her hair to annoy her while fondly calling her “Baby sister.”

Jon was the one only second to their father who ever actually told Arya she was pretty, when that was something everyone only ever called Sansa. He'd indulge when she broke the rules or played a prank and even when Jon got to be too old to act a boy anymore, he never scolded Arya when she'd continue to be childish on her own.

Maybe she was too young to remember, but Arya had never known a point in her life where Sansa ever respected Jon or her. It made her more angry now, which made her hope what they suspected wasn't true. She didn't want Sansa to be involved in whatever ploy this was, because it meant their sister still refused to see Jon as a legitimate brother.

And if telling her trueborn sister she wished she died instead of Lady was how she acted then, she dared not think what way Sansa would treat her bastard brother now. Arya wanted her sister to come home, but not this way. She wanted Sansa to come home so what few of them were left could be a family where they all belonged.

Arya could forgive her sister after all these years if Sansa had grown the way all of them had for the better, but still she thought to herself. Even if Sansa had changed, she hoped Jon would never tell her the truth. He was always just her bastard half brother in the best of times, she dared not think what her older sister would do now finding out whose son by blood he really was.

The Sansa she knew then, would tell the first person she sees just to make a claim for his title herself.

You had simply intended on redoing the wrappings around your palm but here still you were looking at it intently. The sliced cut looked nothing unusual anymore but there was no taking back the memory of how unnaturally red it was when Theon had yanked your wrist up to see it. Or the pain that erupted from that every cut the single moment before flames engulfed the wight before you. There was no fooling anymore over it.

There was no source of fire in the room, and it came right from you onto the creature. There was nothing else to speculate and yet you hated every second of it. You found yourself thankful neither Beric nor Thoros came to you about it further, but it wasn't their words alone waiting to strike, and as it turns out Selyse continued to very good at cornering you into uncomfortable discussions.

She had not so gently dismissed Olly from the room but nothing else had been said quite yet the moment the door closed. Her eyes not on you, but trailing to the fire burning near the back of the room had your own peeling back from showcasing a glare as you finished off tying the cloth around you off.

Your mothers voice was low as it was entirely genuine. “I have never asked you to believe as I do,” Inhaling deeply, you continued to not look her way. “But the Lords power continues to follow you wherever you go.”

Only a mutter hissed from under your breath, “Tell your Lord to leave me be, then. I don't pray to him.”

Tilting her head as if to implore you to listen, knowing you were too stubborn to even return her gaze from here. Making her slow way around to the other side of the table your arm was draped over, you were carefully pulling your gloves back on with a slight wince at the tightness when pulling across your palm.

Reaching on her own, she grasped at the leather for you, almost pushing your free hand away as moved the material over the wrappings much easier and with less force then you'd push with. “I didn't pray to him for most of my life, but that doesn't mean he isn't watching.”

Your eyes flickered up as you pulled your arm back and down onto your lap. The uncomfortable twitching wish you had kept the fur cloak on this side of the room, so at least you'd have something to hide your need to fidget in their warm depths. Selyse matched your gaze, but they were not demanding nor even judging as you always felt with such discussions.

Your mother and her faith has always been a tricky spot for you. After Shireen fell ill, you had lost much of your own faith in the Seven. Hardly going into the Sept and you had not returned to the idols on the beach until the night Jons forces had beaten Aegons. You prayed and prayed for your brothers and prayed in the Winterfell sept for your mother to not lose the child in her womb that time around and then when they answered, they almost took Shireen away just as fast.

Your mother always fell deeper into it. The most devout of House Florent it seemed. Your Uncle Alester believing much like her and even followed his youngest sibling into following the Lord of Light once the red woman came to their shores. The rest of their side of the family you did not know. Ser Axell still worshipped the Seven, which was the sin he committed to be burned in the first place, but whatever distant relatives you had outside of your mother and two uncles you hardly knew them.

Your Uncle Alester had a daughter in the Reach but you knew nothing of her. By the time you were born he lived on Dragonstone and scarcely mentioned what family his daughter went on to likely have. Then you knew, once Renly was dead, your father sent him and many guard you knew to rule Storm's End in his name, now that by rightful law, Storm's End passed to Stannis's lineage. A mess in and of itself that turned into. Difficult to have a lineage to follow when your firstborn child kills your second and only other child, and that daughter is married twice to Kings in the North.

Your mind a bit of a mess of thoughts scattered about, your mother took up the mantle to fill the silence between you both once more. “I have done and said things I regret, many things, including what I believed was for the greater good. I would tell myself, no act done in service of the Lord of Light could ever be a sin, that I thanked him everyday for being the Lady Melisandre to us. I served him as loyally as I believed in him, but he does not require such devotion from us all.” Your jaw clenched, tongue being bitten down against roughly at the womans very name passing your ears.

Not wanting to drift into thinking of where she could possibly be now, you muttered in a dry tone not truly looking at anything in particular. “I presume the point you are trying to get at, is that the three of you discussed me behind my back.”

Selyse no doubt was once more looking to you in a scolding but you had not the strength to endure it at the moment. Her voice a pinch more tender then which you expected. “They do not think our paths have all crossed by coincidence, and neither do I. The only thing I am asking is for you to keep your mind open to the possibility the only one answering your prayers-”

Stern and short, you cut her off with a flashing of warning in your eyes. Sharp as an edge, while your palm burned as did the scar on your stomach. “Did you try converting Shireen on these matters?”

Almost guilty did your mother appear for brief passing seconds, though it was hidden under her natural guise of quiet and poise rather well. “We tried on more then one occasion, but it appeared Shireen never quite took to it.”

One could only wonder the attitude she would give towards such a subject, if you knew your baby sister as well as you thought. “When the Seven Pointed Star is the first you read, it's difficult to find faith in anything else.” Though, not impossible. Very clearly as your branch of this House would indicate. Three followers of the Seven down to none in some years.

“It is, but faith in him or not, Thoros of Myr believes the Lord has allowed his power to run through you freely. I have not seen even in the Lady Melisandre, such ease at his power without even asking for something of him first. Almost as if it comes to you naturally where all others had to gain their connection to such ways.”

You were hesitant, the burning in your stomach contrasting to the feeling of the cold metal against your torso of Shireens hidden away necklace. The whisper was unsure, and you nor him had spoken much of it. You both tended to prefer to accept and look beyond that night considering the rest would require talking of what led to it. “Jon has never been unsure how he returned. From the moment he came back, he insisted he's known it was me who did it. But I never did anything. I didn't perform anything, didn't ask anything, bringing Jon back was never even possible in my head. All I know is that one moment he was dead and the next he was..”

The fading meant one thing but seemed innocuous to your mother thankfully. You needn't not elaborate on just what occurred in the very first actions taken place one you and Jon reunited. Maege would never let it go were you to tell her.

“Strange things follow you, and I only want you to consider it unwise to write off certain manners it might be coming from.” It wasn't judgment she spoke with but you felt it all the same. After what the red woman has done you wanted nothing to do with something she committed such atrocities in name of.

Breathing heavy you forced the words out as even and collected as possible. “What's happening to me..this is more then whatever your beliefs tell you. It's..this is something else entirely. The Lord of Light is anywhere and everywhere. It doesn't matter where you go, it seems to follow you. But something is..it's keeping me here. Keeping me in the North as if I must be here.” Looking into the distance of nothing, your voice turned down to but a whisper. “Something bigger is trying to tell me something. So you may be right, I may be here for a purpose, but it isn't for your god.”

Selyse was silent was she watched, a connection you knew she had no understanding of and yet you knew too well it was impossible to explain to anyone at all. Why you said it, you couldn't be sure but it came running from your lips regardless. “I had dreams and visions before I died.” Her eyes flying up to your unsure ones, “I never understood what they were, or even thought they were real until..”

Swallowing heavy you pushed passed that memory. It led neither you nor Jon down a path you wished for him to revisit. Your mother leaned forward, something akin to wonder in her voice. “Were they like-”

“No.” It was more distressed then you meant, but why hide the feeling inside. “This is worse. Far worse, I can't even begin to describe what these are like now. If I had any when I came back I barley noticed until that night on the ship. It started then and it keeps getting worse.” There was a twisting in your gut that seemed to match the burning of your scar and it left you without breath. “Something is tethering me to the North, mother. But I don't understand why.”

Or did you not? It certainly seemed as if it was trying to come to you.

The quiet between you lasting not long, your hand returning in a fidget on the table almost tapping against it. Your gaze cast to the side with it barley coming out of you. “Does he know?” Your mother answering no swiftly, you felt your jaw twitch almost giving away your disbeleif. “Are you going to tell him?”

Leaning forward, Selyse tried gaining your attention with a burrow in your brow, a lecturing tone to boot. “If you are asking if I keep secrets-”

Without second thought did you cut through, still not looking at her but even shorter then previous you spoke. “I am asking if he's safe at Winterfell.” Meeting her eyes, a softness you felt not the energy to read into came forth as she nodded a yes.

Your jaw clenching again as you looked away once more, but she did not take it with that as the end of such a discussion. “I won't sit and defend it to you, but he did what he thought was necessary. At the time.” The further you said nothing the more your mother read the doubt. “Your father has changed since, he has grown passed what led him on that path. If you talk to him-”

Snapping over to her, she could read the anger brewing just beneath the surface with ease, as little as you attempted to hide it. “Gendry is my blood. I have to protect him. I didn't once, I didn't the second time but I can and I will now.” Looking back and forth as a weight built in your throat, you settled on looking in a different spot all together to avoid the feeling rise further. “He wasn't the only one I met. I met a girl, no more then fifteen or sixteen. She worked in one of Lord Baelish's brothels, and she had a baby. Not even one yet. Barra. Looked just like Shireen did her age.”

Only a whisper remained, and your mother too knew what it was you thought of. “No one could have known what Joffery was going to do-”

The crack in your voice was not quite at an upset, but it was not what you could see as collected either. “Of course I could have known. I knew what he was, what he was capable of doing. I don't even know how many of them there were.” Hand tensing into a fist, you were grateful the glove was back on as to not tear into the skin. “They were all my blood. My family, exactly as Gendry is and the only other one I knew was a baby girl. All they'll be remembered as were a bunch of slaughtered bastards, and I don't even know any of their names. They should be in Storms End. Resting with the father they never knew they had, with a family that should have been there to care about them.” Finally through something shaking in your lungs did a conclusion find itself in the air. “I won't let that happen again. Gendry and I are the only ones left. And as long as I have to keep him safe from what my own father tried to do to him, I will. No matter what.”

He had arrived come nightfall. Your own watchful figure distant even moreso then before up on a landing with the knowing you should go greet him. But you didn't have the words yet for that, not in front of other people. Whatever he may bring up you knew, was not going to be in the place he stood in the courtyard. Too many people around on both sides and you were well aware of your fathers tendencies.

Between you both, your father liked Jon more easily. An interrogation about certain matters were not going to be found between them, but you. You were his daughter and thus his misgivings would be demanded answers from you alone. Though as you watched from afar, Jon and Stannis greet one another with an ease you never knew from the later, it seemed the company at your side was considering their own interpretations of events.

Olly stood beside you, your gloved hands braced against the wood tense as he glanced between you and the scene below. Happy you were, that he was sat least direct about it. “Are bastards not supposed to marry highborns, your grace?”

The smirk coming to you was easy, as was the lightness in your tone with a brow raising at what you too once thought. “In most families, it is not advised. Certainly not within royal ones.” Asking if that was true, why between the two present Kings, did there not appear to be any issue. “I think my father enjoys having a son more then he despises my choices in life for once.”

Glancing to one another, your head tilted with a small bit of passive jest in between the tenseness within your muscles as Olly muttered something more unintelligible no doubt at your fathers expense, not with the confidence to say it. Following up with one much more acceptable to put forward, “It still is a King you married.”

Tilting your head the slightest bit, you nearly relented. “Yes. But my father liking Jon, and my father liking Jon being married to me are not the same.” In a moment which still took the boy by surprise, he asked if all highborns were this complicated about things or just your family, and you laughed rather freely. Light, but still freely. “Most of us are to a degree, but I think it is a fair assessment to say the Baratheons are indeed a special kind of insufferable.”

Olly was clearly attempting not to say anything, so you said it for him. “You work for me you know, you're allowed to agree. I'm aware more then anyone how difficult I make everything.”

“Your grace-”

Quick on the draw though, you cut through his formality. “Oh, so you've never though to yourself, why can't she just do things the easy way for once?” Turning with a raised eyebrow to his own gaze, the childish smirk on his face only caused you to match more knowingly. An arm pulling him more into your side with a playful jostle as he dropped a bit more stature into amusement. “Do me a favour, go check on how progress is going on the lift and let Jon know.”

Watching him take off, you too could still feel eyes on you. But not Ollys. Eyes turning from one direction to another, you found one which did not feel it. The figure of Ghost approaching now that you stood alone before nudging into your front. A small smile forming as you let your hand come up to run along his fur. “I don't suppose you have any advice on the matter do you?”

A small huff nearly running his head into your side affectionately, you grinned. Hands now running along his ears firmly. But looking to the distance, still both sides of two Kings discussing things with one another did you stumble upon the eyes watching you. Just as held back as he had been hours before in the morning, the manner in which Tormund watched you was new.

He had nothing to say about the mention of a three eyed crow, but he knew of the Sight and he knew of many more things beyond the Wall which did not garner such a reaction. But like many times before in this day, did you turn away. Prompting Ghost to follow inside closely, until nightfall, there was little use for you to interrupt the others work.

Though, sometimes you still were not sure if it was just work you were avoiding interrupting, or the bonds of men you felt small in comparison to, or the very people involved all together. Jon had once said it could feel as if everytime he got somewhere with you, you would proceed to take ten steps back from him. And it felt true even now, but there was too much in your mind that you didn't know how to settle, or from where it stirred back up.

But maybe you thought, being back at the Wall was more then just a move towards what you were all fighting towards. It might also be the place throwing you back to memories of the last time you were in a place like this, and the memories that caused you to avoid disrupting Jons life in the first place.

The problem was though, you were not the only one who noticed. You were certainly not the only one who noticed. Theon could tell since being here, something was more wrong then the strange events which had just played out, and he could see Jon felt something was wrong too.

You avoiding your father, and much chaos around to settle the new company having arrived, Theon found something grow within him.

That just maybe, he had made a mistake. Because it was not simple want of avoidance in your eyes, it was something he recognized. You were not there yet, but he knew you would be soon. You'd avoid and avoid until that darkness came back and this time Theon decided to man up about it. No one had told him, not you, not Maester Wolkan, and not Theon himself. But Jon had asked him months previous what Ramsay had done to you, so he would know what to do to start helping you, and Theon wasn't honest.

But too much had passed between then and now, and betraying your trust meant making up for the lies of omission Theon was too scared to commit last time. By nightfall, the lift would be operational, and just perhaps he thought, now was the time to say it.

He knew you might hate him for it, but Theon lied for you last time and this time, he would be truthful before everyone had to watch your mind spiral all over again the way you were pretending it wasn't. He felt guilty telling him without your permission, but Theon knew Jon needed to know these things.

Already it already didn't sit well with the man knowing he was being kept in the dark intentionally. You didn't tell him because you were clearly afraid it was your fault, it reflected on you that it meant you didn't deserve what love Jon would never stop giving you. You were always hard on yourself, but none moreso then blaming you for what Ramsay forced you to do.

Maybe he should have given you a warning he was going to tell him, but you would've begged Theon to not do it, and he would've given in. So he didn't. Theon loved you like his own sister, and over a decade of being raised with him and now him being married to you, Jon was as good as his own brother he had remaining. And the Starks as a family were at their best when being entirely honest with one another.

So Theon took advantage of that evening. You were preoccupied with avoiding the arrival of your father at the Nightfort, and with others drawing your focus at every other time also occupying your workspace, it gave Theon the chance to approach Jon alone.

“I need to speak to you about something, in private.” This time, it was Theon who looked stern and serious instead of that day in Castle Black when it was Jon. But the nerves he had felt in the moment in Castle Black, were nothing compared to the shatteringly broken look in Jons eyes as he realized the extent of why you had refused to tell him the truth.

Theon was as honest as he was blunt. “I never told you because she didn't want me to, but now I know she doesn't want to because she thinks you'll see her differently. Like it changes anything about who she is now..”

Grey eyes wide as they were screaming in an unspoken horror, Jon opened and closed his mouth a few times before pacing along the length of the room. A hand running over his mouth instead as he turned to look back. Still just as wide eyed as before. He hardly looked like a King in that moment, more like a boy. Finally finding a voice in a distant rasp, “How often did he make her-”

“Just once. For that at least. That was only once. I can't say how often he made her endure the rest of it, but I'd wager a lot.” Jaw set and his hands tensed as he crossed his arms over his chest, Theon looked the angry he expected Jon too. “He loved making her do those things, and then leave her to get dressed so Lady Walda could walk her to supper. So she'd have to sit next to Ramsay and eat as if they were a family and nothing was wrong.”

Still quiet, Jon had hardly blinked as he only could look at Theon with something more devastated then he was capable of handling. So he turned to the side, paced along towards the window and found distraction looking out it. He thought it would be a red, steaming rage Jon would react with, not the heartbreaking red in his eyes like a boy wanting to cry.

Gods, Jon was truly so very in love with you, Theon thought. It wasn't fair, after everything both of you had been through, not even in marriage did you and Jon catch a break. He hoped your years together back when they were all younger were happy. Despite being secret and forbidden he hoped those years were easy and happy. Because your new life together kept refusing to let you both breathe.

The strain in Jons voice made Theon selfishly thankful he wasn't looking at him anymore. “You said Ramsay's men would..who?” Jon had sent what remained of the Boltons bannermen split between Castle Black, Eastwatch by the Sea, and the Shadow Tower, in a bit of an ironic punishment. Now Theon was fairly certain if he gave names, Jon was going to give those names to Edd and once he got back to Castle Black, there'd likely be more then a few hangings that night.

“They- they didn't..” How on earth was Theon supposed to explain that? He was fairly certain it would not be comforting in the least to tell Jon that Ramsay only allowed his men to make use of one specific part of you. It likely would not at all be any better to hear or to say.

And it wasn't.

“Why didn't you tell me about any of this when I asked you what he did to her?”

Jon was trying not to yell now, not wanting the attention drawn to the conversation but Theon felt the meaning behind it all the same. “Because you would've beaten Ramsay to death the day you reclaimed Winterfell, or even worse you'd have done it the second you met him to discuss terms. Which wouldn't have helped her, wouldn't have taken any of it back. She didn't need you to avenge all that, she just needed you to be there for her. Telling you all that would've set you off, and she didn't need any more of that.”

Asking if anyone else knows about it, the worst which 'it' spoke of, Theon could at least placate that only he, you, and Maester Wolkan were the ones alive left for that detail to know outside now of Jon. He mentioned Barbrey Dustin had heard rumours of it, but Theon knew such rumours had come from Myranda, with one dead and the other in a cell, that specific story wasn't leaving to the wider world.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jon clearly was trying to keep calm again. “For now this stays between us. I don't want you telling her I know. It'll upset her and she doesn't realize that's not good for her right now.” Theon paused, asking why.

It was Jons turn to hesitate, but he wasn't ready to say it yet. He was supposed to have told you before even leaving Winterfell, but now? Now he was even more worried about how you'd react then ever before if he let you find out alone.

“Is there a reason you've been hiding today?” As soon as Jons low voice rasped in your ear the tension in your shoulders deflated in an instant. Relaxing back into his warm touch as one hand held at your waist and the other slid across your stomach to pull you back into him. Gloved hands wrapping what you could around his forearm, were you facing the other way he'd be large and warm enough to shield you from the cold entirely as you stood out in the night.

You barley gave Jon a shrug, quiet only for him to hear. “I'd rather not have intruded. You were all close in a way I'm not, none of that is my place.”

Were you to wager gold, you'd have guessed Jons brows furrowed as he leaned over you more to try and see your face. His voice low near your ear in a hinted plead not to go down such a path. “You're my wife, darling. You're place is with me, no matter who else is there.” Giving but a slight nod, Jon chuckled as the sensation even through his layers and yours, rumbled against your back. “Besides, if you were there, would have spared me being made fun of.”

Your face twisted, eyes brightened only tinge asking “What were they making fun of?”

The arm around your front ran along your stomach over your scar, a grin blatantly following the words Jon mumbled in your ear once more. “Edd seems to think we're slacking in how many children we don't have.”

Grinning with ease, you felt him laugh along with you, the sound making your heart grow strong in an adoration of such rarities. Leaning back a bit, you felt him rest the side of his head against yours, “Shall I remind them we haven't even been married two months yet? These things take time.” Running along your scar back and forth, the gesture soothed what once would be a feeling on edge in your heart.

Each day, it got a little bit easier you supposed.

Despite the cold around you, Jons breath danced hot across your ear. “Do you want to know what's been on my mind?” Nodding, you thought nothing of any hidden intentions, soothing yourself back into his comfortable warmth. “If I had gotten you pregnant that night in Castle Black, you'd be about ready to give birth right now.” The hand on your scar more flat as if he yearned to run it along the skin covered by too many layers.

Rolling your eyes, the jest in your heart came off so naturally it almost sounded as if you were making fun of him right along his brothers. “If you had gotten me pregnant that night, you wouldn't have allowed me to do over half the things I've done since then. Not sure how much I'd have stepped foot near a battle if you had something to say about it in that time.” A pause as your eyes narrowed putting the timeline together on your own memory, “If I hadn't known I was with child by the time we were ready to go up against Ramsay, you'd have yelled at me afterwards for fighting in it even more then you already wanted to.”

Almost on the tip of his tongue was a denial, but Jon relaxed his person and thought better of it. You both knew that one would have been true. Something else was on his mind you could sense, but only giving a patience for him to get there when he was ready. “I know we've never talked about it properly.” The quiet giving a question in the air which he elaborated on as he pulled you even closer into his chest. “Having a child. We've joked about it, I've rambled about it when we've been together, but we've never actually talked about it.” The hand on your scar giving more pressure wishing to feel your bare scar as if he needed too.

Your heart was a bit heavy, but once more, easier day by day to think about it. But it was the swiftness of how you dived so close to the core of Jons gentle words in your ear which caught him off guard. “I know why you don't bring it up, Jon. Truly I do, for a while I didn't want to talk about it either.” Inhaling deeply, you cut to the chase of what you were just starting to think was Jons intention here. “I know you want children, and I know you won't ask me for them.” Your gloved hand covering his on your scar and Jon changed tactics to press your own against your stomach and he covered one of yours with both of his, your other hand grasping what you could of his wrist.

Sighing deeply, Jon's presence stood heavy behind you as he tightened his hold on your hand moment by moment. The breath shaking with nerves in your ear, had your head tilt somewhat. A narrow passing your eyes in an innocent wonder of what he suddenly of all people seemed uncertain of saying, but not the right chance to speak it as a very different voice cropped up from the side of where you and Jon both stood.

“And I thought hearing Sam go on about Gilly was sickening.” Turning swiftly to the side, the approaching Edd was followed by the Sam in question, Tormund, Theon, and Ser Davos by the side of your curiously silent father. All three former behind him amused despite Jon growing more rigid behind you, and even worse so as you pulled away respectfully in front of them.

Your tone however, the brightness in your eyes matched theirs whereas unbeknownst to you, Jons jaw clenched in a troubled scowl more serious then Edd's jesting should normally have elicited. “No need to act petty for what you don't have. What was it one of your brothers told me, Edd? That you had hoped women all over the Seven Kingdoms enjoy a uniformed man?”

A flat look fell across his face as he nodded to behind you to walk with him, expression in a matching lack of seriousness. “That's what I get for ever telling Hobb that story. He gets one beautiful woman complimenting his food and he tells you all my embarrassing secrets.”

Turning to follow down the path beside him, Jon almost didn't follow until Ser Davos and Stannis both stuck back with a questioning gaze at how tense he was compared to you. Shaking his head, Jon nodded for the two men respectfully, to go ahead first. Somewhat wrapping his dark fur cloak around his front more as if trying to hide how unsure yet unsettled he now felt.

He had gotten so close.

