#that bit about parris is so very sansa

[kellyvela]

What’s your favorite GRRM work other than ASOIAF?

It's difficult to pick only one, so I will give you some of them:

The Lonely Songs of Laren Dorr. This one is beautiful, very romantic and sad. The kind of story that Sansa Stark would like and cry about it.

In the Lost Lands. This one is the essence of Aesop's Fables famous moral: "Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true!"

Portraits of His Children. This one is creepy, crude, heartrending and I would even say very personal.

Meathouse Man. Probably the saddest story I've ever read. GRRM wrote this story with a broken heart, and you can feel his pain, the feel of not being enough, of not being worthy of love. Also VERY creepy.

A Song for Lya. Sad GRRM is the best writer. He wrote this story with a broken heart, but he never lost faith in love, the final is very hopeful. When he met his wife Parris, she told him this story made her cry.

Thanks for your message :)

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “Wool and Tallow”, Part Three (and final)

Final chapter in this Season 8 AU.  Thanks for the ride, guys.  It’s been grand.

Part 1 | 2 | 3

“Wool and Tallow”

Chapter Three: Be Brave With Me

“Jon swipes a gentle thumb along the inside of her wrist, smoothing along the place his mouth had been, eyes never leaving the motion.  ‘Because if I’m to have you, Sansa, it will be for life.’” -  Jon and Sansa, Season 8 AU.  After the Battle of Winterfell, the mending begins in earnest.

* * *

She gives no indication that his spurning of her affections has wounded her.  In their meetings with the lords, she is all grace and etiquette and fine-tuned manners. A tender smile here, a touch to the wrist there.  Nothing inappropriate, but also nothing telling.  She is his sister again, or his cousin – he can’t be sure which anymore – and they go on as King in the North and Lady of Winterfell as though his bed isn’t burning with her absence even now.

           As though he doesn’t hold his pillow to his nose and inhale her waning scent each morning.  As though he hasn’t already named her Queen in the dark corners of his heart.  As though he doesn’t trail her woolen skirts through the halls, eclipsed in shadows too familiar to be anything but shameful.

           “Was there anything else, Your Grace?” Sansa asks, turning to find him already staring at her.

           She shifts slightly in her chair, glancing at the lords seated before them out of the corner of her eye.  Her mouth thins into a fine line.

           “No,” he bites out, throat flexing with his control.

           But her eyes are cool, and her hand is too far for him to hold, and when she stands, he can do nothing but watch her leave the hall, stiff and brittle and winter-laced once more.

* * *

           Sansa takes to the godswood with Bran whenever she can.  In the presence of his milk-white eyes, she can escape for a few moments, breathe deep the calming cold.

           Bit by bit, the North rebuilds.  And Cersei stays adamantly South.  Their sovereignty has not yet been threatened, and all Sansa can ask for is an endless winter. A harrowing drought of summer to keep the Southron monsters at bay.  Let them wither in the winds.  Let them beat their hearts with frostbitten fists.  Let them perish in their sun-built keeps and their blood-drenched thrones when winter comes harking at their door.

           For she will stay with the North.

           Ghost creeps along the edge of her vision, nosing the snow, padding around the banks of the clearing, never following her in.  She sighs, feels the ache settle on her bones.  He senses her ire and heartache around Jon and does not broach her boundaries.  It makes the sob sudden and unexpected in her throat.  

           “You don’t want to be here,” Bran says abruptly, eyes no longer milk-white, face no longer tipped toward the wind.

           Sansa blinks at his words, hands bunching in her lap when she turns to him. “What?”

           Bran looks at her for a moment, and she can’t be sure what he sees.  What he’s seen.  

           And you were so beautiful – in your white wedding dress.

           Her skin is suddenly prickling, her collar too tight, her furs too warm.

           He is her brother, she reminds herself.  Her brother.  And she is tired of losing brothers.

           “You don’t want to be here, Sansa.  Not really,” he repeats, voice like something she’s never heard before, not like Bran, not like pack.  It’s a raven’s voice – a resonant calls of words more past than present, more wind than woe, more other than his.  “You simply want to be not there.  With him.”

           Sansa’s throat tightens, her words laying slaughtered behind her clenched teeth.

           Bran is looking past her toward a grey-shadowed Winterfell.

           She will not turn.

           (He is her brother, always will be – as much as the one whose throat she severed with her dragonglass dagger.)

           “Bran,” she whispers, closing her eyes to steady the tears at her lids.

           “I will not be your excuse.  I cannot be.”

           Her eyes snap open, and there – amidst the snow and the red shade and the thin film of wetness lining her eyes, she catches sight of familiar eyes – that gaze so like their mother’s, so clear and unbending and willful.

           Some part of him, some part of her, still lingering in the aftermath.  Still clawing back through the dark.

           She dips her head down, ashamed, lost, wounded.

           (She still aches for Jon in the night, but she will not visit his bed, not now, not like this.)

           And Bran.  Lovely, lonely, somber Bran.

           What he’s seen.  Who he’s been.  Who he is no longer.

           Sansa gulps back the bile, rising to her feet.  She looks down at Bran – at the Three-Eyed-Raven – and pulls her shoulders back, nodding her farewell.

           She doesn’t know exactly when they lost him, but she doesn’t think it matters, in the end.

           Sansa turns to leave the godswood.

           (She is just so tired of losing brothers.)

           Ghost picks his head up at her slow trudge through the snow, padding restlessly at the frost-laden ground, still hovering around the edges of the clearing.

           Her chest constricts at the distance between them.  “Here, boy,” she entreats, hand waving him over.  

He comes dutifully, nuzzling against her thigh, red eyes slipping closed with a contented huff.

           She buries a gloved hand in his fur.

           She will stay with the North, yes, because it will always stay with her –

Not like her brothers.

* * *

“You’re not ready yet, Little Crow,” Tormund says, a furrow to his brow, hands hanging limp at his side where he grips his sparring sword.

Jon tightens his fingers around the hilt of his own sparring sword.  “I’m more than ready.”

Tormund huffs his exasperation, flicking his sword in a half-hearted swing toward Jon.

He parries it easily, anger lining his features. “Come on.”

Tormund frowns, shifting his stance.  Another swing, another parry, and just a swift flick of the wildling’s wrist, a quick slap of his blunted sword along Jon’s thigh – his scarred thigh – and Jon buckles at the knees, stumbling back out of reach.

Tormund settles back into a relaxed stance, lowering his sword.  “You’re not ready,” he repeats, more regret than anything.

But all Jon can see is red.  A red dawn.  Red hair along his pillow.  The red inviting warmth of Sansa’s mouth.  Sansa’s mouth – that cutting, dangerous thing.  And it lights his bones, fills him with vehemence. “Come on,” he urges, voice rising, hands curling tight around his sword as he steps toward Tormund once more.

The larger man shakes his head in warning.  “Stubborn cunt.”

But Jon has never taken well to warnings.

He swings at Tormund, arms trembling with the force of the parry.  A half-step forward.  Another swing.  The sharp clack of swords reverberating in the empty courtyard.  “Come on,” he hisses, righteous and furious and lost. So lost he can’t recall her scent anymore.  Can’t feel her warmth in the barren furs of his bed.  Can’t recognize the cold cut of blue she sends his way when he calls her name – softly, tenderly, with an ache of loss he doesn’t think he deserves to voice.

“Come on!” he bellows, roar echoing in the courtyard.

Tormund knocks his sword away, the force of it whipping Jon into a sharp pivot, the angle causing a lance of pain to shoot up his thigh and force him to his knees with a blunted cry, his brow already sweat-lined.  He drops his hands to the stone, holding himself up on all fours, bracing his weight, panting, waiting, burning.

And then Tormund is crouching at his side, hands hanging limply over his knees, sparring sword forgotten.  The older man sighs, rubs a hand down his face and along his beard.  “You can’t rush these things, Little Crow.”

Jon slams a fist into the ground beneath him, never minding the split of skin along his knuckles, the sharp crack of bone along the stone.  “Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes clenched tightly, his head dipping down until his forehead is braced against the stone.  “Fuck!”

“Jon,” Tormund urges, hands still resting unsure over his knees, lips pursed into a tight frown.

Jon doesn’t notice the blood seeping between his knuckles.

In another world, another time, she might have mended it.

But she has done what mending she could, and he has done nothing but rend the seams.

He lets it bleed.  Scars have never been unfamiliar, after all.

* * *

“Sansa doesn’t sing anymore.”

Jon stops his spoon halfway to his mouth, eyeing Arya beside him.

She lifts her chin, raising an expectant brow.