Coming now to where the lift up the height of the wall was stationed, you despite your misgivings, seemed to have found an ease in which Edd did not bother showing you any decorum or grandiose greeting. A banter from you came naturally at the accuracy of his statement. “Truly, it's almost tragic considering the uniforms of the Nights Watch do look rather catching. It just isn't women you're seeing day in and out to impress.”

A smirk almost came over you as he did not quite commit to his own glare, but it was not aided in his favour from Tormund speaking up. “You joined an army of men and thought women come running towards you? Sure some of you southern men look pretty enough, but not that pretty.”

Sam found his own amusement come easy towards Edd as well. “Who would've thought I would be the one to attract a girl before you did.”

Dry as ever, Edd shook his head. “Did I come here to put up with this or help you? Because it's starting to feel like the former.”

“There's no shame in admitting your allure isn't what it once was, Edd. You men can't all be Samwell Tarly's, some of you have to settle to be the Giantsbanes of the world.” Sharing a raised brow looking back to the large man in question and were so many people not here you knew that smirk meant he'd have the right words to knock down that high positioned jesting attitude in seconds.

Despite avoiding them just that early afternoon, it was notable how easily you found common ground amongst them. Never in your entire life in Kings Landing did you find any sort of companions with as natural ease in words as you continued to do so in the North. As if it was the place you were meant to be, something poked at your mind added.

In the ease of banter, none but two of them continued to notice how quick Jon had gone from soft and approachable to on edge and utterly quiet and closed off watching the figures ahead of them trait jests and mockings. They too, were also the ones lucky enough to know when not to provoke the bear, or wolf. Were it not already dark out, Jons eyes would have looked an angry black hiding the greys behind it now.

The land looked far more dark even in view of only the South from the rising lift. Your hands braced against the bars at the back near the wall, the wind picked up around the group of you and a shiver fell through your spine. Eyes drifting to the other side, yours found Jons wide and already trained on you.

A silent bright plead in them as if needing something you couldn't provide in the right here and now, and the yearning to go to him slammed you right in the chest. Not in front of all these people though, not in such a situation or in close quarters, but something about the softness of how he watched only you tugged at something.

Your brows raised ever so slightly as if trying to ask him what was wrong, but yet only a small smile was gifted back. Bright and gentle as he ever was but you felt yourself biting down against your tongue to keep the racing of your heart to something slower. Even in the cold and crowd here, Jon managed to take your worry and transform it right into something coming up into needing.

But the lift reached the top of the Wall, and filing out, you waited for the others to go first. Slowly making your way to Jon, seemingly waiting for you back he said nothing. Your lips parted to ask first, but he just pushed you gently in front of him at your lower back without a word. His hand much like earlier that day, slinking up to the white fur around your shoulders and curling into it just as none of the group was looking back at you.

Edd's voice finally begun to report, and Jon pushed you forward a bit more in order for you both to hear properly. “We kept getting more and more reports from rangers that they were seeing something far North, but we couldn't risk sending enough so far out to confirm it. So we had to wait and see, but then the days started getting shorter and slowly we saw it making it's way.”

Stannis's voice shouted a bit over top the swirling wind around. “Saw what?”

Turning the path, Edd reached one of the landings leading out to the North side of the Wall, and as you all gathered to look, silence fell upon each and every one of you. It was not in any dream, nor were any of you standing in a vision, but in the real world as you stepped up and closer to the edge where Edd stood. Jon's hand still firm behind you, as if keeping an ability to pull you from the edge, but everyone's eye's were wide.

It was far, so far off that it would take an unknown amount of weeks if not months to genuinely reach it.

The sky of the far North was utterly pitch black, no stars to be seen but it was covered up with a shimmering green. Waving thick in the night sky like a milk pouring against the dark and a shine glowing from it that memorized you as much as the pull of the Weirwood gate down below the ground did the same. As if the green made you want to pull your gloves off to reach out and grasp it.

Your father once more, was the first to speak up, as calm as he was unnerved only caught by your ears. “What is it?”

It had been Jon who answered, not Edd. “Them.”

All gazes found him, but he turned his head to the side to meet Edd's, who only nodded once slowly in a yes, yours never leaving the sight of green. “Aye. Days been getting shorter, and sooner or later that's going to reach us and we won't have days any more to worry about.”

Ser Davos somewhat behind you asked how he could be sure it was them, and while Edd's answer came in the formal report of what his rangers had found Jon had a much easier answer. The speculation running through the group until Jon tenderly rasped your name, you not noticing you hadn't blinked the second your eyes found the green.

Still, you didn't look away as you whispered. “It isn't normal darkness they'll bring, the further south they come the closer that will get. They bring it with them.” It was Sam that time repeated the ask of how you were sure, but it was the distance Jons eyes that was certain.

“Sam, what did the translation say?”

No one looked away from the shimmering green as Jon asked firmly. Pulling you now right into his side, you barley reacted as your eyes found nothing but the calling for it.

The answer almost didn't register to you, “It's the Nights Watch vow. I said the vow and that was how the gate opened the first time, but the symbols on the inside are also our vows.” Jon asking if that that included the symbols from the Others, and Sam nodded as wide eyed as everyone else. “Including the Others.”

Without his grasp, you may have fallen from the Wall, how dizzy you begun to feel. The white glow underground and the shimmering green glow in the far North your breathing picked up. Seen by the amount of white pouring from your every breath. Jon asked Edd how many rangers he currently had North, getting the answer of none in response.

“Good. Send word to the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch by the Sea. No one ranges North anymore for any reason. If any of them have men North, tell them to send a raven and get them back as soon as possible. If where they need to go isn't in the South already, no one is to leave.” Your head spun still further, it shook and it pounded and you begged to go back and see it once more or ask the unknowns why this both called to you and had you feel so unstable on your feet or in your mind.

You barley heard Jon even though he was giving orders right by your ear in an authoritative tone even more. “I'm not sending our brothers into another slaughter, and I don't want them thinking we're ranging North searching for one either.”

Standing next to Jons warmth, you could only see green, and you could only recall the sensation in a dream like vision almost a fortnight passed. The memory of an unseen freezing cold wrapping around your limbs like a lovers embrace, and yet it seemed in such a moment to stem in a harmony along the warm feeling Jon already was giving you. As if they were feelings tied together from him.

You had one thought, and the thought was you needed more answers and one way to get them was the only path available to you now. If they were coming, you had a purpose to fufill and it was to do more then be there to warm Jons bed. You had to be there for him in more ways then that and you couldn't do that if you couldn't get answers.

Your health, your well being be damned. They were coming and you'd sacrifice whatever was needed to ensure Jon lived through it to fight to the end. Even if it cost you yourself once more. The green wasn't terrifying like wildfire had been, but it was a symbol all on it's own without any bodies needed.

It was a message that you truly did not have time to avoid this anymore.

[a-libra-writes]

Heey, welcome back and congrats on 700 followers! 😘 I'd like to request ❣😎😆 for my boy Ramsay 😛 I know I always request him (and seems like nobody else does, I'm not surprised tho, also I swear I'm actually a normal person 😅)but I really like your interpretation of him because it's close to my own headcanons about how would he behave with someone he actually loves lol 😄 (also, choosing only 3 prompts is soo hard ngl 😂)

hiya!! I remember you! :3  Im glad you request Ramsay so much; even if he’s terrifying, he’s fun to write... and this is all fictional so we can have fun hahaha. & you can always request more prompts after this!

Ramsay Bolton

❣️ What makes them blush/gets their heart pounding?

There are many things he fixates on once he finally has his significant other. One thing that seems to get him without fail is physical closeness. Even if it’s as simple as sitting closer to him and taking his hand, or holding his face to keep him still, he’ll freeze for just a moment. He always expects you to back away and recoil at any second, so often he’ll hold you tighter to keep you with him. Another thing he likes is when he unexpectedly makes you laugh.

😎 How do they impress their s/o?

His ways of impressing you aren’t... typical, but there’s an almost boyish earnestness in them. The hunting isn’t so bad - he knows what meat you like, he finds it, kills it, brings you back a trophy and dinner. You’re both pleased, even you have to remind him now and again to wash the blood off. He likes showing you his archery skills, which are impressive, and that’s when that strange, almost childish look of pride comes on his face. The problems come when he does things he thinks you’ll appreciate... dealing with a family member you don’t like, a servant who maybe stole a ring, a lord who supposedly acted inappropriately.

😆 How do they make their s/o laugh?

His sense of humor is exceedingly morbid and not for polite company, to say the least. It usually unsettles you, but once in a while, he’ll catch you in a dark mood or he insults someone you truly hate. That’s when you can’t stop yourself from snorting or giggling, and those chilling blue eyes just light up. 

[megsironthrone]

Assassin

Based on this request:  hi! may i request ramsay x female reader where Y/N is a sellsword hired to assassinate roose and ramsay. she kills roose on the same night that ramsay was planning to do it so he is watching from the shadows. some type of romantic ending? thank you <3

Here you are! *Characters are NOT mine!*

Warnings: Violence, death, angst, a little steamy, I guess?...as romantic as I could make Ramsay. 

Pairings/Characters: Ramsay Bolton x fem!reader, mentions of Roose Bolton

No one ever suspects the woman. Women in Westeros didn't do what you did. Sure, they could be knights or blacksmiths as well as ladies or wives and mothers. But, as far as you knew, you were the only female sellsword/assassin outside of Braavos. Because of that, you were often hired to carry out even more violent acts than male sellswords, much like your current assignment.

         After Sansa Stark managed to flee Winterfell, she ran to the North. From there, word reached Petyr Baelish of Ramsay and Roose Bolton's horrendous deeds. That was why he hired you. To eliminate the threat without need for another big battle. There had already been too many in the passing years. Not that it mattered to you. But Baelish's gold was good and you took the job without hesitation.

         That was how you found yourself walking through the corridors of Winterfell. With the birth of a new baby happening, no one in the castle noticed when a new servant just randomly appeared. Well that's what you thought at least. There was one person that noticed, but by the time he had, it was too late.

Ramsay's POV

         Ramsay slid the dagger into his shirt and made his way to where he was certain his father would be. He was still trying to determine whether he would take care of his father before or after the birth of the babe. However, before he could make up his mind, Ramsay stopped in his tracks. As he suspected, there were only three people in the room. His father, a guard, and you. That was what made Ramsay pause. He'd never seen you before. He was absolutely certain of that. And when you told the guard that the captain of the guard was summoning him, his interest was piqued.

         The newly legitimize Bolton sank into the shadows when Roose waved the guard off, leaving just the two of you. Ramsay watched as you flashed Roose a smile and congratulated him on his newest child. You drew close to the table in order to take away Roose's plate, but backed away quickly when someone approached, announcing that a son had indeed been born.

         Ramsay clenched his fists. He needed you out of the room. Now. He couldn't let his father suspect anything. Ramsay's eyes found your form again as you reached to take away the plate. Adrenaline coursed through his veins only to turn ice cold when he heard the sound of steel piercing flesh. He heard you whisper something to Roose before the man slumped forward onto the table.

         When you pulled back, Ramsay could see your own knife glinting in the sunlight and dripping with his father's blood. He couldn't deny the sudden, thrilling shudder than went down his spine. You had just killed a lord and your face showed no fear. At least, until your eyes searched the room for an exit, only to land on Ramsay. You stiffened and muttered a curse under your breath before launching the bloody knife in Ramsay's direction.

         Thanks to your distraction, the blade missed its target, embedding itself in the wood next to Ramsay's head. Ramsay tsked, the sound echoing through the nearly empty room. Another curse flew from your lips as you turned on your heel to flee. Ramsay was on you in an instant, pinning you to the floor.

         He lifted himself up slightly so he could turn you around and look at your face. You struggled against him for a moment, your (e/c) eyes flashing. "Release me," you growled out. Ramsay chuckled. "I'm afraid I can't do that. You did just kill a lord after all." You stopped thrashing and gave a little shrug. "Lords die all the time. It's in their nature when they're mad dogs."

         Ramsay tried his hardest to bite back the chuckle that wanted to escape him, but it was no use. He laughed. Not his usual laugh, but a deep laugh that shook his entire body, and yours. "Perhaps it is. However, that particular lord was also my father and mine to kill." For the first time, your eyes showed true fear. "You're Ramsay Bolton?"

         A smirk made its way to Ramsay's lips. "You aren't fooling me. I know you've been watching this place. It's the only way you could have known who to get close to and how to infiltrate this castle." It was your turn to smile, instantly confirming Ramsay's suspicions.

         "Very well, you caught me. Now what are you going to do? If I don't report back, my employer won't be too happy." Ramsay hummed in response to that. The thought of taking on another lord's army was tempting. But then again, so was the current position you were both in. What to do?

         "Well, I could let you go. Or I could have you executed for killing Lord Roose Bolton." You made a  gesture with your head that seemed to say "true, true", but then you met his eyes again. "And with a flick of my wrist, I could give you the same treatment you gave poor Theon Greyjoy." For a moment, Ramsay was confused, but then he felt the point of a knife poke his thigh. "You didn't think I came all this way with only one knife, did you?"

         At that, Ramsay actually froze. He didn't know what to do. His mind was racing and his blood coursed through him in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. Not even with Myranda. It only took him a moment to realize why. He wanted you. He wanted you to be his. He didn't love you, of course, but he loved this little game. You spoke to him without fear. Threatened him without mercy. Toyed with him the way a cat does a mouse. It sent shivers down his spine in the best possible way. The realization was so unexpected, he didn't feel it when your hand pointed the knife away. In fact, he didn't notice much until he found his own back against the cold, stone floor.

         Somehow, you'd managed to roll you both over without your knife slicing either one of you. Now, you were hovering over him, your lips merely centimeters from his and your knife to his throat. Ramsay's hand automatically gripped your hips. "You know, I was hired to kill you as well. Now, I'm not so sure. I quite like this game," you whispered, although every word seemed much louder in the empty room.

         "Still...I can't stay. It won't be long until the guards come back." You cocked your head to the side and hummed in contemplation. With a smile, you drew your face closer to his. Ramsay felt his entire body nearly catch fire in anticipation. What were you going to do? Would you kill him or were you feeling the same things as he?

         Your lips brushed his lightly before the sound of armor could be heard approaching the doors. With a sigh, you sat back up. "Sorry we have to cut this short." Using the knife, you swiped Ramsay's gold pouch and moved to get off him completely. Ramsay's grip on you tightened, causing you to look down at him with an arched brow. "Your name?" You smirked and lowered down. "You'll have to figure it when we meet again, my lord." You pressed your lips against his fervently.

         You pulled away as the doors opened, making it look like you were still in the process of attacking Ramsay rather than kissing him. The guards merely stood there for a moment. You rolled your eyes, jumped off Ramsay, and headed for the nearby window. Ramsay thanked whatever deities there were that Winterfell had tall and wide windows. You flashed your eyes to him for a brief moment then jumped down into the night.

         Chaos ensued, but Ramsay hardly noticed. He raced to the window only to find that you had already vanished into the shadows. He bit back a smile and laugh. He barked his orders for the guards to find you. It was a game of cat and mouse now. A game Ramsay intended to win and, by the end, you would be his and only his. For the rest of your days.

(a/n: I hope you like it! I’m always stuck on writing romance for Ramsay.)

Forever Tags: @fizzyxcustard @brewsthespirit-blog @etherealpotter @line-viper @cd1242 @gruffle1 @smalltownbigheart @igotmadskills​ @frozenhuntress67​

[eryiss]

Summary: Forced to be sociable by his so called friends, Laxus finds himself attending a five week cooking class. An insulting and stupid idea, and one he resents them for doing. He would have thrown it in their faces, if it weren’t for the smug prick teaching the class, with his handsome face, delectable body, and annoyingly enticing way of keeping Laxus on his toes. [Fraxus One Shot]

Notes: Hi. I wrote this on my phone while sitting on the beach, so who knows how it’ll turn out. But it’s got them both being cocky, both being flirty, and both being in love, so what else could you want. Hope you all enjoy it.

Links: FFN, Ao3

Set To Boil

Or: 4 Times Freed taught Laxus a recipe, & 1 time Laxus returned the favour

Week One - Pizza

"Laxus, you need to get out more."

"Laxus, there's no reason for you not to give it a try."

"Laxus, you're an antisocial brat and you need to get out more."

Fuck them all. Fuck Evergreen for her haughty sense of self belief. Fuck Bickslow for having no tact and being and coming up with good points. Fuck Makarov in particular, for being a rude old coot who threatened to change the damn lock. And when Laxus found out which of the interfering bastards had been the one to come up with this stupid idea, then fuck them too.

It was ridiculous. Yes, perhaps Laxus had become somewhat insular as of late. Maybe his friends had been putting in more effort than him as of late, but it was important. He was newly hired in his sports journalism career, and he needed to focus on his writing.

What he did not need was a five week cooking course!

Why the hell did cooking courses even exist anymore? If you wanted to learn to cook, there was this brilliant new invention called a computer. They had hundreds of step by step recipes, none of which required Laxus to trudge through a damn rec-centre at eight at night!

Seriously, fuck them all.

He was late, too. The bus had missed his stop, and as such he was now ten damn minutes late. He was half-tempted to leave the rec-centre before he found his classroom - Ever, Bicks and Makarov wouldn't find out if he didn't use the damn voucher, after all - but then he would have to spend the next five weeks thinking of ways to pass the time every Thursday night. He really needed to move out of Makarov's damn apartment; the old bastard apparently had nothing better to do than to keep tabs on him. Bastard.

He was in front of the classroom door before he knew it, and he faulted. Dammit, why had he agreed to do this? Why couldn't the bus have gotten him there on time? Why was he nervous about this?

No; he was a grown man dammit. Fuck his nerves,

With false confidence, he walked into the classroom. Eight benches, all with sinks, ovens, cooktops, an array of cutlery and equipment, and a basket of ingredients filled the space. Five people stood behind some of the benches, and Laxus somewhat guilty slinked towards the nearest bench, at the back of the classroom.

"Mr Dreyar, I presume," A voice, deliciously smooth with underlying authority, made Laxus pause.

He looked up to see a man standing at the front of the room, behind a larger and more professional looking cooking worktop, and Laxus paused. If you were to encapsulate all of Laxus' ideal qualities in a man, his new teacher was apparently as close a person could come. Tall, obviously with some muscle, tight and sharp facial features, a little pale, and with long hair. He wore a button up shirt that hugged his form, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off a near-indecent amount of his forearms. He was quirking his eyebrow towards Laxus, and he felt ensnared by the expression.

Dammit, of course. Almost every other cooking class in the country would inevitable be taught by a homely housewife or a tedious Ramsay wannabe, but not his. He gets a stud with veiny forearms, high cheekbones, and narrowed eyes that made Laxus shiver.

He couldn't justify it, but Laxus was inclined to blame his grandfather for that.

"There's a bench up here, if you'd like to take it," The teacher said, motioning towards one of the cooking stations at the front of the room. Laxus cringed; even in school, he'd been one of the kids who sat at the back. That wasn't a habit he was ready to lose.

"I'd rather stay here, if it's all the same to you," Laxus mumbled, annoyed at himself for not speaking clearly. There was something about teachers that just… what did you call someone who intimidated you but also kind of excited you at the same time?

God, this was going to be awful.

"And I prefer it if my students arrived to my lessons on time," The teacher smirked a little, and Laxus almost stuttered in search of a reply. "And, as tends to happen with a student who shows up late on the first day, you'll likely act out further. As such, I want you close by so I can keep you on the straight and narrow," He tapped his finger on the surface twice. "This counter, please."

Though only a few steps, the walk to the counter at the front of the room was humiliating, it served to make the asshole teacher appear less hot, if nothing else. Because Laxus definitely did not like a man who knew how to be firm with him.

This was going to be hell, wasn't it?

At his assigned counter, Laxus felt a little lost. Nestled in the ingredients was a recipie - they were making pizza, apparently - and Laxus slightly found himself floundering. The cooking lessons weren't just to make him more sociable; he had no idea how to cook.

The teacher, who was looking at him from behind his work surface, sighed and approached Laxus. In his hand, he held a chopping board with what appeared to be a large mound of dough. He placed it before Laxus, who drowned down at it.

"Normally I would have taught you how to make dough yourself, but my plan's require the full hour," The teacher said, as if that was an explanation. "Rather than you lagging behind and not getting the whole experience, you should start from the same point everyone else is at. So put yourself to work and start to kneed this. It'll require a few more minutes to get to the right consistency."

Laxus looked down at the dough, grinding his teeth. Kneeding was rubbing it, right? And occasionally you punch it? That didn't sound right.

"Like this," The teacher said, pulling the chopping board towards him. He started to kneed the dough - it wasn't what Laxus thought it was - and the attraction came back with a sudden force. God dammit, why did his sleeves have to hug his biceps like that? That just wasn't fair.

The dough was pushed towards him again, and Laxus rolled up his sleeves and started to emulate what the teacher had done. The teacher didn't leave, and Laxus squirmed a little under, and found himself speaking to fill the silence.

"I ain't gonna learn, y'know," His mouth said before his brain could intercept. "Don't give a shit about cooking."

That a'boy Laxus. Turn up late, fail at a basic thing, and insult the guy's career. Real classy.

"You will." The teacher said, as if it were undeniable.

"I will?" Laxus scoffed.

"You will," The teacher repeated, smirking, "Once you realise what a good home cooked meal taste like, you'll be desperate to learn what else you can do."

"You seem awfully confident about that…" He drifted off; he didn't even know the damn guys name,

"Freed," The teacher supplied. "And I am confident. You'll love cooking by the end of it. I'm sure."

"You talk a big game," Laxus chuckled a little. He almost forgot he was kneeding the dough, but Freed looked down at his hands and grinned a little, which got Laxus to pause. Just because he was kneeding dough it didn't mean he cared; it was basically a workout. That was all, and Freed needed to know that. "If you're that sure, then I'm gonna insist you eat everything I make, no matter how shitty it turns out to be."

"So long as you don't sabotage yourself on purpose, I can agree to that."

Well, Laxus had slightly wanted to make Freed eat combinations of food that tasted like crap, but this could work. Laxus really was that bad of a cook, Freed might not be able to know the difference.

"Deal," Laxus nodded, offering Freed a hand to shake. The chef did so immediately, with a firm squeeze and… oh damn, those veins!

——

Week Two - Curry

Laxus had been right. Even putting in the effort and following the recipie as best he could, he was still a shitty cook. Unless, of course, a curry was meant to be accompanied by a waft of dark, burning smoke when you opened up the oven. Laxus coughed a little as he removed the dish from the oven, placing it on the counter top while shutting the oven door with his foot,

Freed was storming over immediately, flapping at the smoke with a dish towel and immediately turnoff the extractor fan on to suck up the smoke before it reached the detector. He had previously been working with a pink haired bastard, who was snickering at Laxus' failure. Asshole.

"What on earth did you do to it?" Freed demanded, more confused than angry.

"I followed her recipe," Laxus retorted indignantly. "Can't blame me."

"Everyone else has the same recipe and they've managed fine," Freed muttered under his breath. "Explain to me what happened."

Laxus bit down the instinct to tell Freed to choke on something, patronising ass that he was. He had made a deal with Freed the week prior that he would do what he could to make the most of the lessons, and he would enjoy knowing how to make a few meals, so admitting his mistakes was something that he would have to do. Even if it was to a smug, ego-centred teacher who Laxus could definitely take in a fight without breaking a sweat,

Maybe he should suggest some boxing lessons. Laxus had given up pro fighting the year before, but kept it up for fun. If Freed was acting like Laxus was stupid for not knowing the basics of cooking, Laxus would act like Freed was stupid when he didn't understand how to box.

Fantasising about punching Freed in the stomach - which was no doubt toned and sexy as hell - made talking through the process easier. Freed wore a slight frown, apparently not seeing anything wrong with what he had done. Laxus was about to boast that he was right, and that it was Freed's instructions that had gotten the burned pile of mush that filled the room with smoke, but Freed's expression turned to one of understanding when he looked at the oven,

"These work on Celsius, you set it as though you were using Fahrenheit," Freed explained. "You essentially nuked it."

Fuck. God-fucking-dammit!