Jon sets his spoon down into his bowl of stew, sighing as he leans back into his chair.  He pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to look at her.

The thing is, he remembers what Sansa’s song used to sound like.  It was summer-warm, always.

“I don’t like it,” Arya says so softly he almost misses it.

Jon blinks his eyes open to look at her, his hand falling to his lap, but she’s staring down at her own bowl now, hands resting uselessly along the table beside it.

Arya’s throat flexes in the quiet following her words, eyes fixed to her bowl.  He wonders, suddenly, what faces she’s worn, what skins she’s donned.  

(How he can see her so clearly now – now when simply ‘a girl’ is everything she is not.)

Jon knows her well enough to recognize longing. He likes to pretend he doesn’t see it when she shares glances with Gendry across the forge or the Hall of Lords or the fucking dinner table even, but here’s the truth:

He knows how longing looks in her Stark grey eyes because he’s seen it in the mirror too often not to, and maybe that’s the kind of truth he should have noticed long ago.

Except truth has never gotten their family anything but severed heads and lonely beds.

(The truth is he’s afraid – but that’s too easy and too hard all at once and he doesn’t know how to form the words in the first place.)

“Hey,” Jon whispers, a hand moving to brace along the back of her neck, rubbing comfortingly.

He pretends not to feel the way her shoulders stiffen in response.

“I don’t like it,” she says again, brows furrowing, voice quaking, and suddenly he’s reminded how very young she is. His little sister.

Arya pushes from the table, standing stiffly.

Jon blinks up at her, his hand falling away.

She turns dark, uncertain eyes on him.  “Do something about it,” she tells him hoarsely, and then she’s stalking from the room, a hand at her eyes, face a blank visage once more, and he thinks he would give anything to have her wail at him, scream at him, anything.

Jon braces his face in his hands and sighs with his whole body.

The truth is he’s afraid.

The truth is –

* * *

“I don’t know how to stop making the wrong choices.”

Sansa whips around at his voice, eyes widening when she realizes she never heard him enter her chambers in the first place. “Jon, you can’t just – ”

“And I’m sorry,” he tells her, stepping further into the room.  “I’m so, so sorry, and I don’t… I don’t know how we got to this point and I don’t know how to get us back and I don’t… I can’t…”  He stops, gulps back the words, shakes his head in a kind of desperation so keen and so desolate that it bleeds into the air around them, whispering into even the shadows, rattling the dust in the corners of her room so that they are each flooded with it, tainted with it, lungs alight with it.

Sansa opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes.

He steps closer, eyes pleading, face a dark reminder of everything they’ve lost (so like her father, so good and forthright and foolish).  She sucks a breath through her teeth at his proximity, a trembling palm rising into the air to stop his advance.

He stills three paces from her, hands bunching into fists at his sides, uncertain.  Curling and uncurling, flexing with that sharp desperation.

“Why are you here, Jon?” she asks quietly, evenly.

He takes a moment to look at her, just to look at her, and she hates that she loves him still, even now – even now when she still wears the bruises around her heart, ribs still aching from the weight.

Jon purses his lips, hesitant, and he is suddenly so brittle in her eyes, so worn and old, and gods what has this world done to them?  What have they done to themselves?

“I brought Daenerys into our home.  Into our home, Sansa.”

She blinks at his words, unsure why he means to start the conversation here of all places.

“A place you were supposed to feel safe, and I let another threat walk right through the gates.”

Sansa swallows tightly, folding her hands behind her back in some small measure of comfort.  “You did it for the war – we’ve been over this.  I… I’ve looked past that.”

Jon shakes his head.  “And if she had survived?  If she had demanded I make good on our deal and ride South with her?”

“She didn’t.”

“If she did,” he demands, heaving a single exasperated breath, eyes forceful even beneath the wet sheen now lining them.

“She didn’t.  And it’s pointless to argue the fact.”

“I gave away what wasn’t mine to give.” He’s still shaking his head, still trying to reign in his breathing.

“You treated with allies for their aid.”

“I bent the knee.”

“You saved us.”

“I slept with her!” he shouts, the breath raking from him with the explosion, mouth clamping shut when the words hit air.

Sansa’s hands stiffen reflexively behind her back, her throat tightening, eyes blinking furiously lest the tears form in earnest. She holds the breath in her lungs, keeps it tight to her chest as she watches him in silence, unable to do more.