He could have dealt with it if he was unable to do some cooking thing he'd never had to use before. But this? Misreading a piece of paper and setting the wrong temperature on the damn oven, how the hell had he managed to do that? It was humiliating! He was a grown ass adult, a retired sportsman who was forging a career to be respected. But an oven had made him look like an idiot who couldn't do anything for himself. Fucking brilliant.

With clenched fists, he rested against the workbench and leant on it with closed eyes. This was why he didn't do shit like this; he needed to keep in his lane and do what he was good at. Not cook, not have this weird hate-boner for his teacher. None of this.

"How soon after the class do you need to leave?" Freed asked, cutting through Laxus' spiralling thoughts. He frowned, but answered.

"Don't have any plans after."

"If we start again, we can have you finished ten minutes after class. That way it won't be an act of futility," Freed said, and rolled his damn sleeves up again. Thankfully he was moving around the counter, turning the oven down and fiddling with appliances fast enough to stop Laxus' eyes from lingering. "I can teach you how to spice things to your own tastes, as well. Normally that's next week, but I can advance you for your troubles."

"Advance me?" Laxus frowned. "Kinda need to be good at the basics first."

"You are, everything you said was correct. You made a small mistake that I should have noticed," Freed shrugged, walking to the counter he taught from and taking a box of ingredients to place on Laxus' desk. "I thought you'd learn better left to your own devices, and while I expect that was true, I shouldn't have left you alone. That was my mistake and as such, I'll amend it. We'll make a curry suited towards your tastes."

This was an olive branch, Laxus was sure of it. Freed had apparently noticed Laxus' shift of mood, and took the blame for Laxus' mistake. He was thankful of it, but it was still embarrassing.

Thankfully, a way of saving face had presented itself.

"I don't know if I can believe ya," He said with a small, somewhat forced smirk. "I mean, you don't have a record for keeping promises, do ya?"

"Don't I?"

"You told me you'd eat some of everything I made," Laxus shrugged, looking towards his pot of 'curry' that lay stagnant in the pot. It was grey, somehow. Food shouldn't be grey. "That was a lie."

Freed sighed, but didn't back down. He pulled a dessert spoon from one of the drawers, carefully scooped up some of the ruined mush and brought it towards his lips; damn they were pretty. He openly winced at the smell, swallowing preemptively as it got closer to his mouth. He glanced towards Laxus for a split second, who was watching him with crossed arms expectantly, and let out a resigned sigh. He opened his mouth, took in the spoon, then ate.

First he gagged, then he coughed, then he struggled to swallow. Even though Laxus had worked hard, and a small part of him thought Freed was exaggerating, he laughed at the reaction. Freed was fighting to keep the burned, disgusting food down. Once completely swallowed, he turned to Laxus with a wince.

"Delicious," He lied, trying to hide how thoroughly unhappy he was.

"If that's the case, there's plenty more," Laxus smirked, and Freed actually winced. That, of course, spurred Laxus on further. This was more fun than cooking. "Eat up, I don't mind."

Freed seemed to think for a moment, before standing up straight, rolling his back, and doing something Laxus never would have expected. He pulled out a plate and a ladle, scooped a portion large enough to fill two fully grown adults would struggle to finish no matter what the taste, and placed it on the countertop as if it was something to be proud of.

"A deal," Freed proposed. "I want to teach you one on one for the rest of the session. No distractions, no changing the subject, simply me telling you how to cook. Essentially, until you've cooked something successfully, I want your full attention."

Laxus nearly scoffed, Freed already had that. Instead, he said: "What's my 'delicious' curry got to do with that."

"If you make an attempt to distract me, to get out of lessons in some way, or continue with the mindset that this course is not suited to you, then for the rest of your time learning under me, you'll stay after class and clean everyone's dishes until I'm satisfied with the result."

Laxus winced a little. "And if I don't do any of that."

"I'll eat all of this," He motioned to the plate of ruined food. "And you may watch me do it."

Thinking for a moment, Laxus grinned. "Your funeral," He then glances at the food and winced. "Possibly literally."

Freed waved off the comment, stood beside Laxus with his new range of ingredients, and began explaining the basics of how to get a flavour you desired from your ingredients. On instinct Laxus wanted to taunt the man, suggesting the best way to get a flavour was with a take-out menu, but he managed to stop himself before the words slipped out. Mainly it was to avoid four weeks of dish washing, but also because he hasn't seen Freed like this. He was passionate when he spoke about cooking, and Laxus didn't want to ruin that.

And when Freed's arm slid against Laxus' as they moved, somehow at the same moment Freed looked at him with a genuine smile, Laxus felt shivers roll over him. This was… there were worse ways to spend a Thursday evening.

——

Week Three - Chicken Soup

"Y'know, if you're gonna make such a big deal about-" Laxus cut himself off. Holy shit.

He had been ready to blast into Freed about puntuality. Laxus had gotten to the class on time, only to see that Freed was not there. Eight minutes into the lesson, the door had opened, and Laxus was fully intending to lambast Freed about how much of a big deal it was when Laxus was late, and yet Freed was just as bad. He only stopped when he saw the state Freed was in. Because dammit, the man was drenched to the bone.

What the hell had happened to him? Sure it was raining, but Laxus knew he had a car, and surely the walk from the parking lot to the building hadn't been that bad. He looked like he'd gotten into a fight with a lake and lost.

"Everyone to your work stations please," Freed instructed, removing his coat as he walked to the front of the class. "I apologise for being late, but it shouldn't be too much of an imposition if we all focus."

Laxus was focusing. Focusing on the fact Freed's white shirt was clinging to his chest, showing off strong pecs and the taunting glimpse of a six-pack. It was a temp tight sight, and far too indecent for a classroom setting.

He shook his thoughts away. He needed to focus, because last week's lesson had proved a lot of things. One: Freed was willing to eat a whole plate full of disgusting food to prove a point, which wasn't relevant but Laxus still thought funny to think about him gagging and going green. Two: Freed was actually a damn good teacher, he just apparently hadn't know what Laxus needed from him until the latter half of the class. Three: Laxus actually could cook, if taught well. Because the second curry he'd made was indescribable, and it had tasted just as good when Laxus had cooked it two nights prior.

So, the lessons were actually working, and Laxus decided he was going to fully allow himself to be a student. Groping the teacher with his eyes wasn't going to help that, so Laxus remained quiet and let Freed explain the lesson.

To learn how to flavour things correct, they would all be making a series of different soups throughout the hour. Five basic recipes has been placed on their workspaces, and an entire array of spices, ingredients and flavourings had been scattered through the room. The point of the exercise was to follow the recipes, but also put other ingredients into their soups while doing it so that they can experiment with flavours. It was pretty smart, and Laxus felt like he had an advantage given Freed's impromptu lesson with spices the week before.

Once Freed stopped talking, they began cooking, and Laxus felt oddly confident in himself.

About ten minutes into the exercise, Freed made his way to Laxus' workstation. Wordlessly, he picked up a plastic ladle and scooped out a small amount of the soup Laxus had cooking. Laxus watched with only a small amount of anticipation as Freed brought the soup to his lips and swallowed it, and didn't focus on the flipping of his stomach as Freed smiled at him.

"It's very good," he praised, and Laxus did not preen at the words.

"Thanks," He muttered instead. "Any advice?"

Freed smiled a little at the request, placing the ladle in the small sink. "I'd use sea salt from now on, it'll bring out the flavour of the chicken more. But your instincts have served you well, it works very well together."

"Oh, thanks," Laxus mumbled awkwardly, and Freed didn't help by leaning over the table to look at Laxus' recipe, bring their faces far too close. Thank god the heat of the room has fixed the slight transparency of Freed's shirt, because knowing about the body below the clothes was tempting enough with him this close. If he could see the man's body, he might explode.

"You've put everything you've added onto this, haven't you?" Freed asked, tapping the recipe that had Laxus notes covering it. Laxus nodded weakly. "Then, if you can recreate it as it is now,I then it's time to experiment. Pick something at random to add and see what it tastes like. If it's bad, remake what you've already done."

"Anything huh?" Laxus quirked a brow. "You know you have to eat it, right? You wanna give me this much freedom after last week?"

"So long as you choose your ingredients thinking it will taste good, I'll uphold my agreement," Freed shrugged. "Though I must admit, I'd prefer not to spend the night with stomach cramps and a bucket beside my bed again, if avoidable."

Laxus barked out a laugh. "Kinda thought I'd killed ya when you didn't show up on time. What happened?"

"My car's broken down," Freed explained, looking over the herbs Laxus had added. "It took longer to get here than I expected."

"You walked in this?" Laxus glanced towards the heavy rainfall beating down on the windows.

"Indeed," Freed nodded. "Not my smartest decision."

Laxus winced a little at a roll of thunder exploded outside, apparently trying to make sure Freed knew just how stupid his decision had been. Freed didn't seem too bothered by it, though, and instead walked towards the old woman who worked behind Laxus, tasting her version of tomato soup and giving her advice on how to give it an extra kick.

The rest of the lesson continued on like that. Freed would work his way around the room, helping where he could. Laxus experimented on his soup, finding parmasean to be the missing ingredient.

Freed actually licked his damn lips after trying that. Did he know what he was doing to Laxus?

Once the lesson was over, the storm still lighting up the sky, Laxus walked to the door of the rec-centre. Freed was lingering there, wrapped up in a large red coat and clearly not looking forward to his walk home. Laxus understood that; the rain was so hard it probably would hurt to be under it.

"I'll drive ya home," Laxus said, his tone not leaving room to argue.

"What?" Freed asked. "No, that's not-"

"Didn't give you a choice, did I?" Laxus crossed his arms.

"You intend to kidnap me?" Freed joked.

"Yeah," Laxus nodded. "If you walk out in that, you're gonna get sick for no reason other than your own stubbornness. If that happens, the. Eat I can do for you is give you the recipe for this," he patted the container of chicken soup he held, "but I kinda think driving you might make more sense."

Freed considerd before speaking. "I insist on paying for gas, at least."

"Course you will, I ain't a cheap date."

The words came before Laxus could stop himself, and a flush of worry spread through him. Freed simply laughed, murmured a teasing "I expect not," and walked towards the door. He held it open for Laxus to walk through, and with a small grin, Laxus did so, with Freed by his side.

When the rain hit them, Laxus didn't care, and it certainly didn't diminish the silly smile that he hoped Freed couldn't see.

——

Week Four - Meringues

"What are you looking at, Laxus?"

Freed seemed amused as he spoke, and he walked towards Laxus' working area. Laxus had been trying to catch his teacher's eye for around a minute, with probably a stupid little grin on his face. He couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed about being caught out.

The drive home with Freed has been a long one - thirty minutes in the car; how long would it have been if he'd walked! - and they'd talked throughout. Laxus had learned that, until recently, Freed had been a professional chef for the TV show 'Sabertooth Chefs', a cooking competition watched by millions. He was off camera, making the meals that the celebrity judges claimed they had cooked to use as an example for their contestants. Apparently he quit because of a lack of passion.

That, and apparently Rufus Lore - the judge he cooked for - was obnoxious and could barely bake a loaf of bread if left on his own.

Laxus spoke about his own life. How he'd felt obligated to quit his pro-boxing career after a nasty head wound that resulted in his scar. How he was now a freelance writer who did sports analysis for some of the sports magazines and websites. Freed had seemed impressed, and claimed he'd watch out for his work.

They were closer now, and as such Laxus felt comfortable joking with him.

"I've got a question," he said when Freed was close. "You said you'd taste everything I cook, right? Well, for food, tasting something means you're experiencing it, right?"

"I suppose," Freed agreed, though seemed to know he was walking into a trap.

"Well, with meringues, you showed us that trick, right," Laxus smirked. "Where if you've made it correctly, you can turn the bowl over and the mixture won't fall out."

"Yes," Freed was wary now.

"Well, you also said for the best experience," he put emphasis on the word, "then you tip it up over your head. If you've done it right, it stays in the bowl. If you ain't, it covers ya."

"I did say that," Freed muttered.

"Well, if you're gonna experience everything I make, surely you should do it." He smirked; and pushed the bowel of mixture towards him.

Freed looked down, resignedly.

Then he perked up and reached into his pocket, pulling out a coin. He flipped it with flair and caught it, covering it before either of them could see the result.

"Heads or tails?" He requested, and Laxus chuckled.

"Heads."

Freed removed his hand, and Laxus let out a cry of triumph. He nudged the bowel towards Freed, grinning wide and ridiculous as Freed openly sighed. Laxus crossed his arms to hurry the man up, and it seemed to work.

With quick, resigned movements, Freed lifted the bowel. The thick white mixture jiggled slightly, and Freed turned it upside down above his head before he could stop himself.

And… it stayed in place.

For a moment, Freed seemed to be wincing in anticipation, before a look of triumph flooded onto his face. He turned the bowel back over and placed it on the counter.

"Kinda anticlimactic," Laxus said, picking up a spoon.

"But it means you did it correctly," Freed smiled. "You can take solace in that."

"Guess so," Laxus nodded. "Or I could do this."

With neither showmanship nor hesitation, Laxus used the spoon so scoop a dollop of the mixture up and flicked it towards Freed's face. For a moment, all Freed could do was blink, and Laxus burst into stifled laughter.

It had splattered over his lips, nose, and left cheek. Equal parts ridiculous and oddly attractive.

"Mister Dreyar," Freed spoke calmly, but he was trying to hide a smile. "I will be seeing you after class."

He turned away. Laxus snickered.

Although it was tempting to be a dick for the rest of the lesson, Laxus behaved himself. This was the only lesson that they did on desserts, and Laxus wanted to learn. That, and he felt Freed wasn't going to take his little prank lying down, so he probably shouldn't piss him off further.

When everyone else was gone, and Laxus was left alone with Freed, there was a moment of quiet. He motioned for Laxus to approach the desk. Laxus did so.

He was hit in the face by a spurt of ketchup.

It continued, splattering across his face. He gasped, and Freed apparently aimed for his mouth at the moment. It was a stupid moment, not helped by the noise the bottle was making, and eventually the spray died out.

Neither man spoke for a moment.

They both started laughing at the same time, and Freed handed Laxus a napkin to clean himself with.

"You're an asshole, you know that right?" Laxus said with mirth in his voice. "You still got the balls to want a ride from me again?"

"Is the offer still available?" Freed chuckled.

"Sure, just as long as you don't mind me getting some glue and those decorative feather things from a store on the way back," Laxus smirked. "There's a smug asshole who needs to be tarred and fathered."

"Perhaps I'll get the bus," Freed grinned, then frowned a little. Perhaps without thinking, he reached up and stroked Laxus' cheek to rid it of a remaking fleck of sauce.

They both halted, frozen for a moment, and Laxus' mind was set alight. In that moment he knew one thing for sure; he couldn't let Freed go.

——

Week Five - Solyanka

"That will be all for our time together," Freed said, standing at the front of the class. "I hope you all enjoyed your time together, and that you've all learned something. At the risk of promoting myself, I have other courses available that last longer and offer more flexibility with what you'll cook, if you want to further your culinary pursuits. If not, then it was a pleasure working with you all, and I wish you well in your endeavours."

It was weird seeing Freed using his teaching voice; the things he said weren't Freed-like. It was kind of funny.

Laxus hung back when the rest of the class funnelled out. Some of them spoke to Freed before leaving, orbits just left, but Laxus decided to hang back and wait. As he did, he pulled out a small plastic tub from a bag he'd brought with him, waiting for Freed to take note. Once everyone was gone, Freed saw him still standing at the end of his cooking surface.

"Laxus," He said, and he seemed pleased Laxus was still there. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, just wasn't ready to leave yet," Laxus passed it off as a joke, but the stopped himself. "I, Erm, well, there's this recipe my family's been making for years. Generations, actually. Just wanted to know what you think."

"You want me to critique a family recipe?" Freed frowned.

No. No he didn't. He wanted to share something with Freed that was important to Freed. It was ridiculous to think, but this old Russian dish was something he had loved for his life, and he wanted Freed to love it too. It seemed stupid now he was thinking about it, but they only really had food in common right now, and Laxus felt like it was his turn to add something to the conversation.

"It's called Solyanka," Laxus said instead of answering the question. "It's a soup. For sausages, olives, cabbage. A lot of things, really."

Laxus didn't say anything else, and picked out a pot from the cupboards to place on the stove. He emptied the contents of the container into the pot and stated to bear it up.

"It tastes better when it's not been reheated but-"

"It smells beautiful," Freed said, cutting through Laxus' backtracking. "And I'm sure it will taste just as good."

"Thanks," Laxus mumbled a little.

As they waited for the soup to heat, there was a comfortable quiet between them both. Freed seemed engrossed in the cooking - the growing scent, the occasional stirring - and it gave Laxus the chance to watch him. He had known Freed was hot from the moment he'd seen him, but he was also fucking beautiful. His hair was pulled out and flowing over his shoulders, and his expression was calm and relaxed.

Laxus was glad he had done this, suddenly. He would have regretted it. This couldn't be the end of his relationship with Freed; it just couldn't.

He went to speak, but Freed went first.

"I think it's time to take it off the heat," He said gently, as if wanting to avoid offending Laxus by telling him how to cook his meal. Laxus quickly removed the pot from the heat.

With now familiar movements, Laxus pulled out two bowls and poured them both a portion. Laxus sat on one of the stools, waiting a little nervously as he saw Freed spoon some of the soup up and take it into his mouth.

"Wow," Freed whispered. "It's incredible."

Pride bloomed inside Laxus, and he didn't tamper it down. This piece of Laxus had pleased Freed. It had made Freed smile such a brilliant smile that it was like a shot to the heart. He was speechless, and Freed spoke again.

"You're incredible, Laxus," he said with equal sincerity.

"What?" Laxus frowned slightly.

"You're incredible, Laxus," Freed repeated, smiling now. "You've made these five weeks remarkably fun for me, and I'm sad to see you go."

"I'm sad to be going," Laxus mumbled, unused to speaking honestly about these kinds of things. "These have been… the best part of my week."

"Mine too," Freed admitted, and the words sent lighting throughout him.

There had been a small part of Laxus that had thought it had been in his head. He felt like he and Freed had been steadily growing closer and closer, in a way that couldn't exactly be called platonic. It felt like this was the moment where a choice had to be made. Laxus could either hide from his feelings, as he had often done in his life, or he could take the dive. Just like he'd done when he had quit his job. Just like he'd done when he'd come to the class in the first place. Just like he should have been doing all his life.

Freed was going to speak, but the urge to act overtook Laxus and he moved before it could dwindle. He launched himself toward, took Freed by the back of the neck, and kissed him.

It wasn't perfect, but the imperfection made it better.

The feeling of the desk jutting into his hip might have been a bother, but it was nothing compared the the brilliance of soft lips moving against his own.

The lingering spice on Freed's tongue could have been a distraction, but it only added to the searing sensation flying through him.

The scent of Laxus' Solyanka might have drawn focus, but instead it nudged with Freed's cologne and created a beautiful feeling of mingled familiarity and uniqueness.

This was the type of kiss that was unforgettable.

Freed's hand was grazing the back of Laxus' neck, scratching at the usually untouched skin in a way Laxus was tempted to put at. He smiled a dopey smile, leaning further into the kiss.

When they pulled apart, breathless and smiling, they couldn't look away from each other.

"Don't know how this works with a chef," Laxus began in a whisper. "Don't wanna offend your sense of pride, but d'you maybe wanna get a bite to eat some place?"

For a stagnant second, that felt like an eternity to Laxus, Freed didn't say anything.

"I'd love that," Freed nodded a little, though his head still rested against Laxus'. "So long as you don't mind me critiquing everything?"

The joke was trumped by the honesty in his voice. Freed really wanted it!

"I can deal with that."

They shared a quiet, private smile. One that promised excitement, passion, and if Laxus allowed himself to be optimistic, perhaps a future as well.

[lady-plantagenet]

Ship bingo: Henry VI and Marguerite d'Anjou

@kafkastan tagged you in this because I don’t know who anonymous is. (Anons don’t be shy x; I’m the biggest chump on here, you have nothing to worry about). And yes Nora, haven’t yet and for a second there thought you were the anon XD XD

Some Comments: So. Wow the only shipbingo I put ‘it’s complicated’ for. In other times I would have just been like ‘nope’, but reading your fics (highly recommended btw check her out on AO3 as strikethesun) and discord comments has influenced me somewhat to understand that a ‘ship’ can be of great interest and meaning without it being your(well my) typical ‘they find each other hot, they defied authority to get married’ etc. I’ve also done quite a lot of research on Margaret because of the upcoming chapter (late coming cause of the Ficathon assignment *winks*) so I at least have some opinions and emotions towards one side of this ship atm. I *am* picky about it! I mean especially after hearing accounts of the horrendous histfic out there (you know I mean the one with watersports), I think I would only trust someone with nuance to write about this pairing), and as it follows I’m intrigued by the many paths this could be approached. By now I have my own headcanons but I can also see the multitude of different ways, after all there is a wide spectrum with many shades between friendship and romantic love (maybe even sexual but I have to admit this part confuses me a bit). I do and would continue reading your fic about it, but despite the promise of character study this could take I don’t see many others thought I would be interested ~.

The ‘softly’ and ‘unhealthily’ categories I feel are especially appropriate for this situation. You see, usually it is the woman who is credited with softening her man up but I love the trope subversion. We know Margaret had some soft sides (deriving great entertainment from fixing matches for her ladies: ‘She was an indefatigable match-maker, and seldom ceased meddling with the private affairs of the gentry (Letters of Margaret of Anjou, Camden Soc.; Ramsay, ii. 128, 141; Paston Letters, i. 134, 254, 305, ed. Gairdner’)) and she bring a 'devout pilgrim to the shrine of Boccaccio' (Chastellain, vii. 100. ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove), delighting in her youth in romances of chivalry, and seeking consolation in her exile and misfortunes from the sympathetic pen of Chastellain’ - my feelings for Chastellain himself aside, 🥺. Basically, I know she’s popularly seen as a girl-boss from birth but she really seemed pushed into assuming her more martial position by circumstances and need (and I admire her even more for that tbh) and that’s why I feel like she loved Henry for his more pious, gentle self. The feels kick in with my headcanon that the kingdom falling apart leads her to resenting Henry a bit, without wanting to, at least initially before she accepts her unconventional role as the leader of the Lancastrian movement and inwardly thanks god that it was her that was put into this position rather than someone of weaker resolve. After all, there’s two sides to Margaret’s family: Réné the big renaissance and romantic man who both supported Joan of Arc but also spent many years in captivity with his wife doing the exegies... pretty much like Margaret and Henry hhhh!! Those double apparitions haunt me. I guess you can see where the ‘unhealthily’ kicks in - the initial resentment she feels and the stress and hardening she needs to go through during this metamorphosis before making peace with the situation and taking on the role with some willingness that later turns in persistent ambition and resolve. Her son is talked about enough as the motivation but what about her husband???

I put unrequited/one-sided in there too because I wouldn’t mind seeing that but like from both of their sides if it makes sense LMAO. Like she thinks he has no interest in her and is downright a monk (being young, confused and thinking romantic love cannot exist without sexual love), whereas he feels like he continuously disappoints her because he is well aware of the courtly background she comes and knows he doesn’t fit the rubrik ;’(. The mutual pining would be especially poignant if it remained that way after they are separated by exile, growing especially strong in that one night they are both in the tower but do not see each other. They both have thoughts that have turned in their heads while facing their respective moments of isolation and despair but neverthelles even now at this moment of physical proximity they cannot express them... Idk I have an odd amount of headcanons and feelings for Henry VI/Margaret of Anjou which is odd because they never pop up in my head when anyone asks me what my ships are. Tbh that one picture by @sneez (you know the one with Henry crying and the baby) did hit me a bit. I also put best friends because I like the idea that they may have been a platonic thing all along, but I mean this more in sense that I am ok with them being portrayed as a couple where one is ace (Henry) rather than one where they have no sexual feelings towards each other AND there is none of that romantic tenderness... somehow I feel like I need there to be some romantic feelings in there ngl, I just feel it...

Tbh with the squares I said pretty much everything I had to say so perhaps there’s no point in me adding the ‘The Ship’ extra heading, but, I think the only negative feeling J have about this ship is that I can’t help but feeling some resentment myself towards Henry... I mean when all is said and done he is the main factor why the country got into such a state and now that I know it’s unclear just quite how *mad* he was I sometimes feel like people don’t stop and think enough about how he should have tried harder into stopping the factionalism from growing and moulded himself. There are many far more educated and knowledgeable about him as a person so I would like to be told if I’m entirely wrong in my assessment, it’s just that while I am no *Yorkist* I think that it can be quite silly how people criticise Warwick and York relentlessly as if they should have accepted the sorry condition of the country and just got on with it. Though of course, I in no way think their demonisation of Margaret was fair, hélas! In any case my feelings towards HVI though complicated (his scholarliness is massive brownie point for him from me not that it matters) still tend towards positive more than negative and I do ship it!

[ddagent]

Telepathic Brienne and Jaime meet with a client, and she can hear their thoughts, and he's a bad dude, and Brienne needs to tell Jaime to drop him, but can't tell him why....

I still haven’t quite decided how I want to expand telepathic!Brienne (at this rate, it’ll all be in prompts), but I felt this was a good time to write this important milestone in Jaime and Brienne’s relationship.This gets a little dark in places (Bolton; Aerys) so be warned. But I hope you enjoy all the same. 

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

Brienne didn’t wait for the three men around the table to give their acknowledgement of her departure. She just scraped her chair back along the carpet, stumbling as she stood, and practically sprinted for the door. Brienne didn’t even bother to close it behind her as she ran. She pushed past colleagues and clients until she made it to the ladies room. Banging open a cubicle door, Brienne dropped to her knees and threw up what remained in her stomach. 

Mother protect me. Oh, Gods. 

It had now been over two weeks since the attempted mugging had left Brienne with the ability to hear – and now, on occasion, see – people’s thoughts. It was intrusive, and annoying, but after two weeks Brienne had grown used to the apathy her colleagues showed towards her; the disregard people on the street gave her. She had not, however, grown used to the unbridled affection her boss had for her – albeit, only in his head. Nor, had she been prepared to sit opposite their potential new client, one Ramsay Bolton, currently awaiting trial for murder. 

She dry-heaved into the bowl. So many thoughts. So many images. Stranger save me. 

There was a knock on the cubicle door. I hope she’s okay. Pia. “Ms Tarth, is everything okay?” I hope Mister Lannister didn’t upset her again. 

“It wasn’t him,” Brienne croaked through the stall door. “It was the new client.”

He gave me the creeps, too. He probably did it n’all. Oh, Pia was right on that front, and so much more. “Shall I tell Mister Lannister you’re feeling unwell?” I’ll tell him Ms Tarth’s moon’s blood has come. That always freaks a bloke out; won’t ask any more questions after that. 

“Please don’t, Pia.” Brienne winced, resting her head against the cubicle wall. “Just tell him I’ve got food poisoning and I won’t be able to continue the meeting.” 

“Of–of course, Ms Tarth.” 

The paralegal left Brienne, but not alone. What she had seen in Ramsay Bolton’s head stayed with her, haunting her. Fuck. How could they defend such a man? How could she, willingly, stand up beside Jaime in court and ask a jury to consider this man innocent? After all the thoughts she had heard; the things she had seen? Somehow, someway, Brienne would need to convince Jaime to not take Bolton on as a client. Not an easy feat, despite Jaime’s affections for her. Outside of his thoughts, he still held in her in great contempt. 

But she had to try. 

Brienne stayed in the cubicle as long as she dared. Since the recent spate of dismissals, morale was at an all-time low, and her colleagues were staying only as long as they had to. There was only a couple of paralegals and the cleaning staff lingering on the floor when she emerged and made her way to Jaime’s office. She rapped her knuckles twice on the door. 

“Mister Lannister?”

Brienne? She can’t still be here. I thought she’d fucked off for happy hour with Renly. After all, she can barely stand the thought of working with me. Running out of that meeting; food poisoning was such a pathetic excuse. FINE, let’s get this over with. If she wants to run back to Renly, then let her. “Come in, Ms Tarth.” 

Brienne pushed open the door, closing it firmly behind her. The only light in the office was the lamp over Jaime’s desk; it caught in the amber of the whisky he was drinking, and the silver flecks in his beard. She looks like all Seven Hells. Maybe Pia wasn’t lying; maybe she did have food poisoning. I should fire that paralegal, what’s his name, Payne, for bringing her contaminated food. “What can I do for you, Ms Tarth?”

“I would like a word about the Bolton case.”

Jaime snorted. Of course, she does. “You mean the case you ran out on, embarrassing not only yourself but me and the firm as well?” 

“I—” She swallowed. You can do this, Brienne. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist in Mister Bolton’s defence.”

“Oh?” Here we go. She’d rather be Renly’s lackey than actually practice law with me. “And why is that, Ms Tarth?”

“He’s guilty. He murdered that girl.”

Of course, he did. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course, it matters!” Brienne said, half-shouting. But her shoulders sagged as Jaime sat, unmoved by her words. Of course, it wouldn’t matter. Not to him. “Why am I even bothering? I wouldn’t expect you to understand morality.”

“Ah, the Aerys Targaryen defence. I expected better from you, Ms Tarth.” I did, Brienne. I really did. If only you knew. 

Brienne frowned. “Knew what?” 

Jaime’s forehead creased. “I didn’t—” He waved her away with the hand still clutching his drink. “Get out, Tarth. You can go back to your precious Renly tomorrow. I’m done with you. I’ll find someone else to work the case.” Not that anyone else wants to work with you. You’re the man who fucked over a senior partner to advance his own career. Never mind that he was—

“What?” 

He shook his head. “What do you mean, ‘what’? Get out, Tarth. Didn’t you hear? I’m done with you.” You’re done with me, more like. 

Jaime drained his drink, stood up from his desk, and approached the large, picture window overlooking the city. Night encroached upon the sky; blue giving way to purple and black, and the first light of the stars. Jaime’s fingerprints smeared the glass as he pressed his hand to it; as if trying to reach out to the city below. I am so tired of being a monster when all I ever wanted to be was a knight. 

Brienne just stared. In all her encounters since developing this new ability of hers, no one had surprised her more than Jaime Lannister. First, his feelings for her. And now Aerys Targaryen. There was something more, she knew it. Brienne could stand here and let him think it. But a part of her wanted to hear the truth from his own lips. 

“I’ve never defended anyone who was guilty before,” she began, uncertain whether this was the right thing to say. She would find out soon enough. 

“Your precious Renly doesn’t like working on cases that keep him up at night.” It’s why I get stuck with the Ramsay Boltons and Walder Freys of the world. And Aerys, although no one knew about him. 

“What was your first?” What is she still doing here? “Please. If you want me on this case, I need to know I’ll be—”

“—supported?” Jaime turned from the window; wildfire burning in his eyes. “You are not supported, Brienne. You are left with rules and legislation and a verdict, and the rest is on you. The faces of the victims’ families in court. Crime scene photographs you can never quite forget. Knowing you’ve let another monster out onto the street but you can’t say a fucking thing because your mentor – the man joking with these butchers – does everything in his power to get that win.” 

“Aerys.”

Aerys fucking Targaryen. The King of the Courtroom; the Dragon himself. The things he did...fuck, why am I even bothering? She doesn’t want to know. No one ever has. But Brienne did. She crossed the room and encircled Jaime’s wrist with her fingers; selfishly playing on his affections in the hope that he would open up to her. “Tell me.” She’s touching me, why is she touching me; can she feel how fast my pulse is racing? “Tell me, please. I want to know.”

He nodded; throat bobbing. “All right. I was a lot like you, once. The golden boy of a senior partner. Aerys took me under his wing to spite my father; he’d started the Lannisport branch, took half our business to the Westerlands, you see, and Aerys loathed him for it. So he brought me to King’s Landing and made me his protege. I worked on so many cases. The things I saw...” The things I saw. 

Brienne squeezed his wrist as the thoughts in Jaime’s head became images. A filmstrip of depravity. “He was accused of bribing and blackmailing witnesses. But I knew the truth. About the houses that burned down; the businesses that went up in flames. That detective from the North, Brandon Stark, who mysteriously disappeared. Aerys was good. He knew how to cover his tracks; none of that would ever come back to him. The witness tampering charges were all they had. All I had.” 

“So you mishandled his defence.”

“He was arrogant. Asked me to represent him rather than my father.” You should have seen the look on his face, Brienne. “But it was his undoing. I did just enough for the jury to convict him. By the time people questioned my defence, he’d been transferred to a mental ward.”

Brienne’s fingers fell from Jaime’s wrist, unsure what to say. She knew it to be true. She knew everything, yet she still had to ask: “Why have you never told anyone this?”

Jaime swallowed. “I’d thought about telling my father. But I didn’t want to hear him tell me it didn’t matter. Of course, it matters.” He closed his eyes. You were right, Brienne. You were so right. I don’t think I can go through this again. I can’t represent that monster. I’ll call them tomorrow; tell Bolton and his father he’ll have to find other legal counsel. Opening them, he turned to her. “Well, at least you won’t have to represent a man you know is guilty, Ms Tarth. Bolton and his father didn’t think we were the right choice of counsel for them.” 

“Oh.” She wet her top lip, formulating what to say next. “Well, then. I guess me storming in here was for nothing.” Not for nothing, Brienne. You have no idea how good it feels to have told someone that. You have no idea how good it feels for someone to look at me and not find me wanting. “Perhaps, tomorrow, we can consider a new case? I would like to continue working with you.” 

“All right.” She wants to work with me. Not because Renly is an arse or because she hopes to curry favour with Father. Brienne wants to work with me because of me. Okay, you can savour this moment at home; let the poor woman go already. It’s late. “Goodnight, Brienne. “

“Goodnight, Jaime.” 

She called me Jaime. The joy in his voice carried Brienne out the door. 

[ahtohallan-calling]

chapter 1 of the food of love is here!

{kristanna / t /modern au / humor and fluff / pride & prejudice inspired}

Legendary food critic Hayden West is known for their scathing reviews of restaurants and wickedly sharp wit. Restaurant owners tremble at the thought of the day the mysterious reviewer will walk through their doors-- never suspecting that Hayden West is, in fact, the redheaded woman with a sketchbook eating a quiet meal alone.

It's an easy enough job for Anna, and she's got her routine down pat, especially with the help of her assistant, Olaf.

And then comes the day she walks into Kristoff Bjorgman's restaurant-- and gets much, much more than she bargained for.

Pencil-- check.

Sketchbook-- check.

Phone, wallet, and keys-- check.

Anna took one last glance at herself in the mirror, smoothing down the navy skirt of her nondescript dress. Her hair, that couldn’t be helped; a wig would stand out even more than the fiery shade of auburn, but she’d pulled it up into a ponytail to keep it mostly out of sight. Simple makeup, plain unbranded shoes-- she appeared entirely unremarkable.

Perfect.

She hummed to herself a little as she locked her apartment and headed towards the stairs. This week’s assignment was easy enough; some new little bistro on the edge of an area that was trendy five years ago. 

She liked the little, unfussy places. It was easier to hide when no one cared if she lingered with her sketchbook, easier to see what she was looking for at places where you could hear what was happening in the kitchen while still watching the manager wander around trying to figure out who Hayden West was. 

The only clue they ever got was the day Hayden would be there; no photos existed of the mysterious restaurant critic, no matter how many times their scathing reviews went viral. “The Gordon Ramsay of newspaper critics,” that was what the Times had called Hayden after a withering review of a seafood place had garnered a hundred thousand retweets for its description of particularly horrible crab cakes that “deserved neither to be called crab nor cake but perhaps a vaguely saltwater scented cement patty that should be patented and marketed as an instantaneously effective weight loss supplement.”

Anna had been particularly proud of that one. It was a rare day when the food was actually bad enough to warrant such a review on its own; the fact that the manager had gotten into a screaming match that reduced a sixteen year old waitress to tears was simply motivation to hold absolutely nothing back. 

She wondered, sometimes, what people would think if they knew the truth: that in fact Hayden had never existed at all and was in fact a twenty-four-year-old woman who’d unexpectedly been promoted into the gig after the man she’d been interning under was unceremoniously given the boot for drunkenly relieving himself on the editor’s lawn, where he had gotten caught by a ferocious Maltese.

The restaurant, thankfully, was only a few blocks away; her car was in desperate need of a replacement everything, but she didn’t have the heart to get rid of it, not when it’d seen her through thick and thin for nearly ten years, from her sixteenth birthday to her college move-ins to her hour long commute to the Tribune’s office for her barely-more-than-unpaid internship. 

It came to a creaky halt in front of the restaurant at ten to noon; she’d have just enough time to get seated without having to wait, but she’d bear witness to the midday lunch rush and its aftermath. The place wasn’t much to look at, though she could tell by the small garden out front and the stenciled outlines on the white-painted brick wall that it wasn’t for lack of effort. It had opened only a month ago, the latest in a long line of valiant attempts to put something interesting on this block. If she remembered correctly, six months ago this space had been a design-your-own-lasagna place (wonderful idea, but impossible to execute efficiently); before that, there had been a sugar-free bakery that had been run out of business in two weeks when it was discovered that the only sugar-free thing it sold was bottled water; and even before that, it had been, like most places that were cursed with a constant “for lease” sign, a Jenny Craig. 

And now it was just BB’s, a name that was so simple it made her worry that this venture would fail like all its predecessors, especially considering its lack of marketing and online presence; she’d had to send her intern to do some scouting for her to even get her hands on a menu in advance.

“This place is great, boss,” Olaf had said through a mouthful of food as he’d called her on his way back to the office. “They’ve even got cheesecake.”

“With--”

“Chocolate sauce, yeah, yeah, I know how you are. I got the menu for you and had the cute waiter circle all his recommendations, and that was top of the list. Well, not literally top, the desserts are all at the--”

“I knew what you meant, Olaf,” she’d said as she rolled her eyes, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And thanks.”

Now, Anna found herself hoping he had been right about this place when she pushed the door open, bells jingling overhead; it had been far too long since she’d gotten the chance to write an enthusiastic endorsement of a place that really deserved it. To her surprise, only one other table was taken by two men, one broad-shouldered and blond, the other dark-haired and sporting a wide smile the second he laid eyes on her.

“Hi!” he said brightly, leaping to his feet and wiping his hands on his apron. “Welcome to BB’s! Table for one?”

“Yes, please,” she said, returning his smile after a moment’s confusion; if the place was as good as Olaf had said, why was it this desolate on a Saturday at lunchtime?

“I’m Ryder, and I’ll be taking care of you today,” the waiter said, pulling a chair out for her at a table next to the window. “Let me grab you a menu, okay?”

“Thanks,” Anna said, her focus instead on the other man as he rose to his feet and ambled over to the door that led to the kitchen. He was even taller-- and broader, Jesus but those shoulders-- than she’d realized at first. 

This place must have been an old-fashioned diner once upon a time, judging by the window to the kitchen through which she could still see him. He was handsome, she supposed, if you liked men with strong jaws and broad noses and floppy golden hair.

And brown eyes, she thought, her cheeks turning bright red as he looked up and caught her staring. She jerked her attention away just as Ryder said cheerfully “Here you go!” as he put a laminated menu on the table in front of her. “The soup of the day is minestrone. What would you like to drink?”

“Water, please, and a coffee,” she said, still trying to cover her embarrassment.

“I’ll brew some fresh for you and be right back,” he said, that broad grin still plastered to his face as he bustled back to the kitchen.

Anna fidgeted a little in her seat as she pulled out her sketchbook. The whole point of her job was going unnoticed, but if she was the only customer in the restaurant today-- shit, this could blow her whole cover, considering each restaurant knew in advance that Hayden was coming that day.

For now, though, she had to worry about her notes, and so she began to sketch the interior of the restaurant in the notepad. She was no great artist by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the best way she’d found to remember her thoughts and impressions of a restaurant without having to worry about prying eyes reading over her shoulder. With each detail she drew, she thought of something specific-- friendly waiter as she scribbled the outline of the door, not busy, why? for the back of a chair, clean, good health rating posted for the box of the kitchen window.

And the menu-- she glanced over it as she doodled it. Simple, Italian-American fare; judging by the names-- Cliff’s Favorite, a deep-dish pizza with meatballs, and Ronnie’s Ravioli-- these were family recipes. She couldn’t help but wonder about what the chef’s family was like as she dared to steal another peek at him. He was working on prepping something, his forehead furrowed in concentration, and if she noticed the way his shoulders strained against his white t-shirt as he did so...well, so long as he didn’t catch her looking again, what did it matter?

The bells over the door jingled, startling her, and she turned to see a chattering group of six friends come in. A feeling of relief washed over her; she hated to see places like this go under fast.

Ryder set her coffee down in front of her, winking as he dropped a couple of creamers beside it, before scurrying over to seat the newcomers. She took a sip as her phone buzzed with a text from Olaf.

how is it?

Good so far. Decent coffee. Not many people here, though, can you send some friends?

aye aye, captain. i’ll remind them to do a better job of pretending not to recognize you this time lol

God, it was hard to remember how she’d used to do this without him. When Hans had first been fired and she’d been unceremoniously promoted into his newly vacant position, she’d spent the first few weeks scrambling to find a restaurant that actually deserved the sort of bad review Hayden West was known for. Hans, of course, had never had such scruples, but it felt wrong to Anna to make a mockery of a place and risk running it out of business when it was run by perfectly nice people, even if they did have a watery hollandaise. She’d used to rely on word of mouth and her own scouting expeditions to try and find places that really deserved it, but it wasn’t until she’d found the place with the shitty crab cakes that she’d finally found a manager who was a big enough asshole to deserve every bad review the place got.

The problem, though, was that when the review had gone viral, it had spelled a complete shutdown for the restaurant. After spending two sleepless nights worrying about the impact it’d have on the rest of the staff, Anna had gone for a second visit-- this time ordering a simple salad that still managed to be disgusting-- and pulled one of the waiters aside, asking about the plans the rests of the staff had for a next job.

And, because that had been her lucky day, the waiter had been Olaf, and he’d been just as enthusiastic as she was about helping connect the rest of the staff with new places more than willing to hire them on-- and he didn’t ask any questions about why, exactly, she cared so much. But when Anna had asked what Olaf himself was looking for as a next step, he’d blushed and admitted, “Honestly, I’m on a break from college right now. Journalism major-- not sure if it’s worth finishing, you know?”

Anna had confessed then for the very first time that she was, in fact, the legendary Hayden West-- or at least his successor-- expecting him to react with shock and, if she was being honest, a bit of awe, but instead Olaf had burst into laughter.

“Obviously,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I saw the way you were looking around the place and heard the questions you were asking. Secret’s safe with me, though.”

She’d called her boss the same day asking to bring him on as a paid intern, and neither of them had looked back since. Olaf had a knack for finding disgruntled waitstaff in the Tri-State area complaining on Twitter and Reddit about their shitty bosses, then following up with them after Hayden’s reviews were published to make sure that they and their coworkers had a better place to work, either because their managers had seen the light or because they had moved on to greener pastures.

One of the tricks they’d developed together was sending in decoys if Anna was ever worried about getting caught. Olaf had a whole network of friends who were more than willing to show up to restaurants at a moment’s notice and eat a meal on the Tribune’s dime. 

Today, though, she needed a certain pair of them to make sure this went smoothly.

Send the two improv kids, she texted back. They’ve got their work cut out for them-- this place is deserted. They have to act extra Hayden-y.

Olaf replied with only a thumbs-up emoji. Anna sighed and sat back in her seat, and a moment later Ryder appeared by her side. “Ready to order?” he asked, wearing another bright smile.

Extra attentive-- she’d add that to the sketch later. “Yeah,” she said, skimming the menu quickly again. Honestly, so far, this place hit every mark of a restaurant worth one of Hayden’s really positive reviews, which, thanks to the column’s usual reputation, went even more viral than the venomous ones-- not every day that a renowned cynic actually liked something.

There was just one more test, the one that elevated a good place to a great one, great enough that she’d come back to on her own time and money and bring her sister along for the ride.

“I’ll just have the spaghetti, please,” she said with her sunniest smile.

Ryder nodded and turned away, whistling to himself, and she glanced up at the clock over his head. 

Five minutes and counting, she thought. Fingers crossed this goes the way I want.

---

a/n: THANK YOU to molly, laura, and melissa for helping me brainstorm and plan this one out!!extra thanks to molly and to johanna for helping me with some of the restaurant stuff, to ronnie for helping me decide what kind of restaurant kristoff would have, and as always, to creative director gabi :')

[pippki-writes]

Viral Modern-Style Wrestler in an Existential Reduction

NOTES: One of my friends got me to join an e-fed, and even though I know nearly nothing about wrestling, I do feel confident in my ability to write fairly entertaining nonsense. And I’d love to share that nonsense with you lot too!

(All characters mine except Ahmya)

(Andre’s appearance is based on Chef Gordon Ramsay. I’m so sorry Chef Ramsay. Here’s your alternate French-American life)

Word Count: ~5K

Viral Modern-Style Wrestler in an Existential Reduction: A Recipe Indirectly Delivered Amongst the Weeds of a Blog Post

For liability reasons, I cannot tell you the name of the restaurant.

Pending the lawsuit, I cannot tell you the name of the wrestler either—but surely you’ve seen the clip online. You know who, and you know where it happened. But you’ve probably only seen the most popular clip, clocking in at less than half of half a minute’s worth of your attention span—millions of views and counting, quick incomprehensible shouting back and forth, and the sound, hard and hollow, of the metal meeting cranium, followed by dozens of high end patrons erupting into an undignified chorus of “OH SHIT!” before the clip cuts out.

Let me serve you the full story, because it is much more delicious than fourteen seconds of infamy.

It was a busy Friday night at one of Indianapolis’s most premiere French restaurants. The kind of place Google warns you about with an excess of dollar signs next to the name, and which requires a certain adherence to sharp attire if you and your reservation want to be united at one of the crisp white tablecloths within.

Chef Andre Poêlon was hard at work in the kitchen. At thirty years old and over three years experience at the restaurant, Andre was a skilled chef de partie specializing as a grillardin, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time before he moved into the sous chef position. He could fill in at any station in the kitchen and execute every dish flawlessly. Tonight, one of his primary charges was assembling the special—steak tartare.

Not only had the night been busy, but there must have been something in the water, or perhaps the rotation of the moon, that had drawn an unusual breed of difficult clientele out of the woodworks of the city and into the finely appointed chairs of the restaurant where Andre worked. Early in the night, Andre had nearly come out of the kitchen when a stuffy middle-aged woman had been insisting the French onion soup was nothing like how it ought to be made, and how—mon dieu—the Cheesecake Factory made it so much better. The waiter made the mistake of commenting that he didn’t think the Cheesecake Factory even had French onion soup—exactly the wrong sort of thing to utter in the presence of a gauche, nouveau-riche Karen of her ilk.

“ExCUSE m—“

“Perhaps madame would like a different soup? Or no soup entirely? It is no trouble,” the waiter interjected smoothly, realizing his mistake. Just because the customer is less right than a hard left turn, it doesn’t behoove one to let them know it.

“Zut alors, what is wrong with the soup?” Andre asked the waiter as the bowl of it returned to the kitchen.

“The tastes of the woman eating it,” the waiter replied.

Once you get one like that in a night, you brace yourself for more. Idiocy travels in threes and in waves, and comparing haute cuisine to mass-produced slop always put Andre’s teeth on edge. So he was irritated, but not surprised, when later that night a plate of steak tartare came right back into the kitchen almost as soon as it had left.

The waiter set the plate back down in front of Andre, patting the sides of it delicately, amusement and irritation fighting for dominance across his face.

“What?” Andre barked, as the waiter had not yet found the words to explain why he’d brought the dish back.

“It….it is not cooked, chef.”

Andre muttered another swear, low and in French, crossing his arms. “Of course it is not cooked. That is the dish. It is not meant to be cooked.”

“Monsieur ugly angry and might I add, arrogant customer disagrees, chef.”

“You told him what the dish is? What it is supposed to be?”

“Of course.”