(His hands at Daenerys’ thighs and her mouth at his throat and that damn silver hair gracing his furs and she – she can’t – )

Sansa tastes bile at the back of her throat, her muted sob trapped behind her clenched teeth, her skin flushing with the bitter betrayal, the ripe revulsion.

Jon’s eyes hold hers for only a moment longer, before they’re falling to the floor, his mouth opening and closing, the regret stark and bitter on his tongue.  “I slept with her, Sansa,” he croaks out.  “Fucked my way into her favor, traded my affections for armies, bartered myself like some… some – ”  He stops, closes his eyes to the thoughts, shoulders slumping with the weight of it. “And I lied to you about it,” he finally manages, gaze barely lifting to hers.

The abhorrence on his features startles Sansa. A blaring, visceral reminder.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?”

“And then she died for it,” he murmurs, brows furrowed.  “My own aunt. Family – fucked up as it is, and what I did was… it was dirty and ugly and I… I feel like I should feel more guilty about it all, about how it all ended up, and I do but – but not like I should.  Not when I look at you – alive, gods, fucking alive – and here, with me, and with Arya and Bran and our home – this home that used to mean everything and I’ve just… Sansa, the things I’ve done – ”

“You did what you had to do.  For us.”

“Stop defending it!”

“Jon,” she urges, barely keeping the quake from her voice, hands slipping from behind her as she steps forward before she can stop herself.

And they’re back to this waning space between them, back to breathing each other’s air, and she can trace the curve of his furrowed brow at this distance and catch the flicker of candlelight in his drifting eyes and feel the heat of his breath on her cheeks and – and this is where it ends.

“Look at me,” she demands.

He does, because he could never not look at her.

(Even when she wasn’t his to look at – maybe especially then.)

“Whatever you think you’ve done, whatever you think you’ve had to do – forget it.”

“Sansa – ”

“I said forget it,” she says icily, shoulders straightening.  “I’m done wallowing in the past.  I’m done climbing into your bed to ward off the nightmares.  I’m done punishing myself.  I’m done living for ghosts.”  She lifts her chin, the familiar salt tinge of tears dotting the edges of her eyes, but she blinks it back steadily.  “I can’t do it anymore, Jon.  And I… I don’t know how you still can.”

“Sansa, please,” he mutters, reaching for her, hands cupping her cheeks, stepping into her.  She stumbles back at the motion, pushing his touch away, until she turns to the door, meaning to flee, and when her hand curls around the door handle his palm slams into the wood to keep it closed.

She stands there, breathing heavily, eyes locked on his hand against the door, feeling his hot breath at the back of her neck, his presence so looming and thrilling at her back that she practically feels him pressed up against her.

“Jon,” she breathes warningly.

His other hand slips tentatively around her waist, fingers firm and yet somehow unsure, anchoring at the curve of her hip as he tugs her back toward him gently.  She releases an unexpected sigh at the pressure of his chest along her back, and then she’s biting her lip, shaking her head, pulling back from him.

But he doesn’t let her go, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, his heavy sigh breaking against the space between her shoulder blades when he presses his forehead to the nape of her neck.  “Sansa,” he breathes against her skin, a rumble rising through his chest.

She licks her lips, wraps her fingers tighter along the door handle.  “Why are you here, Jon?” she asks again, but it’s more a whimper than anything, more a shuddering breath that breaks from her.

He closes his eyes, breathes her in, his fingers flexing along her hip.  “I’ve made so many mistakes, Sansa, so many wrong choices.”

“And is that what I am?  Just another ‘wrong choice’?”

His growl breaks against the collar of her dress, his fingers curling into the wood where they’re braced along the door.  “No, that’s not – you could never be – ”

“I’m tired, Jon.  I’m so… so tired.”  She slumps against the door, eyes squeezing shut.

“I was wrong to bring Daenerys to the North. I was wrong to leave for Dragonstone in the first place.  I was…” He gulps, tries again.  “I was wrong to leave you in the crypts.”

The sound that leaves her is somewhere between a croak and a sob at the dark remembrance of that night.

He shifts his face so that it’s braced alongside hers, his breath at her ear, his beard scratching along her neck.  “I was wrong all those years ago, to think there could be peace between the Watch and the wildlings.  I was wrong to think I could take Winterfell from Ramsay myself. I was wrong not to heed your advice. I was wrong to keep you in the dark. I was wrong to not refuse the crown, to not name you the rightful Queen the moment we had our home back and I was wrong for so, so much more.”