Andre scoffed. “Then tell him to order something else. I am not cooking this. The dish is as it should be.”

“He suggested it should be cooked. Um, I will not repeat the exact metaphor he used, but the gist was that it should be cooked until the pink is gone.”

“Non! Sacrilege! I refuse. Tell him to order something else.”

“Yes chef,” replied the waiter, battling down his grin.

Before Andre could even decide what to do with the now surplus steak tartare, the waiter was back, practically vibrating with excitement at getting to deliver news he knew chef Andre would not like.

“He wants the dry-aged filet mignon, chef. Well done. Well well done. Cooked and cooked and cooked some more, darker than dirt, not a hint of pink to it or he’ll send it back.”

“Non!” Andre untied his apron and threw it on the stainless steel prep table. “Let me speak to this man. This is impossible—are you putting ideas in his head? Horrible ideas?”

The waiter raised his palms up defensively. “I am simply telling you what he asked for.”

“Impossible,” muttered Andre, pushing up the white sleeves of his chef’s coat. Who would dare come to a restaurant like this and disrespect the entire meaning of fine dining by suggesting these things? Either the man would be reasoned with, or he would be encouraged to take his uncultured tastes elsewhere. “Take me to him.”

Andre followed the waiter to the dining room, ignoring patrons politely offering him their compliments, his focus entirely zeroed in on the muscled man (I dare not describe him further—the lawsuit, you understand) and his companion at a table across from the kitchen entrance.

“Sir,” Andre began, struggling to varnish his words with a veneer of politeness, “you cannot order this steak in this manner. It is sacrilege, utter sacrilege to cook so fine a cut of meat beyond reason.”

“Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what I can and can’t order? You got heat, don’cha? A grill? A goddamned oven? Well I got money, and I want this goddamn steak, and I want it cooked to hell and back.”

“Sir,” Andre tried again, his face coloring with anger, “you cannot possibly—“

“Are you the bastard that wouldn’t cook my goddamn steak tar-tar? What the hell are you doing serving raw hamburger meat, I mean damn! Do you even fucking know how to cook?”

“If the clown wanted a cooked hamburger steak,” snapped Andre, his voice raising, fists clenched, “he should have gone to the McDonald’s!”

“WHAT did you just call me?” the wrestler shouted, jumping up from his chair.

“Oh no, no no no,” said the waiter. Though he was quite small and wiry compared to Andre’s 6’2” frame, the waiter overcame both his delight at how horribly the situation had quickly devolved and his severe physical disadvantage to drag Andre back to the kitchen as fast as he could, before any more of a scene could take place.

Unfortunately, the wrestler chose to follow them both.

Andre stumbled in through the doors to the kitchen as the waiter turned back to the wrestler, delicately holding up both hands to ward the larger man off.

“Please sir, you can’t come in here—“

“The HELL I can’t!”

The wrestler pushed the waiter aside and went for the kitchen doors, but Andre was ready. Before the wrestler could follow in after, Andre shoved him hard with a shoulder, sending the wrestler lurching back into the dining room. Time began to stretch and narrow as Andre clocked the murderous intent in the wrestler’s eyes at being denied what he wanted. Danger prickled at every sense, and Andre looked wildly around him for anything he could use as a weapon.

There, within arm’s reach—a weighty, cast-iron skillet. Andre grabbed it and followed the wrestler back out of the kitchen. Patrons began to twist in their seats at the disturbance. The wrestler roared, lunging for Andre.

“I AM GOING TO END YOU YOU GODDAMN LITTLE—“

“ENCULE TOI SALAUD!” Andre yelled, swinging the heavy pan two handed and with all his might to hit with a heavy, resounding boom.

This is all the part you’ve already seen. Dozens of high-end, well-dressed members of the upper crust of Indianapolis practically jumping from their seats, letting loose their resounding echo of “OH SHIT” as the metal met the man, and the man met the cool hardwood planks of the restaurant floor. A one-hit knockout.

“Oh merde,” Andre breathed, praying he hadn’t killed the man, as someone screamed for someone else to call an ambulance. He clutched the skillet in wide-eyed shock at what he’d done, and didn’t hear any of the excited chatter in the dining room as the waiter pulled him back into the kitchen.

“Oh my god. People are going to love this.”

What the people of the internet love and what the owner of a high-end restaurant loves are very different things when it comes to a frying-pan wielding chef knocking out a patron.

Andre was lucky he didn’t kill the man.

Andre was lucky not to find himself under arrest, when the ambulance came with police officers in tow. Of course officers came, an assault had occurred here, and they made a jarring presence among the genteel high-class atmosphere of the restaurant, their hands resting on their holsters, the reassurance of greater, state-sanctioned violence a sufficient deterrent from anyone hoping to start anything else.

Andre was lucky the wrestler saw dollar signs on a grander scale, rather than seeking to press charges. Andre was lucky the wrestler saw anything at all, with a concussion like that. Andre hardly protested as the police questioned him, clutching his apron in his hands and moving slowly in their presence. He’d had too many run-ins with the gendarmerie in his youth—part of why his father had sent him away from the arrondissements of Paris to live with his mother in Indiana in the first place, years ago now. Less trouble dans les États Unis, surely. What did Indiana have? Corn? Surely hard to get himself in trouble in flat, empty spaces full of soybeans and corn.

Ah, if his father could see what happened now.

(He would, in time. Est-il ton fils??? the neighbors would ask, and watch Mr. Poêlon clutch his phone in horror, whispering mon dieu, Andre, non, non, pourquoi?)

But as the police questioned him, Andre said little, the waiter instead jumping to his defense with an animated and only mildly embellished retelling of events, complete with grand hand gestures that might have set the officers on edge if the waiter hadn’t been such a small and wiry lad. But even without being arrested, Andre had brought disgrace upon the restaurant. This would not do. There was no excuse to save him, and so, faster than you can swing a frying pan, he found himself out of a job.

It’s important to look like you know what you’re doing. Especially if you don’t. You can get away with a hell of a lot if you look and act like you belong. Andre certainly knew what he was doing, but anyone who looked at him for more than a minute would realize he didn’t belong. He was wearing a black polo shirt, but that wasn’t a Denny’s logo on the arm—that was a post-it note stapled on. He was wearing an apron, but it was inside out—probably to minimize the silver embroidery on the chest that, backwards or forwards, definitely did not say “Denny’s.” And what he was cooking on the flat top was so far from any part of an All-American Slam that you might not let it in the country even with a passport.

Bread, cheese, ham, cheese, bread, cheese again, and a fried egg on top—nobody asked him to make them a croque madame for breakfast, but surely someone would want it, if they just knew and tasted it then they would understand—

Andre was lost in the sauce (not literally, as he didn’t have the time or the resources immediately at hand to make the bechamel sauce that should have gone with the cheese) and completely absorbed in the act of cooking, in the thought of someone getting to enjoy what he made. He didn’t notice, didn't hear the deep voice bellow, “who the hell—what the hell is this guy doing in my kitchen?! You—you’re that chef! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

One minute Andre was tapping a spatula on the flat top, all eyes on his creation, and the next minute a very burly fry cook had snatched him bodily by the waist, hurling him away from the kitchen like a sack of bad potatoes. Before Andre could process what was happening, a pair of meaty hands grabbed him again, by his collar and the back of his belt, dragging him through the dining room, over the tiles. Now patrons were whispering, craning in their seats to get a better look.

“Doesn’t he look familiar?”

“Oh my god is that that chef?”

“The smackdown skillet?”

“Sounds tasty, think they’d add that to the menu?”

The fry cook kicked the front door open and threw Andre out onto the parking lot. It was a good thing Andre had been getting used to being thrown around, as this certainly was not the first restaurant he’d repeated this scene in, though merde, the asphalt didn’t get any more forgiving each time. Andre pushed himself off and rolled out of reach.

“Don’t let me catch you in this Denny’s again!”

Andre picked himself up and watched the fry cook go back inside. At least this one hadn’t called the police on him. Andre waited to see if his food would get thrown out the door after him.

“Hey! Ain’t you that cook?”

Andre turned to see a pretty black woman near his own age standing, watching him as she furtively ate from a to-go box at the side of the building. The reason for her discretion was apparent: from the visor around her braids, to her button-down shirt with the pink silk neckerchief tied in a bow, to her apron, she was marked completely with the branding of Waffle House.

“I’m Tayonna. Do you…uh…need a job or something?”

A job. All Andre wanted, more than anything,was to cook.

The concept of the Waffle House is an archetypal American paradox. On the one hand, the Waffle House is a bastion of stability, open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, come hell, high water, or both. Government agencies code their disasters according to how operational the Waffle Houses in a region are, with code red—closed—pretty much indicating apocalyptic ground conditions. On the other hand, every individual Waffle House itself is a vortex of chaos that draws in all manner of tricksters and trouble, especially after midnight.

The Waffle House on East Main near Emerson was no exception to these principles.

Hiring Andre was a no-brainer—he could cook, which was important, but even more important he had a reputation that would hopefully discourage the more violent hoodlums from coming in and starting trouble. Even without the reputation, he was tall, imposing, and had a face that settled naturally into a scowl.

“If trouble ever comes, the panic button’s right here. Just keep your mouth shut and look scary.”

Andre scowled. Trouble? He wasn’t trying to get in more trouble.

“Exactly, just like that.”

Trouble, it turned out, had a tendency to come after the witching hour, and so that was the shift they put Andre on. It took a couple days of getting his hand smacked and the manager cutting through his thoughts with a “didn’t nobody ask you to make that” before Andre mostly—mostly—only made dishes that were ordered.

Thursday crept along into Friday with a lull. The bars hadn’t turned their inebriates out yet, and so the few that wandered in had sought out sweet, syrupy reassurances of their own volition, and not just because they had nowhere else for their drunken asses to go. The booth next to the nearly empty counter had six such specimens squeezed in together, the table covered with as many All-Star Specials as the space would fit. The group of young men spoke loudly, words thickly slurred and laced with so many in-jokes and who knows what jargon that they only made sense to themselves (“but dijoo SEE—“ “dude DUDE from the top rope??” “Lemme see that killerbuster in EXP9 dude”). They kept glancing pointedly at Andre, and he tensed up, wondering if here at last was trouble.

As it turned out, Andre was right. Trouble was here. He was just looking in the wrong direction for it. He had just opened the waffle maker to pour another round of batter in when the diner door clattered open, bell jangling.

“FREEZE! NOBODY MOVE!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Andre saw a hooded, masked figure standing in the doorway, pointing a pistol at the patrons. Andre didn’t have time to think through what he did next—time once again went in all directions, a thousand thoughts crashing down into a split second of instant, gut reaction. With terrible strength Andre pulled so hard on the handle of the waffle iron that it wrenched apart at the hinge. He spun, holding up the little metal shield of it as he did—

—and the would-be robber squeezed the trigger—

—as a deafening crack split the air of the diner—

—the bullet ricocheted off the waffle iron lid, shattering one of the great glass globes across the room—

—and Andre hurled the top of the waffle maker with unerring precision—

Before the attacker could fire another round, the hot and heavy metal of the broken waffle iron crashed into his face, knocking him into the window and taking his consciousness with it. He slumped to the ground.

For a brief, quiet moment, only the tinkling sounds of the last few glass shards tumbling from the broken diner light could be heard. Andre stood in shocked silence. Mon dieu, what had he just done?

The table of intoxicated young men burst into cheers, spilling from their seats to further subdue the unconscious attacker. The manager shakily dialed 911, mumbling to Andre with a nod at the broken waffle maker, “that’s coming out of your paycheck.”

From the gaggle of young men, one cut a stumbling path to the counter and patted Andre triumphantly on the shoulder. He had the air and confidence of being the de facto leader of the group, and wore a black t-shirt emblazoned with a stylized, boxy green L and U set in front of a pyramid of different-colored triangles.

“I knew you were the chef! Skillet McSkillerson,” he drawled.

“Iron chef!” exclaimed the man pinning the criminal’s legs.

“CAST IRON CHEF!” hollered another as he nudged the gun to the other side of the dining room.

“Dude,” the young man in front of Andre continued, “you’ve got moves. You got instincts.” He paused to make a face, putting a hand to his sternum to confer with the contents of his stomach about his dinner and where it wanted to be in the next five minutes. But he was a man of will, and the moment passed without so much as a burp. He offered his hand to Andre. “I’m Toddrick Toddward—“

Two of his companions from the floor erupted in a full-throated cheer of “RICKY BOBBY!” while the other three bellowed a low, keening “WERRRRRD.” Beneath them all, the man Andre had taken down groaned, still alive. Andre looked past Toddrick, shaking the young man’s hand absentmindedly, and was surprised to find deep past the shock and mild horror, a strange satisfaction at seeing this toppled criminal laid out because of him.

Andre realized that Toddrick was still talking. He was talking about wrestling.

“—every, I mean I’ve seen every match, and just. DUDE, it’s the way you move, I think you got. IT. You got it. I know some people, dude, and bet I—” he paused to offer a few sloppy jabs in the air “—could teach ya a thing or two.”

“Eh?”

“Wrestling, dude! Have you ever thought about wrestling?”

Why not? Andre thought, as police cars came screaming up outside. He’d knocked one wrestler out, hadn’t he? Why not go for a few more?

Thirty minutes is not very long for a lunch break. And it’s really not very long for a crash course in all things wrestling. And it really doesn’t matter when the teacher is much too drunk to communicate effectively anyway. Not that Andre expected to learn everything in one insufficient lunch break, but he did have some hope that he’d learn a little more than nothing.

Once again, Toddrick Toddward and his merry band of fellow collegiate inebriates had descended upon Andre’s Waffle House at full, incoherent volume in the unspeakably late hours of the night after the attempted robbery, this time clearly after the bars would no longer tolerate their presence. But this time they also had a singular mission in mind: Andre.

Unfortunately, Andre had a job to do, and couldn’t just leave the griddle to its own devices at the whim of one Toddrick Toddward and the desire to impart wrestling knowledge. Instead, they had to wait for his lunch break, and keep buying a steady stream of hashbrowns and waffles, lest the manager force them to leave.

What Andre found most impressive, as he worked his shift, was how time simply did not seem to make them any less drunk. There was no alcohol being served, not even bootleg, off the record hooch, and Andre never saw so much as the glint of a flask being passed among the group, but they remained just as intoxicated as they had been the minute they walked in the door.

When Andre’s lunch break finally came, Toddrick practically exploded from the booth like a force of nature, leaping over the table, a flurry of twenty dollar bills being thrown behind in his wake to hopefully cover the bill his group had been amassing. He dragged Andre out to the parking lot, back by the dumpster, out of sight of the main road, his posse stumbling to follow.

Toddrick clapped his hands and rubbed them together, looking around at the faded blue dumpster, the rickety fencing valiantly obscuring two sides of the dumpster from view, the oil-stained and uneven asphalt of the parking lot that spread between these sad clusters of commerce, from the Waffle House to the Superior Discount Liquors. Back toward the Red Carpet Inn, one of the rusty light poles jutting up from the asphalt leaned heavily towards the desire to simply fall over, but was either too stubborn or ignorant of gravity to do so. More simply put, it was just the sort of gently-run down, soulless bit of commercial retail America that is found all throughout the country, with little to distinguish it from any of its copies. It had a slightly desperate, uneasy ambiance to it. It was perfect.

“Excellent,” Toddrick slurred confidently, plumbing the depths of his memory to try to bring up an astute reference rooted in pop culture to inaugurate what he intended to be a fight club for Andre to—hah!—learn the ropes, as it were, of wrestling. Didn’t think the phrase came from wrestling, surely, but it fit nonetheless.

Unfortunately for Toddrick, his memory was short on Chuck Palahniuk quotes, and he was left on his own to string words together. “The first rule about dumpster wrestle club,” he began, looking at Andre.

Andre’s eyebrows quirked up his forehead as he waited for Toddrick to continue. He waited, as Toddrick continued to stand there, rocking on his feet, nodding confidently to himself. “The first rule…?” Andre finally prompted.

“Exactly,” Toddrick replied. “You’ve got it. Ok dude, moving on.”

Andre frowned. He got absolutely nothing, and was concerned about moving on from a place he’d never arrived at to begin with. But Andre’s concern was irrelevant; Toddrick was already continuing with his haphazard train of thought, and paid no mind that no one else was completely on board with him.

“Begin at the beginning, they say,” Toddrick said. “What do you know about wrestling?”

“Like on television?”

Andre crouched, arms braced wide like he was preparing to tackle a wayward baby daddy looking to deny all DNA evidence of paternity to the contrary, visions of Maury fixed firmly in his mind.

“Yeah, on TV,” said Todd, feeling this at least looked promising, until Andre continued.

“The guy. Springer. You know the guy. Gerald. Jerry? Seinfeld? No. You are or are not the father. That stuff. Yelling. Throwing chairs. The crowd goes wild, Jer-ry! Jer-ry!”

What were they teaching these kids in France? Toddrick wondered. The fact that Andre was almost a decade older than him was irrelevant to Toddrick’s thought process.

“No, no no. Wrong channel dude.”

“I dunno,” drawled Toddrick’s right hand man, Greg. “He’s wrong, but not totally off. Yelling, fighting, the crowd goes wild, all that shit?”

Toddrick made a face, reluctant to admit that Greg had a point. “You ever seen a wrestling ring?”

Now it was Andre’s turn to make a face. “Mmm…probably?”

“Like if I told you some part and to go there, would you know it. Like, the apron.”

Andre looked at Toddrick skeptically, and plucked at the sides of his own apron in response.

“Ok nope. Ever heard of a turnbuckle?”

Andre half pivoted in place. “Turn?” he muttered, and then looked down toward where his belt was hidden by his apron, “buckle…?”

“Yep, also a nope. Tell you what. Greg, fists up. You probably don’t need to know all this shit anyway, yeah? We’ll just show you what to do. Got time for a few rounds here. You ever fight before? I’m sure you been in a fight before.”

On this count, Toddrick was right. Andre had been in plenty of fights before.

Toddrick put in the application on Andre’s behalf. In late night drunken brainstorming sessions while Andre worked the grill, Toddrick and his boys helped him pick a theme song, set up a Twitter account for him, tried to teach him how to use it (with less success than they were teaching him wrestling moves), and insisted that when Chef Andre stepped into the ring,

“OF COOOOOURSE YOU GOTTA WEAR A CHEF COAT MAAAAAAN!”

All of Andre’s lunch breaks were dedicated to practicing the art of brawling. Admittedly, this was pretty easy to do when his opponents were all drunken frat boys with trust funds and four-letter names. But all they had to fall back on were their own asses as Andre would knock down another Chad or Greg or Brad onto the cracking pavement, and then offer them a hand back up as they enthusiastically complimented him on how much his form was improving.

Of course, Andre hadn’t learned much of a damned thing about wrestling. He tried to ask questions, when they were in the Waffle House, Toddrick and company crowded in their chosen booth, Andre pouring batter onto the waffle irons.

“You come out,” Toddrick was saying, trying and failing to draw an approximation of Andre on a napkin to illustrate, “with a frying pan, natch—“

“Do I hit my opponent with the frying pan?”

“Dude! Dude, that’s illegal.”

“Alors, police illegal, or—“

“It’s just. It’s illegal. Ah-hen-nee-way, you hold up the frying pan, like this, well, this drawing is shit, ok so imagine it, you hold up the frying pan and sing with the music, ‘BE! MY! GUEST!’ And smack the frying pan. Like, with the beats, for emphasis, it’ll be per-her-herfect.”

Greg was looking at his phone, and gasped. “WERD!” he yelled, shoving Toddrick excitedly. “LOOK LOOK!”

Toddrick abandoned the drawing and took Greg’s phone to see. “DUDE!” Toddrick exclaimed, holding the phone out to Andre now. “Your first match is booked! Oh SHIT, we haven’t even started on trash talk yet.”

The manager on duty that night, a dream crusher if ever there was one, smacked Toddrick squarely in the forehead with a laminated menu and forbade them from brainstorming trash talk in the Waffle House while Andre was working. The risk of excessively colorful swearing was too high.

Instead, they once again waited for the brief lunch break window to spill out into the balmy night air beneath the hazy moon, gathering near the old blue dumpster to continue Andre’s training.

“Dude that was TERRIBLE. Try again.”

“Zut alors, why must I trash talk? Is it not enough to just win?”

“No! Absolutely not. You gotta LEAN IN—“ Toddrick leaned so far, like the back parking lot light, that he began to topple over, and only Andre’s quick reflexes snatched him from hitting the ground and got him upright again in time. “Oop, thanks. Lean in to the spectacle!”

Andre made a face, thinking.

“You wanna win, yeah?” Toddrick asked. “You think you’re gonna win, right? Believe in it. Materialize it into the world with epic put downs.”

Andre sighed, and frowned even harder. “Ahmya’s going down like a bad soufflé?”

Toddrick considered the insult for a moment. “Well not if you say it like that. Say it like you mean it, and maybe that’s enough to sell it.”

“What if I just say things very angrily, but in French? Eh?” Andre took a deep breath and bellowed out, “TU ES UNE AFFREUSE LUTTEUSE ET TU VAS PERDRE!”

Toddrick nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, yeah, omelette du fromage to you too buddy. Look, we’ll put that down under a solid maybe.”

“I have wrestled dishwashing hoses stronger than you?”

“Again, not if you say it like that.”

“Got less kick than a bell pepper? I will throw you out of the frying pan and into the fire? When this fight is over you won’t be well but you will be done?”

Toddrick made sure his feet were firmly planted this time before leaning forward again, this time to pat Andre on the shoulder. “Y’know what, it’s not an insult competition. Just do the best you can. Ahmya’s nothing but a shitty gas station microwave compared to the one! The only! The Cast Iron Chef!” Toddrick slapped Andre on the back. “You got this in the to-go bag my friend.”

Next Installment: Part 2 (C’est Cargo)

[sapphires-and-gold-fics]

Sense & Sensibility Braime AU Update!

Forget Me, Not

Chapter 17

Colonel Casterly came in while Brienne and Ser Brynden were finishing tea, and by his manner of looking round the room, Brienne immediately fancied that he neither expected, nor wished to see Sansa there, and in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Ser Brynden was not struck by the same thought. He greeted Tyrion warmly enough, and then made up some errand to take him from the room, leaving Brienne and Tyrion with the housemaid clearing the service, but not before pausing before Brienne to say  “The Colonel looks grave as ever, Miss Stark. Do tell him the news. I leave it to your sense.”

Tyrion watched his host go, and then looked frankly at Brienne, almost causing her to laugh aloud at the Blackfish’s conspicuousness. He drew a chair close to her place on the sofa and, with a look that perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired, “Is there is more truth in what I’ve heard than I initially believed, Miss Stark?”

Brienne raised her eyebrows and then drew them together, concerned that Sansa’s name might be in the mouths of strangers. “Do you mean Mr. Snow’s marriage with Miss Poole?” Her friend nodded. “Yes, we know it too. Where did you hear it?”

“In a shop where I had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage by the door, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible not to hear all. The name of Snow might have been nothing, but the repeated assertion of Mr. Ramsay before it was undeniable. And one thing also served to identify the man still more - as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to remove to Harren Hall, the estate he acquired in the Vale. It would be impossible to describe what I felt and thought on hearing this news.” He considered her expression seriously. “Miss Stark, your sister - how did she receive it?”

Brienne sighed in semi-relief. “Till yesterday I did not think that she doubted his regard, but I have learned that she did question his past, and only hoped that she might --” She paused, careful not to tread on Tyrion’s feelings, “I think she thought to save him from himself somehow. But that does not matter now. She appears to have a hardness of heart where he is concerned now, but I know my sister. She thinks herself central in a fairy-tale at times. If she could acquit him of his deceit and ride on to his castle with him, she would. Thankfully, no evidence has been presented in his favor. I wish I could be more certain of the depths of his dishonesty, that I might help encourage her dismissal of him, but I am afraid we do not know much more of him than our short acquaintance permitted.”

Tyrion made no answer, only nodding to himself and looking toward the hearth which seemed to grow brighter as the sun faded from the windows. And throughout supper, Brienne imagined him more serious and thoughtful than usual.