She gasps when she feels the wet press of his lips at her throat, eyes snapping open, his hand winding around her waist to wrap around her stomach, pulling her more firmly against him.

“And with all these… all these wrong choices…” he pants against her neck, breath hot and wet along her skin, his chest rising and falling unsteadily at her back.  “I thought maybe it was also wrong to let you to my bed.  Wrong to… to feel the way I do.”

The whimper breaks from her before she can catch it, her fingers flying to his arm wrapped around her waist.

Something like a moan, pained and delicate, thrums along his throat when he pushes into her, pressing her back against the door, one hand still braced against the wood, the other anchoring her to him.

“Jon,” she whispers, and she doesn’t know what it means anymore – his name, this feeling, this brutal tangle of emotion between them.

But then she remembers the arc of his back in the moonlight gracing his chambers, the way he hadn’t looked at her, the absence of his touch searing as winter when he turned her from his bed.

His lips move against her throat languidly, his tongue peeking out to taste her – hesitant and trembling.

The silence that followed her all the way back to her lonesome, barren chambers when he’d told her to leave.  The way he hadn’t tried to stop her.

“No,” she pants in a single, harsh breath.

Jon stills against her, silent as the grave.

(Sansa doesn’t think she has the strength in her to stitch this one closed.)

“I wanted you, Jon.  More than anything I’ve ever wanted in this world, I wanted you.”

She can feel his sharp intake of breath far more than she hears it.  His fingers uncurl around her hip, hanging loosely onto the folds of her dress.

“But you didn’t want me back.”  It breaks her to say it, but she steadies herself, grips at her collar, reigns in the frantic thundering of her heart – that faltering, staggered thing.

“Sansa, no, that’s not – ”

She whips around to face him, only slightly shaken at his mouth so close to hers, his heat still sinking into her with his proximity.  She fumbles for the door handle behind her, pulling it open as she steps forward to accommodate the motion, Jon stumbling back at her closeness.

“Please leave,” she tells him, voice a tight thread of unease, ready to snap, ready to split right down those terribly thinning seams.

“Sansa.”  His face falls, his hands retreating from her, returning to his sides in limp resignation.

“If you have any affection for me still,” she begins, eyes closing once more, tongue pressing to the roof of her mouth for some semblance of control, “then you will leave.”

He stands there before her for long moments, simply staring at her, and then his gaze falls to the floor, and then to the open door at her back, catching the way her hand trembles along the edge, fingers curled tight against the wood.

But he doesn’t say a word.  Doesn’t do anything but walk from the room like she’d asked him to.

And this scene is too familiar in all the wrong ways.

Sansa stands breathing unsteadily in the empty space of her room, hand slowly pushing the door shut behind her.

She’d asked him to leave.

And he did.

           But Sansa thinks maybe she’s getting too used to shutting doors.

* * *

           Sometimes Jon watches Bran watching Meera.  Sometimes he watches Arya watching Gendry.

           Sansa crosses the courtyard and Jon looks up from his conversation with Tormund and Ser Davos.

           (Sometimes he wonders who’s watching him watch her.)

           But Starks have always been bitterly stubborn.  Even when it hurts.

* * *

Sansa has grown familiar with this scene – Arya sitting across her desk in her solar, cleaning her Valyrian dagger, keeping quiet company while Sansa updates Winterfell’s ledgers.  But Arya is especially sour this evening, swiping the oiled cloth along her blade with a quiet vehemence that doesn’t escape Sansa’s notice.

She sighs and sets her quill down along the parchment, linking her fingers together atop the desk.  “What is it?”

Arya stills her cloth, raising a brow at her sister.

Sansa cocks her head and raises an identical brow.

Arya narrows her eyes, huffing her annoyance and going back to her work.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

She stills again, eyes flicking to the far wall.

           Sansa takes the moment to watch her sister, to mark the way she still purses her lips in that familiar tell of frustration, how her brow still quivers just slightly above her dark eyes, how she cocks her head in such an achingly familiar way – how she would know her face anywhere, behind any mask or skin – how she is still her little sister.

           How she has missed her these long years, even when she didn’t want to.

           “Arya.”

           (Even when she dreamed of her.)

           Arya shoots a guarded glance at Sansa, fingers tightening over the blade in her hand.  “He told me I was beautiful.”

           Sansa’s mouth parts as though to speak but she finds only air lighting her tongue.  She furrows her brows in confusion.

           Arya looks down, eyes fixed to the papers lining Sansa’s desk, her face pinched tight.  “Gendry. He told me I was beautiful.”

           Sansa stares at her sister for long moments, long enough to make Arya shift in her seat, attention returning to her work, shoulders pulled back sharply.

           “It’s stupid.  This whole thing’s stupid.  And he’s… just stupid,” she mutters, eyes focused, dark, blinking furiously.

           “It’s not,” Sansa finds herself saying suddenly, her chest constricting at the look her sister sends her – cagey and uncertain and filled with quiet hope. Sansa leans forward and brushes a loose strand of hair behind Arya’s ear, eyes never leaving hers.  “It’s not.  And you are.  Beautiful, that is.”

           Arya purses her lips, throat flexing beneath words she never brings to air, the sheen of wetness over her eyes suddenly apparent.

           Her sister.  Her little sister.  Her darling, bold, brilliant sister.

           Arya opens her mouth, closes it, stares unblinkingly at Sansa, face pinching into a mask of doubt.  “I’m scared,” she whispers, almost too soft for Sansa to hear.  But then she clears her throat, doesn’t wipe at the wetness truly gathering at the corners of her eyes now.  She stares Sansa down, something quiet and frail flooding into her features.

           “I’m scared, Sansa.”

           All at once, Sansa realizes that she is, too.  Scared beyond belief, beyond measure, beyond restraint.

           So filled to the brim with terror that she tastes it on her tongue – bitter and sharp and like copper too familiar to name.

           (Like blood she has never learned to swallow.)

           She remembers Theon’s embrace the night before the battle for Winterfell, and she remembers her mother’s smile at one end of that long, beaten King’s Road, and she remembers the way Jon’s arms had fit so surely and so securely around her that day she rode through the gates of Castle Black and never looked back.

           And she remembers how she had lost them each.

           Yes, Sansa is scared, far more scared than she can ever voice but then here – sitting here before her – with a face full of trepidation and hands gripping tightly to her blade for some kind of familiar security – here before her, like she’d never imagined she’d ever be again – sits her sister.

           She wants to hug her suddenly, desperately, without reservation.

           Instead, she leans forward to wrap a hand over Arya’s clenched one.

           “So am I,” she admits, the words hitting air like a gasp.

           Arya dips her head, eyes wet, lip sucked firmly between her teeth.

           Sansa will not have it.

           She lifts her chin with her other hand.  “Arya.”

           Her sister meets her gaze reluctantly, a tremulous breath escaping her lips.

           Sansa sets her demanding gaze on her.  “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

           Arya blinks at her, mouth opening, and then closing, her mind reeling behind wide, dark eyes.

           Sansa will take her to lay winter roses at the foot of their father’s ruined stone statue when this is over, when their ghosts have finally laid to rest. She will take her sister by the hand and lead her through the shadows, through the cold stone and ashes of their blood lining the walk.  And she will let her cry into her arms, if that is what she wants, when she is ready. When they are both ready. When the dawn is no longer a blood-drenched promise.

           Arya squares her shoulders, the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes suddenly forgotten.  “That is the only time a man can be brave,” she quotes back, their father’s words thrumming and alive between them.

           She squeezes her sister’s hand beneath hers, doesn’t break her gaze.

           Oh yes, how she has missed her.  But she thinks she may never have to again.

* * *

           She finds him in the godswood, and it hits her like a gasp of air amidst drowning – how so like their father (her father) he looks.  His back is turned slightly to her, head tilted up to watch the wayward sway of the branches in the bitterly cold breeze, the profile of his face a vague glimpse of familiarity in the haze of falling snow.

           She’s seen her father like this, she knows.  Alone in the godswood, eyes fixed to the weirwood, bundled in furs her mother sowed for him herself, and she thinks maybe that means something – that Jon still wears her furs, that she has cloaked him, here beneath the heart tree like her lady mother did her lord father.

           She thinks it has to mean something.  Because she’s too far gone for it not to anymore.

           He sighs at the soft crunch of snow signaling her approach, eyes drifting toward the ground.  She doesn’t see the way he bunches his hands into fists beneath the cover of his cloak.