From a night of more sleep than she or her sister had expected, Sansa awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes for here, still, was the unfamiliar bed, there the unfamiliar curtains, and beyond the door the omnipresence of Ser Brynden’s aggravating good cheer. She missed her mother, even her younger sister. She missed being anywhere but this cramped city with its too-close neighbors. She had the good grace to appear at breakfast, but she did not remain below stairs for long after.

With a letter in his outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling from the persuasion of bringing comfort, Ser Brynden addressed the girls from the door to their room. “Now, my dear Miss Sansa, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.”

In one moment Sansa’s imagination placed before her a letter from Ramsay, full of tenderness and contrition, and without real thought, she was on her feet ready to snatch the letter away and, despite what Brienne might imagine her feelings to be, drop it into the fire, so far gone was her affection for him. But the work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The handwriting of her mother, never till then her heart’s desire, was before her, and the acuteness of the desperation which followed such virulent rage, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered. All her impatience to be at home again now returned, though if she were honest with herself it was not to Riverrun she wished to go - not to that place that held the memory of the abbreviated life of her foolish romance, but to Winterfell where she had last been happy and surrounded by those she loved, without the cloud of artifice in his shape. Her mother was dearer to her than ever, dearer though the very impetus of her writing had been Brienne’s application to entreat from Sansa greater openness towards them both, this with such tenderness and conviction that Sansa wept with agony, wildly urgent to be gone.

Brienne, unable to determine if Sansa would be better off in King’s Landing or at Riverrun, or some other place where Catelyn might meet them, obtained her sister’s consent that they wait until her mother’s opinion on the matter to be known.

Ser Brynden left them earlier than usual, and Sansa, who had joined Brienne downstairs following her cousin’s departure remained fixed at the table where Brienne wrote to Catelyn, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving for the effect such a letter would have on her mother, allowing even for a small inward smile for Arya who, upon hearing the news, would very likely imagine Ramsay into irons and off the plank.

In this manner, they continued for about a quarter of an hour when they were startled by a rap at the door. Sansa went to the window and confirmed it with some resign to be Colonel Casterly, back as if he’d never left. “We are never safe from him,” she declared.“A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others.” With this, she quit the room at least a little more in spirits than she had entered it. Brienne was thankful for Sansa’s improved mood but, when she saw Tyrion’s anxious and melancholy look, she could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

“I met Ser Brynden in the street,” said he after the first salutation, “and he suggested I come hither without him.” He gestured at her materials, “I hope I do not interrupt you.”

She folded her finished letter. “Not at all. I only need to see this into the footman’s hands, and I will be at my leisure.” She stood and rang for a servant, and after a moment was able to give Tyrion her full attention.

He sighed. “I would not intrude, I assure you, nothing but an earnest desire to be useful… I think I am justified - Brienne, I would like to… no, I must relay--”

Brienne startled. Friends they had been, but never before could she recall his using her given name, even privately. She recognized the seriousness of his countenance and tone, and at once understood that this must be a continuation of last evening’s distress.

He saw her alarm. “Miss Stark, forgive me.”

She stood and crossed to the sofa where he sat, placing herself beside him, “No! That is, there is nothing to forgive. I think I understand,” she said, “you have something to tell me of Mr. Snow, I think. Something that will open his character further, something from which we may only gain from hearing, please--” she was excited now, “please, Tyrion.”

He nodded, sighing, “You will find me an awkward narrator, Miss Stark; I hardly know where to begin.” He stopped a moment for recollection and then, with another sigh, went on, “No doubt... that is, I understand that you know something of my relationship with my father.”

She hesitated, thinking, “Ser Brynden did, I think, mention some difficulty in your family, yes.”

Tyrion looked a little surprised but continued. “There was a lady I once knew. She was a cousin, an orphan from her infancy, and my father's ward. We were of an age and were raised together in almost every way. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Tysha. We were both nine years old when my dear mother passed bringing my siblings into the world. And though I loved them, I was acutely aware that my love for her was different. And her’s for me was, I believe, as fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Snow has been, and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes distractedly.

“At seventeen she was lost to me forever. She was married - married against her inclination - to my father.”

Brienne must have made a sound of alarm for Tyrion looked up at her, his weary eyes worried, and clasped her hand, but whether that was to support her or lean on her for strength was unclear. “We were going to run away together. But my sister, her mind poisoned by my father from an early age, revealed our plans to him. He has blamed me all my life for weakening my mother, and when she died he hated me even more. He had no regard for Tysha but in doing this, he exacted his revenge on me. Her fortune was large and despite what people may think, despite current appearances, our family’s property was much encumbered at the time. His pleasures were not what they ought to have been."

Brienne cringed. She had heard of such arrangements. Silently she thanked the gods that her family had no fortune to part with, nothing to motivate undeserving men to commit her sisters to a life of despair.

"I hoped - foolishly - that her regard for me might support her under any difficulty, but the consequence of my father on a mind so young and so inexperienced as hers was but too natural. She resigned herself to her misery, as did I. To my eternal shame, I quit the country, removing from them in the interest of everyone's happiness, but perhaps especially, selfishly, my own. The shock of her marriage, though, was nothing to what I felt when I heard two years after that my father had quietly had said marriage annulled. I might not have heard it but my dear brother, who was but eleven at the time, defied our father’s wishes and wrote to me.” Tyrion paused and smiled softly at Brienne, lowering her hands, earnestly, “He has always been the most thoughtful--”

He rose hastily and began pacing the room. Brienne, affected by his story, could not speak. Eventually, he returned to his seat, no less melancholy. “It was another three years after this unhappy period before I was discharged and returned to Westeros. My first care when I arrived was to seek for her, but she could not be found. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and my father, when I confronted him, suggested that her extravagance had caused her to outlive her means, but that was a despicable excuse for his actions in all but robbing her of her inheritance. Some six months later, I found her.”

His voice broke, and now Brienne reached out to comfort him.

“She was, to all appearance, in the last stages of shaking sickness. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for better preparation for her death. To whatever credit I am allowed, that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, with the best maesters, and the best dreamwine. I visited with her every day during the rest of her short life. How could I do anything else?”

Brienne could see the tears forming in his eyes, and spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

“Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,” said he, “by the resemblance I have all this time fancied between her and my poor cousin. But their fates, their fortunes cannot be the same…Yet to what does this all lead? I promise I would not distress you for nothing. This is a subject I have broached with few in the last fourteen years, I promise I shall try to be more concise.

Brienne assured him that she was not under undue distress and urged him to continue.

“Tysha left to my care her only child, a little girl, offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about two years old. She had been very precious to her mother, and perhaps only that affection had protected the girl from the mother’s illness. I saw the girl into capable hands and eventually to school. I would have discharged this precious trust myself by watching over her and her education, but I had already parted ways with my father and had no home of my own as yet. I saw little Tysha whenever I could, and once I secured my own estate about five years ago, she visited me there often. I called her a distant relation, but I am well aware that I have generally been suspected of a much nearer connection with her - truly, Brienne, if you saw her I think you would know immediately that I am not so fortunate to be the true father of that beautiful girl. She has--”

He stopped as if catching himself in the midst of telling an unintended secret. Brienne looked away as if to not insist on whatever details he wished to conceal for now.

His expression turned sadder. “Three years ago I removed her from school and placed her with a very respectable woman who had charge of a handful of other similarly-aged girls. She had just had her sixteenth nameday when she suddenly disappeared. She had, with my permission, gone to Maidenpool with one of her friends who was attending her father there for his health and - I knew him to be a good sort of man but I did not realize that he had been generally confined to the house. I gave his daughter more credit than she deserved. The girls were ranging all over the town, making friends with the stranger himself. I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for seven long months, was left to conjecture.”

He chanced a glance at Brienne who was giving him every ounce of her attention. Catching his eye, she nearly lost all sense, “Good gods, Tyrion - do you mean…” Could Ramsay be even more despicable than Sansa had lead her to believe?

“The first news that reached me of her,” he continued, “came in a letter from herself, which was forwarded to me at Riverrun, arriving the morning of our picnic. Only Lord Edmure knew anything of the situation; I’m sure my sudden departure was strange to some and, I believe, gave offense to one. Little did Mr. Snow imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility, that I was called away to the relief of one, whom he had made poor and miserable. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress with no help, no friends, and ignorant of his address. He left her in Flea Bottom to whence he had absconded with her, and left her with nothing.”

“This is beyond everything,” replied Brienne in a fierce whisper.

“His character is now before you, Brienne. Only imagine how helpless I felt when I was assured that your sister would marry this animal. Now you may comprehend my behavior. To suffer you all to be so deceived... but what could I do?

Brienne’s thanks followed with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Sansa, from the communication of what had passed. “At first she will suffer a little I think, to revisit her blindness where he is concerned, but I am sure she will soon become easier.”

“I need not say, perhaps, that none of this is public. You are now part of a very small circle of knowledge, but I hope that your family may trust my word in this and, should you have any doubt, you might of course apply to my brother, who will most assuredly support this information. He was my second at my only meeting with Mr. Snow since finding him out.”

Brienne startled at this and looked at him anxiously. “What, have you met him to…” Brienne could imagine just then holding the point of a sword against Ramsay’s neck herself.

“I could meet him no other way. She confessed the name of her lover quite reluctantly, but when he returned to town we met by appointment. We returned unwounded, and the meeting therefore never got abroad.”

“Would that I had been there with you,” quipped Brienne, “he might not have left the field.”

“I can only hope, Brienne, that you never have such cause.”

Brienne sighed. “Is she still in town?”

“No, as soon as she recovered from her lying in, I removed her and the child into the country. I had to be back in town on business right away, so I charged Jaime with overseeing things there until she was settled with the additional staff. I am determined that she and the babe will want for nothing.”

Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat and could not suppress itself, “Jaime?”

“My brother.” His eyes widened. “Gods, I was certain you knew!”

Her head swam as the pieces of his tale fell into place. Of course, Tyrion was the very brother Jaime had spoken of. And Robert’s wife - yes, the cruel sister who fell in line with her father’s wishes. Jaime had traveled east perhaps not just to see Mrs. Blackwood and his goddaughter, but to visit his brother, to aid him. And Jaime had been present - suffered another duel to--- All this time there had been something comforting and familiar about Tyrion, but… “But Casterly--” she blurted.

“--is an old family joke, just like me. I styled myself as such when I purchased my commission because I didn't want the shadow of my father's exploits over me. But I was born Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tywin Lannister is my father.”

[travelleroflands]

My review of Virginia’s Woolf’s ‘To the Lighthouse’

Out of all the extraordinary gifts that books bestow upon our lives, the one that awes me the most is their ability to preserve thoughts, sentiments and ideas and safely ferry them across the expansive reaches of time to stimulate our own minds in a process that seems almost magical. Especially when, while reading a certain book, you cannot help but think: How can this author, born more than a century before the shape of me was even conceived by the universe, know what is in my heart, and know it so well? How do her characters articulate so many feelings that were, until now, ineffable to me? And once you have had this thought, your wonderment can only multiply. You might highlight numerous paragraphs, and still feel as though you haven’t highlighted everything that truly mattered to you in the story. You wish you could highlight every single word, because they are all equally impactful. You are torn between rereading each chapter and setting the book aside to mull over all that you read, all that seemed to overwhelm your mind and flood your senses. And when you have finished, you know that attempting to thoroughly articulate every emotion that you feel is a futile endeavor.

Virginia Woolf’s exquisitely woven modernist story ‘To the lighthouse’, masterfully employing stream of consciousness and free indirect discourse to provide an insight into the rich inner lives of her characters, is indubitably one such book. Effortlessly, she explores complex themes like love, life, mortality and even the agony of artistry. In her capable hands, she manipulates time, expanding brief moments and contracting long years. By magnifying the minutest of details in the lives of the Ramsay family and their guests, she illumines the intricacy of relationships between woman and man, wife and husband, children and their parents and even her characters’ perceived relations with the world itself. Against the eternity of the cosmos, she highlights both the despair and the beauty of ephemerality. The lighthouse, the waves tossing in the sea, the sand dunes in the distance, the wind, geraniums in an urn, a lone shawl flapping in a deserted house, all convey some greater meaning. There is beauty, there are treasures of meaning buried deeply within each word that Virginia writes, enough to pierce one through the chest and clench the heart with force enough to induce profound emotion. As one reads, one soon becomes a part of the Ramsay household, goes down to the beach with their guests and anticipates a visit to the lighthouse.

With her beauteous prose, Virginia establishes the distinctiveness of each of her characters. Mrs. Ramsay, the paragon of loveliness, the reservoir of sympathy and the conductor of familial harmony. She is honoured for her strange severity, her extreme courtesy, like a queen’s raising from the mud a beggar’s dirty foot and washing it. She has the power to influence everyone she knows, directly or indirectly, and generously lends a piece of her own vitality to them. But, beneath it is all dark, she contemplates, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There is so much about her that the world does not see, that which gives her boundless liberty when she manages to snatch a moment of respite in her life, from all the roles that she must play. Even when she does not wish for time to pass quickly, and to take from her all that she values, she finds solace in the fact that even if the moments she cherished would soon pass, they would live forever as pristine memory in her guests’ minds. And this belief of hers is validated when Lily Briscoe, one of her guests, reminisces about her years later, the clarion image of her beauty, her powerful presence and the impact that she had on everyone still persisting in her thoughts.

Lily Briscoe is a painter, an artist who agonizes over the inadequacy of her art, which she views as a formidable, ancient enemy of hers- this other thing, this truth, this reality, which suddenly laid hands on her, emerged stark at the back of appearances and commanded her attention. She is insecure, and uncertain about her own talent, an uncertainty that is compounded by others’ estimation (women can’t paint, women can’t write) and her own belief that her work would, anyhow, end up hung in a servant’s bedroom or rolled up to keep underneath a sofa. It will not, she thinks, make much of a difference. It is through her point of view that the author gives voice to every artist or creator’s dubiety and misgivings. It is also through her perspective and her thoughts that Virginia contemplates love and its numerous forms- Yet, she said to herself, from the dawn of time odes have been sung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; if you asked nine people out of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this; while the women, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling, This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile and inhumane than love; yet it is also beautiful and necessary. Or even, It rose like a fire sent up in token of some celebration by savages on a distant beach. She heard the roar and the crackle. The whole sea for miles round ran red and gold. Some winy smell mixed with it and intoxicated her, for she felt again her own headlong desire to throw herself off the cliff and be drowned looking for a pearl brooch on a beach. And the roar and the crackle repelled her with fear and disgust, as if while she saw its splendour and power she saw too how it fed on the treasure of the house, greedily, disgustingly, and she loathed it. But for a sight, for a glory, it surpassed everything in her experience, and burnt year after year like a signal fire on a desert island at the edge of the sea, and one had only to say ‘in love’ and instantly, as happened now, up rose Paul’s fire again. She also ruminates over the meaning of existence-The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that and the other………In the midst of chaos, there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability or What did it mean? Could things thrust their hands and grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp? Was there no safety? No learning by heart the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life? Even the creative process is given unique form in her musings- All that in idea seemed simple became in practice immediately complex; as the waves shape themselves symmetrically from the cliff top, but to the swimmer among them are divided by steep gulfs and foaming crests. Still the risk must be run; the mark made………And so pausing, and so flickering, she attained a dancing rhythmical movement, as if the pauses were one part of the rhythm and the strokes another, and all were related….

People, and how one views them, and how one attempts to estimate their merit, are also inextricably entwined in her thoughts.

Mr. Ramsay, who is venerable and laughable at one and the same time, searches for, reaches for greatness he knows he can never hope to find. He wishes to make a tangible impression upon the world, and yet finds himself unable to make any great progression in thought beyond what he has already attained, the gradations of which he likens to the alphabet. What is the point of the journey he made, he thinks, if he couldn’t even immortalize his name? What was the purpose to all that he had done? His own frail luminosity would soon be extinguished, or swallowed up in the presence of some bigger, greater star. Even at the pinnacle of his achievement, he feels like he hasn’t done enough, and his desolation and hopelessness prompt him, from time to time, to seek solace in the all accepting sympathy that Mrs. Ramsay has to offer to him. He demands sympathy, devours it almost, to the extent that it makes Lily loathe him for it. His reliance upon her for that which only she can truly give him both exhausts and exhilarates Mrs. Ramsay. Mr. Ramsay, who seeks truth with the coldest clarity, still needs his wife to soften the blow of reality, and even as he scorns her, or looks down upon her, he reveres her and respects her. Similarly, even as she pities him, she admires him. It is through the multi-layered dynamic of their relationship that Virginia Woolf explores the interdependence of woman and man.

With characters as convoluted as these, and vast themes that are applicable even to the seemingly simple, Virginia takes her readers on a journey that colours their perspective and stimulates the depths of their own thoughts. Just as the lighthouse in the story is both a silvery enigma and a stark white entity to James, all that Virginia writes can be interpreted in more ways than one, with each meaning replete with its own significance. For, nothing was simply one thing. Reading this book can be likened to a treasure hunt of sorts, where gold nuggets of understanding can be extricated every time one rereads a sentence or revisits a chapter. Virginia’s descriptions, that bear her own sui generis style, are delightful to read. In my opinion, it makes her work singular and unlike anybody else’s. It is also what, in addition to her skilful use of stream of consciousness to connect readers to the core of her characters’ motivations and actions, made me love this book so much. I do not think any amount of praise or recommendation adequate to express my love, but I truly hope that everyone who reads it finds all that I found, and much more, to take away from it.  

Note: Excerpts from the book in italics.

[hamliet]

Who Holds Destiny’s Pen?

Or, choices and destiny: the main theme of The Witcher books. 

What is destiny? Is it the Ouroborus? Are you just a tool in it? Do your choices matter?

Existentialism vs. determinism, that age-old debate. The Witcher doesn’t give a clear “yes everything is determined” or “no, nothing is” but does explore the question with nuance and ultimately, for me at least, a fulfilling answer to that question.

Destiny is hope.

It’s amusing that The Witcher is in many ways seen as playing tropes straight (as opposed to, say, Martin, whose ASOIAF deconstructs elements of the fantasy genre). But I actually didn’t think this was true; or, rather, it’s a stark oversimplification. Ciri (one of the best female main characters I’ve ever read about) is very much a deconstruction of the Virgin Mary archetype within a misogynistic world. The Witcher never revels in its misogyny, using them to titillate while also critiquing them: it straight up critiques them with nuance and empathy. 

The Virgin Mary, of course, is the woman who gave birth to Jesus in the Christian faith, who saved the world. (She too was probably only 14 or 15 when her story began, much like Ciri.) Ciri’s whole deal, in addition to being a powerful medium in her own right, is that she’s prophesized to give birth to the “Avenger” who will save their world from total calamity. Thus a five-book saga of everyone trying to control Ciri’s womb is spawned. It could be creepy if it wasn’t handled so well (it is framed really well as just as creepy and dehumanizing as it sounds, yet not in a titillating way). 

One of the main motifs, if not the main motif, of The Witcher’s choice vs. destiny question is what say women have over their bodies. It could be read politically; this isn’t exactly a political reading thereof but an examination of The Witcher’s exploration of to what extent a person can control their destiny.

Renfri is not allowed to have any say in what happens to her from birth, because Stregobor believes she is a monster and wants to find her to dissect or vivisect her. Even when Geralt is forced to kill her, he refuses to allow Stregobor to touch Renfri’s body, because her body is hers. The books bang this drum even louder than the show does, because within the books, Renfri’s history of sexual abuse is strongly highlighted. 

Renfri’s story asks the initial question: what is the lesser evil? And it’s a question The Witcher keeps asking us. If Ciri being used to have a child who will save the world from a calamity that will definitely come can definitely save this world, then why not sacrifice one girl’s wellbeing for the good of the world? 

Geralt argues that evil is evil, large or small in scale. He uses this argument against the emperor determined to marry and impregnate Ciri:

“The ends justify the means,” the Emperor said flatly. “I do it for the future of the world. For its salvation.”

“If you have to save the world like this,” the witcher lifted his head, “this world would be better off disappearing. Believe me... it would be better to perish.” 

The story then focuses specifically on childbearing and pregnancy for its three most important female characters: Yennefer, Milva, and Ciri. 

The show doubles down on this, as it depicts Yennefer telling Geralt that the root of her desire to overcome her infertility is because the choice was taken from her, and she wants her choices back. It’s a powerful statement that has its spirit carried over into the books; however, Yennefer’s infertility in the books is definitely not her choice whereas in the show it does show her making a choice; it’s essentially a side effect of her magic. Yennefer can control how she appears, can control chaos, but she cannot control her own womb, and Sapkowski writes Yennefer’s anguish over this as raw and real.

However, Yennefer does later receive a choice: to train and thereby end up adopting Ciri, or not. And she chooses to, and it’s a lifegiving decision for all. She is able to write her destiny in Ciri. 

Women’s rights to control their own bodies is most blatantly brought up with Milva. She finds herself pregnant on the road and has to decide whether to keep it or have an abortion, and the emphasis is clearly on the fact that it is her choice regardless of what she decides.

‘In Nilfgaard,’ Cahir said, blushing and lowering his head, ‘such matters are determined solely by the woman. Nobody has the right to influence her decision. Regis said that Milva is determined to take the… medicine. Therefore I think of this fact as accomplished. And the consequences of this fact. But I am a foreigner and not familiar with… I should not have spoken at all. Forgive me.’

‘For what?’ the troubadour said with surprise. ‘Do you think of us as savages, Nilfgaardian? As primitive tribes, adhering to shamanic taboo? It is obvious that only a woman could make such a decision, it is their inherent right!…’

Geralt then faces a choice to help Milva make her own decision for herself, not for what she thinks she should do or because everyone else wants one thing or the other. And he steps up as a dad figure to her, becoming vulnerable with her when he discusses things he has lost in life. It’s through his empathy that Milva feels free to come to her decision: she decides to keep the baby after all..

...only to lose the baby in a later battle. So, did her choice matter or did destiny rip her choice away? Is destiny itself the monster?

It matter because it was the fact that Milva made that decision. She mourns for the loss of her baby (which gets to The Witcher’s themes about how, if you love someone, you will inevitably end up hurt, but if you don’t, you will be less and less human). This is further compounded by how Milva’s decision mirrors Geralt’s and Yennefer’s, because after the loss of her child she acts as a mother-like figure for several in the company (for example, when she forces Geralt and Cahir to stop fighting). She is able to save and protect them, to die defending life as opposed to the life she’d lived taking it.

As for Ciri, she deconstructs the Virgin Mary archetype and the lamp character trope (a trope in which you could replace the character--usually female--by a lamp and nothing would change). Everyone’s trying to find her. Everyone wants to use her. But she’s not a lamp. Emhyr, elves, mages, Vilgefortz--they all want to arrange for Ciri’s son to be someone who will represent their interests.

Even when characters aren’t trying to get Ciri pregnant, you have Bonhart (a villain who’s basically what would happen if you combined Delores Umbridge and Ramsay Bolton in a Petri dish) who treats her like an animal and forces her to be a gladiator. Not to mention Mistle straight-up assaults Ciri (I know the author didn’t intend for it to read that way, but honestly, I’m confused as to where the ambiguity even would come from; it seemed very blatant to me). Everyone’s trying to use her, refusing to give her her own choices, and refusing to care about how she feels, which brings us back to what Geralt says to Emhyr which I cited earlier: 

If this is what it takes to save the world, if the world is required to be evil and torment a girl and subject her to all kinds of abuses, is the world itself--evil in what it will do to spare itself--worth saving? 

Hence, is the concept of destiny a curse? How can it be, when destiny says Ciri is bound to Geralt and this turns out to be positive? Yet also says Ciri will have a child who will avenge the world against some calamity, but the ramifications of this almost destroy Ciri’s life. 

Destiny seems, therefore, to be what people make of it. It can turn you into a monster or a legend or perhaps both, but your choices are what make destiny, destiny. You hold your own pen. 

Which isn’t to say that the story relies on “good victim, bad victim” in how people who make bad choices suffer, because it does not. The point is that we understand what makes someone make the choices they make, regardless of if they’re feared emperors like Emhyr or murderers like Renfri or lost children like Mistle. Empathy, really. It’s hard to outright condemn any character (less so their actions) for making the choices they make. Empathy is what enables our characters to transcend their broken world, to hope and choose better. Except Bonhart. We can all hate him.