           “Winter hasn’t left us yet,” he says (and she wildly wonders if he’s speaking in abstracts now, and it’s so jarringly not him, because he’s never been one for words, much less poignancy, and it startles her into stillness just a few paces from him).  He glances at her over his shoulder.  “The wind still bites.”  He shuffles his furs around his shoulders in meaning.  “You should return to the castle.”

           And gods, sometimes she could strangle him.

           Sansa frowns, stealing a single, charged breath through the frigid air before she moves to stand in front of him, purposely signaling her refusal to retreat.  She stares him down.

           He sighs softly, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Sansa…”

           “Are we not allowed to be happy?”

           Her words still him, his hand hovering over his face a moment before he finally lowers it, eyes drifting up to meet hers.

           It seems so simple suddenly.

           And yes, how like her father he’s always been.  That somberness, that unnerving steadiness to his gaze, that foolhardy way he could never hold his tongue – not for fear or for subservience or even for love. And how like her father he’d always wanted to be.  How duty-bound and honorable and just he’d always strived to be – even when it killed him.

           (Even when it brought a white-haired queen into their home, her presence as chilling as the dead, and just as damning.)

           Even when it took him from her – with his bed lying half-cold beneath the weight of her absence.

           Licking her lips as she steadies herself, Sansa steps closer.

           Jon watches her warily, unable (or unwilling) to move, his body a rigid line of unease, cognizant of her every move.

           (And it seems so simple suddenly.)

           She sighs, her face openly bearing her longing when she meets his gaze.  “Are we not allowed to be happy?  After everything – after… everything.” The breath rakes from her with a vehemence she hadn’t expected.

           Jon’s throat flexes with his silence, eyes unmoving from hers.

           She looks down at his closed fists, watches the flakes of snow settling into his skin, the rush of Winter still blaring and bright between them.  She reaches for his hand, curls her fingers along his knuckles and tries to anchor him there beneath her desperate clutch.

           He sucks in a breath, trembling – absolutely trembling beneath her touch.

           She wants to hold him then, to hold him and hold him and hold him.  To brace him against her chest and feel their heartbeats meld, to wait in thunderous apprehension until they beat in unison, to press her lips to his brow and feel his hands smoothing up her back and the catch of breath he’d release against her throat and the soft tangle of his curls at her fingertips and the easy, reassuring weight of his warmth pressed to her.

           To hold him – to truly hold him – and to never let go.

           She closes her eyes, waiting for his answer, whatever it may be.

           Snow continues to fall.  The leaves rustle in the branches above their heads.  And Jon keeps his silence long enough that Sansa begins to feel the sob bubbling up her throat, unbidden.

           And then his fist shifts in her hold, his palm unfurling, his calloused fingers fumbling for hers.

           Sansa opens her eyes to his.

           “I was happy, Sansa.”  He catches his breath, licks his lips as he flicks his gaze down to their joined hands. “Because nothing has ever made me as happy as having you.”

           She sucks the breath through her teeth, stepping closer unconsciously, the heady anticipation lighting her bones.

           “But we both know it’s not as simple as that.”

           Her brows furrow, fingers loosening around his hand, as though they may pull away entirely.

           And then he’s wrapping both hands around hers, bringing her small fist up to his mouth and planting a kiss to the inside of her wrist, his warm, staggered breath filling her palm, his lips chapped and rough against her pulse point.

           She stills at the sheer fervor of it, at the tender ardor of his lips to her skin, his eyes hooded as he keeps his gaze low.

           “Why…”  She stops, the breath stalling in her chest at the heat of his touch, watching as he slowly pulls his lips from her wrist.  “Why can’t it be that simple?” she croaks out – desperate and vulnerable and demanding all at once.

           Jon swipes a gentle thumb along the inside of her wrist, smoothing along the place his mouth had been, eyes never leaving the motion. “Because if I’m to have you, Sansa, it will be for life.”  

           Her heart falters at the words, catching between her ribs.

Jon flicks his gaze up to hers, dark and exposed. “Do you understand what that means, Sansa?  Do you understand – ” He fumbles, clears his throat, continues.  “Do you understand why I hesitated?  Why I… why I’m still hesitating?  Because I’d rather have you for a sister than not at all and I don’t know what I’d do if I ruined that, too.  And I’m so, so scared, Sansa.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life and I don’t know how to fix that.”

           Sansa stares at him, blinking wildly beneath his gaze, mouth parting.