You hold destiny’s pen, but empathy and compassion give you the ink, and when you don’t get it, the pen is good for nothing but use as a weapon. 

Destiny is hope, as Philippa concludes in the end, and empathy is what brings legends about--relating to the struggles of those who came before (yes, The Witcher gets very meta in Lady of the Lake). And hence, while the ending leaves a lot of questions out in the open, I think the open-endedness really affirms the story’s core themes. The point is that Ciri has choices about whether or not she wants to conceive a son and whom with, if anyone. She’s free in a new world, able to return to her old one if she wishes, or not to. She gets to decide what’s on her next page.

To an extent, the reason I felt the more tragic endings kind of worked in The Witcher is because even when the characters’ arcs end in tragedy, they tend to get what they want. Ciri got her parents in each other’s arms, Cahir got to see Ciri again as the adult he dreamed (literally) of, Angoulême got to matter, Regis’s legacy is one of salvation rather than death, Milva found belonging, Yennefer got to become a mother, and Geralt found out how very, very human he was. Hell, Emhyr even made a choice to honor his word. The story doesn’t glorify tragedy or death (the opposite: this attitude is directly called out multiple times in Cahir and Geralt’s arcs), but neither does it imply that death is the loss of hope.

In the end, regardless of how their arcs ended, each of our beloved characters’ hopes were fulfilled.

I have several more metas I want to write, most notably on Ciri and Cahir’s foiling, as well as Ciri’s and Renfri’s, and the Rats vs. Geralt’s company.

[sailorshadzter]

jonsa drabblefest, day 7. free day.

FINALLY. im caught up. 

only a day late LOL. 

i used free day as an excuse to write more “sansa needs jon at night” because there’s not much i love more than this hehehe

It's just before dawn when he's woken by the sound of footsteps at his bedside.

Sansa stands there like a ghost in the night, pale faced and dressed in just her white nightgown, red hair falling wildly about her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she whispers into the darkness, but Jon smiles, shaking his head as he shifts aside, lifting the furs so she might slide into place at his side. It takes but a moment for her to find her spot, turning onto her side so she faces him, their faces inches apart on the pillows, tucked beneath the same layers of blankets.

@jonsadrabbles

"Don't be," he murmurs, reaching out a hand to tenderly stroke her cheek, noting the dampness of her eyes, the dark rims beneath them. He wonders how long she paced in her room before she came to him. It hurts him to think about how she hurts, it hurts knowing how little there was for him to do for her. "I told you I would always protect you." He meant what he had said that day before the battle with Ramsay, where he had sworn to always protect her; no matter what it was she feared, he would keep her safe from it. Nightmares or reality, he would do what he could to calm her fears until his dying breath. Beneath the soft touch of his fingertips, she blushes, her rosy lips curving with a wane smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

It only takes a moment for her to shake her head. Closing her eyes, flashes of the nightmare come back to her; striking fists and angry eyes, blood splattering a stage, wild cries from a crowd. When she opens her eyes again, Jon is staring at her with his solemn, Stark colored eyes, eyes that once pained her to look into. Now, they bring her comfort, they bring her peace. "I just want to sleep." She hasn't slept in what felt like days, perhaps even weeks. Jon nods and he opens his arms to her, silent as she scoots as close as she dares, the feel of his arms around her the one thing in the world that can bring her comfort. A moment later, she feels the warm press of his lips against the top of her head, his grip on her body tightening as she buries her face into his chest. She doesn't care if they're siblings, she doesn't care if they share a father's blood... Jon is the one man she can trust, the only person who has yet to let her down. Who will never let her down. He's the one who's returned her faith in those around her, the one to remind her that all was not yet lost.  Her hand finds his beneath the blankets and she closes her eyes, the only sound in the room that of their breathing.

"Then sleep," he whispers, one hand reaching up to stroke her long red hair, it's something he's learned over their time together that helps to calm her, that helps ease her back into sleep. It doesn't take long before he feels her sinking into sleep, the hand that holds onto his loosening its grip, but never falling away.

Even after the morning call comes, does Jon hold her while she sleeps, knowing there was not a single thing in the world that could bring him to disturb her now. And so even when the morning sun rises into the sky and sunlight spills in through his window does he hold her. This was where he was meant to be, always and forever.

[unfortunatelysirius]

The Runaway Bride // Robb Stark [Part I of II]

「 ❁ 」PROMPT 「 ❁ 」

Y/N is the niece of Roose Bolton, and when he requests to arrange a marriage between her and his bastard son Ramsay, she does the only thing she knows how. She runs.

「 ❁ 」AUTHOR’S NOTE 「 ❁ 」

This idea was stuck in my head so here I am writing it idk. I HOPE IT’S NOT TERRIBLE???? Tell if you all would like more Game of Thrones imagines! :)

「 ❁ 」WARNINGS 「 ❁ 」 Angst, violence, swearing

「 ❁ 」WORD COUNT 「 ❁ 」 3900+

            IT WAS LIKE ANY OTHER DAY AT THE DREADFORT.

         Y/N Bolton had been readying for a bath, the water boiling as she carefully undressed, when there came a knock at the door. It was frantic, like the person behind the door was in a hurry. Y/N buttoned up the front of her dress once more, skirts rustling beneath her bare feet as she shuffled to greet the visitor.

         She unlatched the door, pulling it open just a smidgen. Behind the wood was a young girl—perhaps just a few years younger than Y/N—with skin like paste and eyes bluer than the sea. “Lord Bolton has asked for you in the dining hall, Lady Bolton,” she said.

         Y/N nodded, trying—and failing—to hide her distaste. “Thank you,” she said, a polite dismissal. Only when the girl took her leave and the corridor silenced did Y/N think herself safe enough to breathe a sigh.

         Her lord uncle had been pestering her for more than a fortnight, asking her to consider his offer. Or so he called it; what it truly felt like was a threat and a demand. She was to marry his bastard son Ramsay, on the first moon after his legitimization. Lord Bolton was unmarried and heirless, an aging man desperate to solidify his claim to the Dreadfort, before another family could usurp it. Y/N’s mother and father had died more than a decade ago, during a time when illness plagued the land. Her father was Lord Bolton’s brother, her mother from a lowborn Northern family. When they were on their deathbeds, their final wish was for Roose to take Y/N in and raise her as his own.

         Y/N was raised right alongside Ramsay. They bathed together and played together. It was wrong for her lord uncle to have them wed, when all she had ever known Ramsay as was a cousin. A bastard cousin, but a cousin, nonetheless. Though, Y/N knew Ramsay thought differently.

         A sick feeling in her heart, Y/N put on her slippers and took her leave from her sleeping chamber. She walked to the dining hall, where she knew Lord Bolton to be.

         Lord Bolton was a formidable man—not near as formidable as any of the Umbers, but still a great danger to anyone who crossed him. He was grey-haired and grey-eyed, with a body both tall and muscled. His eyes bore a certain coolness to them, a void look that promised unspeakable cruelty. He was known for it.

         It was what made Y/N the most afraid. The thought that he would hurt her, if she did not grant him his demands.

         “Dear niece,” said Lord Bolton, unsmiling, as he caught her entrance. Those cruel grey eyes watched her every move. “Have you thought any more about my offer?”

         Offer. It was not an offer. It was a threat. Y/N swallowed thickly, failing to disguise her fear as deliberation. “Yes, uncle,” she said. “When would our wedding day be?”

         “I plan to ask that Eddard Stark legitimize him as my heir,” said the man, watching her carefully. “You know Eddard Stark, I assume.”

         “Lord Stark,” murmured Y/N. She had met him on a few occasions, but only with her father when she was very, very young. They had never been formally introduced, nor her to his wife and children, not while her uncle kept her confined within the Dreadfort walls. “When would he be legitimized?” How much time do I have left?

         “Soon,” Lord Bolton said. It was a simple answer. One that was meant to make her frantic, as she contemplated how many moons she had before her wedding night.

         “Soon,” Y/N repeated.

         “Preferably before winter,” said Lord Bolton. And it was a cruel, cruel joke, meant to snipe at the Starks and their house words.

         His smile was that of a king, of a man condemning someone he cared very little for to a terrible fate. It showed Y/N how alone she was.

         In a land where daughters were little more than cattle, Y/N Bolton had to be her own hero, lest she be left in the fall to wither.

         -

         It was decided, on the night before her uncle went off to a meeting with the Karstarks, that she would not marry Ramsay Snow. Even if he were legitimized, he was still a sadistic monster, one who continued the banned practice of flaying men alive and found pleasure in methods of torture. He could have defeated his bastard name and made himself a man of honor, but instead he chose a path of destruction—one that Y/N did not want any part of, whether that be watching it unfold or following in his footsteps.

         As a child, Y/N dreamed of marriage, of knights and rescues from ivory towers. Her mother and father had a love only found in fairytales, and in the books Y/N was read at night, that same love was found. A love that made men victims of the heart, and women into senseless dolts. Her uncle ridiculed it, and her Dreadfort friends did not believe in it. But into youthhood, Y/N continued to dream of it, wishing she could find what her parents once had. It was only when Y/N had her first moon’s blood, when her uncle began to arrange plans for marriage, when she became aware of the ogling stares, that she felt her hopes diminished.

         Y/N L/N was much less naïve. She knew what awaited her into adulthood. Even so, a bastard whose only passion was found in destroying pretty things was not a fate Y/N wanted. He would take great pleasure in breaking her, that much was certain. Y/N, though young and inexperienced, was not stupid. She knew what kind of man he was.

         Y/N was going to run away.

         A foolish plan. One that could go wrong in so many ways. If she were to be caught, punishment was sure to follow. Y/N was terrified of what consequences awaited her. But the worst fate she could face was a marriage to Ramsey Snow.

         That thought was all that kept her from reconsideration.  

         On a night where her lord uncle was sure to be unconscious and her bastard cousin under the same effects, Y/N gathered her things. Her greatest obstacle came in the form of finances, as she had only a little bit of loose change; a handful of coppers, at the most. It would buy her a night at an inn, and maybe a couple meals to accompany it.

         But she wouldn’t last.

         She wore her warmest dress, with a fur-lined cloak encapsulating residual heat. In her bag was the barest necessities. A few dresses, with matching slippers. Food she’d stolen from the kitchens. A canteen filled to the brim with water. Her purse of coppers. And a knife. The knife had been taken from Dreadfort’s blacksmith’s shop. Y/N hoped she would have no use for it. However, she knew that the North was full of Ramsay Snows. She would not run far before encountering one.

         Y/N snuck down to the stables, where she woke her horse, Axel. He startled, neighing softly, only for Y/N to shush him. She petted down the back of his head like she would the nape of a newborn. To soothe and to comfort. “You’re coming with me, boy,” she whispered.

         She saddled him quickly, fingers shaky and mind abundant with worries. She didn’t know where she was going, or what she would do. Maybe this was all for naught, and she would face consequences much sooner than she’d intended. Lord Bolton could have saw through her façade easily, and through her intents even quicker—it was only a matter of waiting and seeing.

         Y/N fled the castle through a series of snow-covered paths, ones unseen by the stationed guards. Fallen flakes fell along her cloak, some in her hair—and the crisp air gave her the impression she was in a snowstorm. She knew it was merely an illusion of the ride, caused by the speed in which her horse ran, but that did not change the feeling.

         She was out of the Dreadfort before she could counter the thought with another. Only when she made it to a neighboring town did she allow herself to feel relieved.

         I made it, she thought foolishly.

         -

         Y/N stayed a night in the inn, and broke her fast with her water canteen and a loaf of bread she’d brought from her Dreadfort thievery. It was contenting, to know she was safe and fed for at least until the sun set. Only when she was sat and watching strangers go about dillydallying did she realize; she didn’t know where she was.

         “Where am I?” she asked the innkeeper.

         “Moleskin,” the innkeeper told her.

         Y/N felt stupid. “Where exactly is that?”

         The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “West of the Dreadfort. Are you lost, kid?”

         “No,” said Y/N. She wasn’t a very good liar. When the innkeeper continued his scrutinizing stare, Y/N finally broke. “I want to find the Kingsroad, but I don’t know what direction it would be.”

         The innkeeper jumped from his seat behind the counter, and beckoned for Y/N to follow him. She did so reluctantly. They left the inn, going out into the busy atmosphere of Moleskin. The innkeeper grabbed Y/N by the shoulder, then pointed out north of them. They were at the westmost part of town, and the point of the innkeeper’s finger led straight toward the end of town, where open grassland was in sight. “That’s the west. West is where you’ll find the Kingsroad.”

         “How long a walk?” asked Y/N.

         “Five, six days,” he said.

         Y/N chewed her lip. She had enough money, food, and water for a three, maybe four-day trip—but five was cutting it close. Six was not imaginable. “Thank you,” she told the innkeeper. She put the hood of her cloak over her head, gave the man a farewell, got Axel from the stables, and began the final step of her journey.

         -

         The first day was easy. The second day was less so, but still simple. On her third day, Y/N begin to feel weary. It was not because of her resources running low, or because she got little sleep from laying on hollow dirt, against the leg of her horse. No, it was because of something much, much worse.

         She was walking alongside Axel on a forest path just as the sun was coming up, when she heard sudden voices. One was familiar. Very familiar. Heart ablaze with worry, Y/N hid, hid herself in the shrubbery. She hit Axel in the rear to make him manic and watched as he ran away at breakneck speed, knowing she was silly to think things would ever be easy. She lay herself flat and shut her eyes tight. Foolishly, she sent a prayer up to the Old Gods and the New that she would not be found.

         The men grew closer and closer, until she could hear them breathe. The man with the familiar voice was closest, and now that he was in breathing distance, she found why he was so familiar.

         It was Ramsay.

         “My darling wife-to-be is close,” he said, to his company. Y/N knew by the sounds of their rustling armor and serious voices that it was a scouting group. Bolton men. “She could not have gotten far.”

         “How can you tell?” said one of the scouts, in a skeptical voice.

         Ramsay laughed. His laugh was repulsive, like a cross between a witch’s cackle and a pig’s snort. “I’ve been tracking her,” he said. “She must have heard us, jumped on her horse and ran. The only tracks are that of her horse now.”

         Y/N’s heart stopped. He does not know that I am here, she thought, chest burning with the realization. She could only hope they were foolish, and did not stop to think she might have parted with her horse.

         Her hopes were answered.

         “She’ll be heading for the Kingsroad. We’ll stop her before she makes it there,” said Ramsay. His voice was fierce, like there was never any doubt that he wouldn’t find her. The group of men went on, their footsteps echoing as they went.

         Y/N fell into the mud and wept from relief in their absence.

         -

         The Kingsroad was found on the fifth day, when Y/N had run out of food and coppers as well as all her energy. She had but a tiny bit of water left in her canteen, but she would not last as long as necessary without nutrients. There was not a soul in sight as she got onto the Kingsroad.

         Until she had stopped to sit and rest. Until she was dozing under the dying sun, and a hand grabbed her by the collar of her cloak. She went up screaming.

         “Lookie here, men—a little bird,” crooned the stranger. Y/N’s terrified gaze snapped from the ground, to the trees, to his face, growing more and more scared at the ghastly sight that awaited her. He was scruffy and dirty, oozing with a putrid odor that foretold of many moons without a bath, with a scratch across one eye. He was balding and skinny from malnutrition, teeth more yellow than ivory. Now, those teeth gleamed, tucked inside a smile too wide to be friendly. “What are you doing out here all alone, little bird?”

         The man’s hand was unwanted as it touched her, as it went further to grope at unadorned skin. “Get the fuck off me!” screamed Y/N, as it finally became too much. With the pressure on her neck, she could barely think, and all she could assume was that she was alone, weaponless, afraid. “Bastard—fucking bastard—”

         “My, my—what words from a lady’s mouth,” he teased her. The fucker teased her. He pulled her up to her knees, where she became conscious of the other men there. One man, two man, three man—four. There were four of them. More than Y/N could fight at once. The man put his hand over Y/N’s mouth, as though afraid she’d try to alert any passersby of her predicament. In response, she bit him. “Ow! The bitch bit me!”

         Y/N took the chance to shake from his grip. He had taken away his hand to look at it and to feel where she’d bit him. One of his lackeys yelled, “She’s getting away!”

         Y/N originally was planning to take out her knife and kill the man who’d laid a hand on her, but now that he’d mentioned it, she knew this was her only chance. Taking up her skirts, damning the men to Hell, to Hell and back, Y/N tucked tail and ran.

         The men shouted and cursed her, all before footsteps sounded from behind. Y/N ignored it, caught in the desperation to slip away. She ran into the nearest path, a forest path, where the open air became trees.

         There wasn’t a chance to absorb and admire the scenery. She knew there was green and white, a contrast of snow and trees, and though Y/N was fast and healthy where the man behind her was clumsy-footed and malnourished, that did not change that distraction could have her trip, distraction could get her killed.

         The stranger continued to yell insults at her. “Come back here, you little cunt! I’ll cut you right open!”

         Oh, how Y/N wished she were at the Dreadfort. At least her uncle and bastard cousin had the human decency not to flay their own family alive.

         She was so caught in her thoughts and her desperation to get away that Y/N did not realize her and the man were not the only ones in the forest. She ran right into the chest of another stranger, this one taller, broader, and a lot stronger.

         Y/N yelped, and flailed backwards—only for the stranger to catch her and pull her back into his chest. He smelled of woods, of fresh leather and pine. Oh gods, what am I thinking? She quickly ducked under his arm, and hid behind him. She was not fool enough to be at the front, for when the man who’d given her chase came into the vicinity. She would use this man as a shield from the monster who’d tried to take advantage of her.

         And he did come. Y/N peaked out from behind her savior, who had twisted his head back to stare at her, and watched with a pounding heart as the man came from around the trees. He was heaving and cursing, in his hands a dagger, one he bore as a token of his rage against Y/N.

         “Stupid bitch—” he’d been saying, but whatever threat was going to come from his mouth died when he saw the stranger. Instead, his eyes turned wide, and he dropped into a bow of the head. The knife went behind his back, hidden from sight. “M’lord.”

         “Why were you chasing this girl?” said the stranger.  He’d turned his head back the moment he’d heard the man’s voice and he sounded angry, of all things, when he spoke. He had a heavenly voice of his own; it was both deep and manly, signifying a maturity Y/N had not heard in a long, long time. “She looks terrified.”

         “I’m so sorry, m’lord!” the man rushed to say. “She was—she just—”

         “She what?” The stranger was unimpressed. Y/N craned her neck a little to see his face—and gods, that face. He was handsome. That handsome face was cinched into a frown so deep it could leave wrinkles. “What did you plan to do with her, when you caught her?”

         “She—stole from me, m’lord.” The man’s face was frantic, as were his eyes and mouth. Nothing sat still in his expression, all moving too fast to count. “Thieves shouldn’t go unpunished. I woulda…” He went quiet.

         “Stole what?”

          “I…” The man closed his mouth, then lowered his head. He was caught in his own lie.

         The stranger took a quick glance at Y/N as she hid behind him, then looked back at the man who’d threatened and chased her. “What’s your name?”

         “Er, Erik, m’lord.” He kept his head bowed.

         “This girl is under my protection now,” said the stranger, and he pulled Y/N into his side. The warmth of his leather was both a comfort and a discomfort; her face flushed with blood at the company of his hand on her shoulder. “If I see you near—if I see you touch her—I’ll take three fingers. Next, it’ll be your head. Do we have an understanding?”

         Erik nodded his head frantically. “Yes, m’lord.”

         “Go,” demanded the stranger. He and Y/N watched, one solemnly and one anxiously, as the man stumbled back from which he came from. And his legs were like that of a chicken’s—awkward and ungainly.

         “Thank you,” said Y/N, once she was sure he was gone from both sight and ear. Her chest burned, as did her throat. When she said her thanks, she felt her voice catch. It left an itching sensation where her vocal fold met her esophagus.

         “Did you steal from him, truly?” The stranger had removed his arm from around her shoulder, and he turned to face her. There was amusement in his face, as well as his mouth, which tilted up into a smile.

         Y/N did not have the energy to return it. Though she may have made a quip another day, today was a day of lost wits and fatal battle scars. “No. He came upon me when I was resting, and took me up by the scruff,” said Y/N.

         The stranger’s brow furrowed. “I should have brought him before my father,” he murmured to himself, before growing serious. “What is your name?”

         “Y/N,” she said. She did not want to say her surname, in fear that he would take her before her lord uncle. She had no knowledge of the lords around these parts, nor their affiliation to House Bolton. “Yours?”

         “You must not be from Winter Town,” said the stranger. “I am Robb, Robb Stark.”

         Stark… Robb Stark… “Eddard Stark’s son?” Y/N was surprised. And more than surprised, she was scared. Her lord uncle was one of Eddard Stark’s bannermen. If he truly were as honorable as Westerosi travelers claimed, then by knowing Lord Bolton’s niece were in his midst, he would have a raven sent to him immediately… he would let the man take her, regardless of what caused her to run in the first place.

         She would have her freedom stripped away, before she even had a chance to taste it in pure.

         “Yes, I’m his eldest,” said Robb, seemingly oblivious of her growing panic. “Are you lost? You cannot be from Winter Town, if you did not know me by my face or name.” He seemed amused, yet also worried. He probably realized she was alone and homeless, with barely a possession to call her own.

         Y/N toed the ground. “I am useless with directions,” she admitted, in a sheepish voice.

         He appeared to look closer at her—at the top of her cloak. It was only too late that she realized—her house emblem adorned it as a pin. She took it off for every town she visited, but left it on when alone, or walking abandoned paths. It was the last gift she had from her father, a dainty metal thing rusted from years of continued use. She had not thought to remove in while in the presence of a lord’s son.

         Stupid, she thought in a panic, but it was already too late.

         “I thought Lord Bolton did not have any children,” said Robb, cluelessly. Where he’d once seen her as a lowborn peasant girl, he now had a closer scrutiny; he saw her as important, rather than a harmless trifle. He was smart, though she couldn’t expect any less from a lord’s son. He was raised up on knowing Westerosi houses, of knowing their house words, of knowing their flag depictions, of knowing their lords and their heirs. Whether they were extinct, or facing extinction. It would have been a great pity if he did not realize the extent of her privilege, by the emblem on her cloak.

         “I—” Y/N began to panic. “He… he doesn’t.”

         Robb saw the look in her eye. The look of a deer caught in sights by a wolf. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed—well, attempted to soothe was more like it. “You have to be highborn, with an emblem of that making and stitching that fine. Why are you near Winterfell?”

         It all suddenly became too much. The way he stared at her, the way her legs trembled under the weight of her exhaustion, the way her world had begun to crumble down—it was too much.

         Y/N’s eyes began to flutter, and her legs fell underneath her. As Robb swooped to catch her, as he called for her, as he showered her in useless apologies, she found very little in herself to care.

         The darkness swept her into its current, and all awareness of the world, of Robb Stark and his questions, was lost.

         She only prayed that Lord Bolton would not be there to damn her in her wake.

[call-2-arms]

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme.

fill out & repost ♥ This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm. 

tagged by: stolen from my other blog :)  tagging: @snowbrn​ @threads-of-destiny​ (Fenris) @thedasonfire​ (Solas) @serbrienneoftarth​ @scndor​

My muse is:   canon / oc / au / canon-divergent / fandomless / complicated 

Is your character popular in the fandom? YES / NO. Hard to answer, and I wouldn’t say he’s UNPOPULAR, he’s just... not as popular as say... Dany or Jon are? Or even Cersei, tbh. If there were a more middle ground option, I’d definitely he’s more middle. Sometimes I feel like he’s a forgotten character despite the massive role he’s played in the series. 

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. Not only is Jaime known to be attractive and look the part of a king in the entire series, but Nikolaj is honestly just a super attractive male with a smile that could kill. I haven’t heard many people say that he’s an unattractive person, so this is definitely a yes. He might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but he’s enough of a looker that his reputation proceeds him. 

Is your character considered strong in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. Okay so... this is complicated. Because many would see Jaime as weak because of his flaws, which is fair... And then they would also say he’s weak because he doesn’t have his sword hand any longer. But overall, Jaime is a strong character throughout the series, especially as a swordsman. He is one of the best swordsmen in Westeros, and I think there are MANY people who forget that little fact about him because in the series he was softening by the end of it. I think that’s where the fandom can really misinterpret Jaime. He definitely has his flaws, but he’s still an exceptionally strong individual. 

Are they underrated?  YES / NO / IDK. I think so. I think it’s mainly because I feel like he’s misunderstood by a lot of the fandom. I’m not excusing any of his shitty behaviour, but when you’ve got heroes like Jon Snow and Dany, and even Sansa, and strong villains like Cersei, Joff and Ramsay, I think they are all the face of the series. Those characters are the main characters that people think of when they see Game of Thrones. So Jaime is seen more of a support character, even with his ties. Most people think Lannister, they think Cersei and Tyrion (because they have so much more screen/book time than Jaime does). That’s the thing about GoT though, I feel like there’s no real “main” character. I feel like no matter who it is, there’s always a little love for them in the fandom, and I love that about the fandom. But overall, yes, I would say he’s definitely the third Lannister when thinking of the siblings.

Were they relevant for the main story?  YES / NO. He’s kind of the entire reason why there’s a war in the first place tbh... He pushed a kid out a window and all hell broke loose :’D 

Were they relevant for the main character? YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG. He’s a member of one of the great Houses of Westeros. He plays a big part. 

Are they widely known in their world? YES / NO. Oh yes, greatly known, and for many reasons. Mostly he’s known for being a king slayer, though. 

How’s their reputation?  GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL. It depends on who you ask, but throughout most of Westeros and during the series, he does not have a good reputation. Well known for his fighting skills and handsome features are about the only good reasons, everything else comes down to his relationship with his sister (sexual included) and the fact that he is a man without honour. Only by the end of the series does his reputation change, and even then, it is small. Jaime will never recover from what he has done.

How strictly do you follow canon?  — I’m fairly strict with what I go with. I stick to a strong, canon foundation because it’s a part of Jaime that is essentially who he IS as a character. It’s why I enjoy writing him, and I’m not going to take that away from him. The only divergencies are the fact that I prefer he not die in season 8 and I also write my Jaime as demisexual/romantic. 

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutuals.  —  Jaime is complicated. There is no saying he is a simple character, he has layer upon layer, and discovering that is a joy. Or at least it is for me, lol. I, personally, think Jaime is such a UNIQUE character because he actually isn’t a liar compared to his siblings. Between the bickering, Jaime is actually exceptionally forward, but because people don’t expect any Lannister to be honest, it’s a joy seeing how he can use that to his advantage. He often says cryptic, sarcastic comments that people think are him being sly and dishonest, but he’s actually being completely blunt that it’s hard to tell if Jaime is actually telling the truth or playing a game. I think that’s just a really fun trait to explore when getting to write and interact with him. Also, who doesn’t like interacting with a sarcastic arsehole? X’D Deep down, Jaime has a lot of complicated issues, however, especially when it comes to family and how he is supposed to be seen. He says he doesn’t care, but he cares deeply, he brushes everything off like it’s nothing, but he’s crippled on the inside. Jaime is just one of those really strong on the outside but weak on the inside characters, and I love getting to explore that. 

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?).  — I think the fact that Jaime has been in an incest relationship for his entire life, that would definitely push people away from really caring or interacting with him. And if that’s a trigger for someone, then I totally understand why they’d want to stay away. That’s fair. Jaime can also come off as selfish and cruel, with a bad temper. People might not have the PATIENCE for him, when that’s really what he needs. He needs someone to help guide him to be a better person, to remove himself from the toxicity of ... well, his entire life, lol. He can also, like mentioned in the last questions, be cryptic as fuck. He is handicapped, he can be emotionally unstable, has PTSD and honestly just has a LOT going on, and trying to push past that to make him grow as a person and a character could be too much for folks to deal with (I think that’s a plus, but I can understand why he might not be popular lol).

What inspired you to rp your muse?  —  Jaime has been one of my favourite characters ever since I got interested in the series. I was nervous as hell to join the GoTRP community because I’d never read the books before (and still haven’t finished them lol), but I adored his character from the start, especially when a redemption arc began to happen. Look, I’m a sucker for redemption arcs and character growth, learning about his past and his secret about why he killed the Mad King. Those things are things that draw me to characters, villain characters who try to be better, who learn, who become softer. I LOVE that growth, and that’s definitely what kept me interested in Jaime. His in depth character only made my drive for wanting to delve into his head stronger. I love complicated characters, I love grey characters, I love characters that have layers I can pick through and analyse. I have also always been highly interested in sexual mental health and health in general (and have been interested in psychology for ever since I was little lol), so he was right up my ally. 

What keeps your inspiration going?  —  Definitely rewatching the series (which I desperately need to do lol), and reading the novels (which I’m VERY slow with but absolutely love them!). What really keeps me interested is definitely my RP partners though, and keeping active within the writing community. I love getting to interact with everyone. 

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you give your character justice?  YES / NO / I SINCERELY HOPE I DO? I have severe duplicate insecurities like most people do, but I’m pretty happy with the grasp I have on Jaime’s character overall. It’s hard to write post season 8 Jaime without a book to go to and compare against the series, so I try and keep them pretty level with each other and find a happy place in the middle. I also know I most likely write Jaime a little more emotionally traumatised, but I try to keep what happened to him real, and that has repercussions. 

Do you frequently write headcanons?  YES / NO / SORT OF? I need to move them over to this blog, but NOT ENOUGH. I really need to rewatch and continue the book series to get my head around more headcanons. Also I just haven’t had ANY time this year for much at all when it comes to headcanons, because I am so exhausted after work  

Do you sometimes write drabbles?  YES / NO. For Jaime, unfortunately, no. I keep most of my drabbles to my Dragon Age protags. I would love to though... if I had time, lol. 

Do you think a lot about your Muse during the day? YES / NO. Absolutely. Hyperfocus like a champ over here, lol. 

Are you confident in your portrayal? YES / NO / SORT OF? I think there’s always room for improvement, but I’m pretty happy with my portrayal so far. I try my hardest to keep him pretty canon, and the feedback I’ve had from my partners has always been so kind and reassuring <3

Are you confident in your writing?  YES / NO / SOMETIMES. I’ve been writing Dragon Age for so long... I feel like I don’t know a lot of the lore when it comes to GoT. I sometimes have to Wiki things I forget, names I don’t remember, and alliances and plots because I’m BAD with politics okay? I’m terrible with it all. Writing helps me learn those things, but if I’m not interested, I find it tedious to go and research (ASD/ADHD).

Are you a sensitive person?  YES / NO / SORTA. It depends. Some things I really don’t care about, others I do. It entirely depends on my mood and the day, and how the stars align lol. Or... how tired I am, haha. It really just depends. I will be more sensitive if I’m hurt from someone that means something to me, or someone I look up to. Other days I just can’t be fucked because I’m too old and tired to deal with it. 

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal?  —  I’m going to have to say “no” on this. It’s purely because i’m not ASKING for criticism. If I was, then that’s fair because I’m actively SEEKING to be better. Right now, Jaime is a hobby and not a muse that I am constantly working on. He’s a tertiary muse that I’m here to just have a good time with and research when I feel the need to. Outside of that, if you don’t like my portrayal then you don’t have to interact with me and that’s fine. If you think my Jaime is too emotional, I’m working off mostly season 8 things which we have no book to look back on, so it’s mostly me basing everything off his past reactions and character development. If you have issues on the way I see his and Cersei’s relationship and it being toxic despite his love for her, that’s a whole diff convo lol. At the end of the day... I’m writing him the way he comes to me, and if you don’t enjoy it then that’s all good, just don’t get in my face about it. 

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character?  —  Absolutely, they help with getting to know little things about him that I may never have thought about before. I love those kinds of character development questions. 

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why?  —  I guess it depends on what type of headcanon it is. I generally try and base my headcanons off solid evidence within his character background and events within the series. If someone doesn’t agree with me, it’s literally not the end of the world and it’s not worth arguing over--we all have out different portrayals and I’m not the original writer lol. If you’re going to get cranky at me because my Jaime enjoys the company of men as well once he’s able to explore himself sexually, then I really couldn’t give a fuck. As a gay man, it helps me enjoy the character a little bit more and identify with him, and I write Jaime as demi anyway. Plus, I also don’t write it in a sense that it’s not something he doesn’t struggle with considering Westeros is not open to such things. 

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it?  —  same as the above.

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it?  —  I don’t actively go looking through Jaime hate tags, so I’ve never run into this? If someone follows me and hates Jaime, then I just think it’s stupid that they followed me in the first place? Obviously now that he’s on a multi, that’s a little bit more complicated, but everyone is free to not interact with him and still interact with my other characters here lol. If I follow someone and then see them actively posting hate about him, I would simply unfollow. That’s it. I’m not here to fight and argue, I’m here to have a good time, and I’m not going to force anyone to enjoy a character they don’t. 

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors?  —  Mistakes happen, I don’t always look over my reply before posting, and more often then not, I’m tired as hell when I’m writing anyway so there might be errors from time to time. I can guarantee there’s probably some in this meme lol. If a little red squiggle doesn’t come up beneath the word, then I’ve probably not fixed it. In saying that, if you’re coming to me every time I make a typo... I will begin to get annoyed. It’s a small thing, get over it and move on. If you can’t, then maybe I’m not the right person to be writing with if it’s causing you that much stress. If I’ve completely butchered a sentence (which has happened!), then just give me a polite nudge and go “hey did you mean to write this instead?” and I’ll probably feel embarrassed and laugh about it and be like yeah sorry, I meant that :’D 

Do you think you are easy going as a mun?   —  When there’s not a pandemic going on in the world, I’m certainly very easy going, lol. It takes a fair bit to piss me off, and it’s got to be pretty repetitive for me to start going... mmm, there’s a pattern here and I don’t like it. But generally speaking, if you’re nice to me, I’m nice back. I don’t go looking for fights and arguments, and my nature has certainly meant people have abused me in the past. I’m often too empathetic and because I avoid trying to make a fuss and cause confrontation, I often let people do whatever. I’ve... somewhat learned from past experiences to NOT do this to myself, which I guess has made me a little bit less easy going. That and just generally getting older and not having the time to care about petty things might make me come off as a hard arse at times. But look... I’m not going to be a dickhead to anyone who doesn’t deserve it, okay? I get we’re all anxious, I get we’re all curious, I get that we all have opinions. Don’t be a dick and you don’t have anything to worry about. I can sometimes be blunt, but most people learn that that’s just me. Maybe it’s an Aussie thing, maybe it’s a me thing. Probably a combination of the two... my mother always did say I was very blunt. >.> Sometimes that’s a good thing when people want or need advice, but if it’s not what you want to hear, then don’t come asking, because I can be very honest. 

[renlyisright]

Season 7 Episode 7 - Hey, We Won at Scheming, Who Would Have Guessed

Welp, I finished the master’s thesis before I finished the show. I can’t exactly say that I have grown up with these characters because most of them have stopped growing up for death-related reasons. Well, there’s the Stark kids who are still alive, and their careers are all on up-swing.

In this final episode of the season, we visit the ruins of the dragon pit, and they make me wonder just how large it must have been when the dragons were still super large.

The truce meeting is about to start, but Daenerys has brought her army to stand near King’s Landing, just in case. Both the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Euron’s massive fleet is protecting the Blackwater, against Daenerys’ fleet of… five ships.

The negotiators are allowed entrance, and are brought to the third hill of King’s Landing, and the one tourist attraction we haven’t seen yet, the Dragon Pit. Which is a big place, but sadly a ruin. Being a large pile of already-cut stone right in the city with no current use never helps any historical building, those stones can be put to a much better use.

As this meeting includes almost everyone of any importance, and also some sidekicks, there’s more reunions. Tyrion says that he missed Bronn. Bronn seems to have his business in order, bringing Cersei’s enemies to her and thinking of retiring with his reward if the negotiation ends with heads on spikes. But if Daenerys wins in the end...

Everyone arrives to the arena, and the Hound begins the game by threatening the Mountain. There’s clearly a duel being set up between these two death-cheaters, but as at any time either of them can be killed by, well, anything, I’m not holding my breath for a super smackdown between them.

Daenerys arrives fashionably late, and brings her two dragons to the dragon pit, and… how big exactly this place must have been in the beginning? Drogon’s wings almost cover the middle of the arena by themselves.

As Daenerys, Jon and Tyrion predicted, their enemies just laugh about the matter before seeing the evidence. After that, they present a bit of theater, as Cersei later reveals. Euron proclaims that he’s moving his fleet to the Iron Islands, away from the Dead, and Cersei gives a practised speech of accepting the truce.

So did they have intel of the evidence, or did Cersei make plans for the low-odds-event that the thing she has ridiculed every time it has come up is actually true. If so, that’s remarkably good planning, from her.

The showing of the evidence was quite a show, Jon used the one wight they had in great detail for everyone to see. Qyburn was especially interested… well, he has practised getting one almost dead man up and running, so searching this body for any clues for advancing the scientific understanding of life and death must intrigue him… Let’s hope he doesn’t create a new White Walker in the middle of the Red Keep.

Cersei asks Jon to promise to go back to the North and stay there. Jon can’t promise that, so the negotiation ends, just like that. Tyrion and Daenerys say that Jon should have just lied and not been so Neddy. But just because others do something universally agreed to be bad, it doesn’t mean you should too. Anyway, Cersei walks out and Tyrion goes to speak to him alone, as he matters the least if he gets killed.

But he doesn’t, even after coaxing Cersei to kill him for what he did. Cersei is too shocked to give the word, and it could also be that she simply can’t give people what they ask from her, it’s completely unnatural to her. She blames Tyrion for killing Tywin, which opened them for their enemies and brought about the dead of the rest of the kids. The legacy of Tywin Lannister… you know, if the only thing keeping everyone from attacking your family is their fear of you, that does not a good legacy make. The legacy of Ned Stark was the North supporting first Robb and then Jon out of respect to him, the legacy of Tywin Lannister was everyone piling up on the Lannisters once he was out of the way.

The result of Cersei and Tyrion’s discussion is that Cersei proclaims to join them in the fight against the Dead, while expecting nothing good to come to herself for that decision. Yes, what did we speak about lying just now?

Speaking of Ned Stark’s legacy, Jon and Theon talk about it. Theon betrayed his memory, but, as Jon says, he was more of a father to Theon than Balon ever was. And so they can use that bond to reconcile, and Jon can encourage Theon to take charge and take the lead of Yara’s men.

Symbolism, Theon is starting to change his weaknesses into strengths. This is symbolised by allowing the Ironborn he is fighting to kick him to the nuts, to no effect. Yes, this is symbolism speaking.

The man says to Theon “Stay down, or I’ll kill you”. When Theon has the upper hand, he bashes his head in with a rock for that mercy. I would say that the Ironborn have a specifically violent way to solve disputes, but… nope. Not specifically, not at all. But Theon gets to be the leader of the pride, and gets to go against the Ramsay-placeholder enemy to confront his trauma. Someone should invent better therapy methods.

In Winterfell, the winter continues to fall from the sky. Littlefinger tries to chaos things up, but his time’s up. There’s no room for him anymore in this new magical and thriller-pace world.

I read A Dance With Dragons last winter, and while I liked most of it, like the writing style, the characters, seeing more of non-royals, and the new locales, the ending was a disappointment. Or rather, that there wasn’t an ending. There’s more books to go (and I hope to get to read them), but this one just… stopped when the page count went over 1000. It had the same problem as the fourth one, people spent a lot of time going from one place to another, so that when they arrived the book was almost over (or in Victarion’s case, it was over), and the end result was just a list of cliffhangers. Like, imagine ending A Clash of Kings just before Blackwater, or last season before the Battle of the Bastards. It felt like the arc of the book was incomplete, and I wasn’t given a reason to care about the new side plots, like which of them will actually matter and which just padded the book until it had to end early?

The funny thing of course is that this show has now the opposite problem of jumping from one set piece to another without build-up or showing of the journey. And when you can’t keep up with this new world, you lose the game of thrones.

Littlefinger schemes a wedge between Sansa and Arya. He doesn’t want a trained assassin in the same castle as he is, now that he has supported Sansa to ladyship and is perhaps looking for a way to make her a queen as well… that was his weakness, stick to just getting power and you’d have much easier job, but no, you have to include getting a specific woman into your plans and that’s when you make mistakes. But it doesn’t matter anymore what he schemes, as magic has entered Winterfell.

Bran can cheat. He can see the past, and apparently can see exactly where and when he wants. So he traced Littlefinger’s steps, and found out all his betrayals. Many of them Sansa already knew, so the rest mustn’t have come as a shock. So the Starks, who value honesty and honor, now can see if they are betrayed or lied to. Once Jon gets to Winterfell, Bran can tell him what Cersei said after they left. Political intrigue, a corner block and most of the wall of the show, has suddenly become useless. The Littlefingers of the world can’t scheme anymore against the Starks. They have Won At Scheming.

The dagger, the dagger, is revealed to be originally Petyr’s. As I said earlier, the only way the revelation could matter anymore would be if it was someone’s who is still living, or someone’s whom we’d never think to order Bran’s assassination. And here we are, it was the Chaos Man. I’m not sure if the dates add up, how did he know of Bran’s fall so that he could hire the assassin, when he was in King’s Landing at the time? Maybe he wasn’t? And why use his own expensive dagger and lie that it was Tyrion’s, when a simple Lannister knife would have worked much better?

In the book the answer was different. Tyrion figured out that it was Joffrey, who stole his father’s dagger and gave it to the assassin. He never confirmed it with anyone, and anyway Joffrey died moments later. I can fully well believe it from Joffrey. But it’s been so long since Joffrey died that at this point one more evil deed to his name wouldn’t mean much. So the culprit is now Littlefinger, and wow, listing all his schemes like that tells how without him the status quo would likely be just where it was in the beginning. He has a lot of blood on his hands. Daenerys and the Dead would still be wild cards, though.

And so the king of the ash heap, Petyr Baelish, dies in the dark main hall of Winterfell, in the middle of the mess he’s spent years to create, without achieving his goals, without any allies and with absolutely nobody going to miss him.

As I have said, for being such a dark and gritty show, the villains don’t get any better ends than those who try to do better, and their legacies are usually worse.

Speaking of both the villains and those who try to do better, Cersei informs Jaime that nope, we are not going anywhere, she used the neat trick called lying. Euron went to get mercenaries with elephants (ooh!) from Essos.

This is enough for Jaime, who storms away, after telling Cersei to have the Mountain kill him for it if she so desires. In the end, she doesn’t, even after threatening him with that. But after listening to her lie and cheat for years, Jaime just says “I don’t believe you” and leaves. See, consequences.

Poor Cersei, losing everyone’s trust and being entirely alone at the end of the episode. Only her massive armies to keep her on the throne. Which is a funny thing, now that I think about it. She has managed to antagonize everybody, but because she has killed everyone in King’s Landing who has criticized her, she gets to still rule, because there is no one else in the city to take the crown from her. She’s taking advantage of the fact that no new important characters are going to be introduced at this point. Euron was the last one, in the season 6 of 8, and even he feels like he exists only as a mid boss so Daenerys’ invasion isn’t too easy, to be killed once fleets don’t matter anymore.

Of course Cersei takes advantage of the fact that her enemies are scary. New Targaryen invasion, with the Dothraki and Unsullied. Nothing like the good old rulers we have here in Westeros, who may blow up the most holy building on the continent to escape a trial and kill the servants of the main religion, but are at least… from the same continent?

It’s still weird that the Seven is the main religion, when it has been the most useless one in actual action. Did they ever do anything? When the Old Gods were driven from the South, were the Seven doing anything to support their believers? Well, did the Old Gods? Does the Drowned God? Well, if Euron’s fleet’s speed is a boon from the Drowned God, that would explain a lot.

The winter comes to King’s Landing as well. Snow will be next season’s color. Along with darkness, but if the scenery gets any darker I won’t see anything on screen.

A song of fire: Sam arrives at Winterfell, safe and sound. He must have found out about his father and brother on the way, but it’s not mentioned. He meets with Bran, and by giving him a hint of where to look, Bran sees the wedding of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. So they were legally married, and their child, Jon, is not a bastard, but the legal heir to the Throne, Aegon Targaryen. Boom. And there’s him and Daenerys being all Targaryeny.

Bigger thing than the heir business, is that Rhaegar is no longer sullied by the rape, which is the main thing he is remembered for. “He was a noble and great knight from the stories, a great prince, and a rapist whose horribleness brought about the rebellion.” But was that lie better than the truth? Or did someone, last generation’s Littlefinger, spin the story for the worst so a proper war could get started?

Anyway, has Daenerys fought all her battles so that she can give the throne to the rightful heir, who is not her, the Breaker of Chains?

A song of ice: Sansa and Arya talk, and remember their father’s words of working together: The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Legacy.

In the Eastwatch-by-the-sea, bad things happen. A dragon is a nuke option, and the Night King uses it gladly. Its power seems to be enough to destroy the Wall and remove the spells as well. And so the dead march to the lands beyond the Wall, bringing a new night with them.

After all the hype of the Wall, it couldn’t even put up a fight when the dead finally arrived. Beric Dondarrion and Tormund try to run to safety, and I can’t see if they succeed. But I’d presume that there would be a clearer shot if they died. And, well, we are talking of Beric Dondarrion here. He could always play dead.

But guess who from the Night Watch survived the apocalyptic event of the onslaught of the dead and the destruction of the Wall? And did it just by not being where the attack happened? My favourite watchman, Dolorous Edd. How does he do it?

By the way, Night Watch, Long Night, Night King, connecting these took too long for me.

[ff-ask-cattendant]

So the other day I finally read up on Pretzel’s backstory, and hooo boy, I am rubbing my hands like a mad scientist over here, because there is a lot of material for me to work with here!

Extreme Dad Energy. Just... the way he interacts with the kids has me weak, let’s be real. If you want a real-life example of how I picture this, search for clips of Gordon Ramsay on Junior Masterchef.

Before reading his backstory, I just thought he was a major unfeeling hard-ass 24/7, but it’s nice to see this sort of depth to a guy who I thought only existed to chase after Bloody Mary and put him in Gay Baby Jail.

Speaking of depth take a look at that hypocrisy! Pretzel, buddy, you don’t tell people not to commit murder and then discreetly do it yourself. It’s not... it’s not good, buddy. No wonder Bloody Mary decided to blackmail you. That’s some deep dirt, and you call him bad. Oof.

But in all seriousness, this is some brilliant writing. As @stardomyx commented on my previous post about this character, the Lawful Evil alignment has the potential to fit him pretty well. Pretzel definitely has a strict moral code, hell, his design alone keys us into that. He’s dressed as a priest, his basic art looks strict as hell, and he’s dressed entirely in grey. *insert joke about grey morals here*

I don’t think he realises quite how dubious some of his actions are. From his perspective, killing a murderer who confessed to enjoying the act is justified by his belief that it’s ‘for the greater good’, and will keep the denizens of this sick and dying town safe. There’s no mention of a prison in this town, I’m not 100% sure of what the laws were like at the time the story took place, and it’s said time and time again that the roads are blocked by Fallen. And while keeping it a secret from the guy’s mother whilst he took care of her is incredibly sketchy in my opinion, I’m glad he took care of her, and I kinda understand not telling her. No one wants to find out that their child is a killer.

Maybe his being a Food Soul and not a human being has lead him to believe that the rules don’t work the same way for him, or something like that? If so, it may be because most Food Souls are wrapped up in the belief that they were made solely for war and destruction. Perhaps he feels he’s already doomed? Or this was God’s design for him to spare humans from committing their own sins? Who knows (I’ve not played Guest from Afar or the Oyster Skin event, so there may be something I missed).

Something tells me he had an Attendant who was responsible for this mindset. It would definitely explain a lot of his voice lines.

This guy looks like he’s in for some major cognitive dissonance at some point in the future.

Khala’s not going to like working with this guy. Or the rest of the Holy See for that matter.