           Such a stupid, foolish boy.  

           The tears hit her eyes sooner that she expects.  

           Jon’s brows scrunch together at the sight, one hand lifting to her cheek to scrub away a tear with the pad of his thumb.  “Sansa.”

           “Then be brave with me, Jon,” she says, pulling her hand free of his to cup his face, leaning into him with an intensity and a need that overtakes her.

           His hands curl around her wrists, holding her to him, his face pinched tight with uncertainty, the faint tremor of fear still blooming beneath his skin and she can’t stop herself suddenly.  She can’t leash the flare of exhilaration, can’t keep her chest steady beneath her raging breath, can’t do anything at all but –

           Kiss him.

           And she does.  With mouth and hands and heart.  She kisses him.

           He sucks in a breath at the motion, eyes closing, stumbling slightly in the snow with her fervency, his hands slipping from her wrists to sink into her hair, tangling in the copper strands as he opens to her, presses his mouth so terribly hard against hers that she thinks they may break beneath the strain, might just fracture right there in the godswood, littering the snow with the broken shards of their yearning, the cut of their hunger.

           When they break away, panting, she rests her forehead to his, flexes her fingers along his jaw, revels in the scratch of his beard along her palms, the warm puff of his breath filling her mouth.  “If you will be brave with me,” she begins, the quake of her voice threatening to splinter her words entirely, “Then I will be brave with you.”

           One of his arms slips around her waist as he yanks her to him, burying his face in her shoulder, his other hand tightening in her hair.  She doesn’t hear the sob that leaves him so much as she feels it, a ragged, body-wracking exhale that rattles all the way down to her bones, her fingers gripping at his furs to keep herself steady.

           And so, she holds him.

           As he holds her.

           As their bravery seeps into their marrow and begins to take root.  

* * *

           “The Northern lords will not be as opposed as you think.”

           Jon looks up at Bran’s words, catches the way the fire from the hearth flickers soft shadows across his face,  Arya shifts in her seat across from them, her oiled cloth stilled over Needle.

           “What do you mean?”  Jon’s brows scrunch together.

           Arya listens nonchalantly, continuing her cleaning of her blade.

           “When you seek Sansa’s hand.”

           Jon nearly splutters, a short coughing sound catching in his throat when he rubs a hand over his mouth and flicks his gaze to Arya.

           She’s still again, eyes narrowed between her brothers.

           Jon looks back to Bran and shakes his head.  “Bran, that’s not… we haven’t – ”

           “But you will.”

           Jon closes his mouth abruptly.

           Arya sighs across from them, shaking her head as she sheaths Needle.  “I can’t believe you two are talking about this.”

           Jon groans, regretting instantly that he ever asked them to his chambers after dinner, that he ever thought they could be the family they once were (even when he’d rather have the family they are now – Sansa included).

           Arya stands swiftly.

           “Arya, sit down, will you?”

           She turns her wary eyes to Jon.  “You’re our brother.”

           “I’m not though.”  The words catch in his throat, heavy and jagged, a crude stone travelling from maw to gut – sinking low in his stomach.  “I’m not.”

           Arya narrows her eyes at him, nostrils flaring.  “You are.”

           “He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Ir – ”

           “I know all of that, Bran, I know,” she snaps.  “But he’s…”  She looks back to Jon.  “You’re…”

           He doesn’t do anything but watch her, waiting, hoping.  His hands slide over his knees in keen disquiet.

           Sighing, Arya’s shoulders slump as she tears her gaze away, fixing to a point across the room, to the muted grey stone that used to be a cage to him in his younger years.  In his lost years.  

           Oh, but to be a Stark in Winterfell –

           Sansa has been the closest thing to realizing that dream of his.  Because to be hers –

           He thinks maybe that’s what being a Stark means in the end.  More than blood.  More than titles.  More than duty.

           “You are to me.”

           She makes him a Stark with every demanding gaze and every unflinching word and every heated touch.

           She makes him a Stark because she loves him as a Snow and if he’s learned anything from the North, it’s that nothing matters more than choice.

           And Sansa chose him.

           It isn’t, perhaps, the way he’d always imagined becoming a Stark, but it is, for certain, the only way he’d ever accept now.

           “I don’t understand it,” Arya says softly, hesitantly, eyes still fixed to the wall.  “I don’t… understand, but – ”  She stops, shifts her gaze back to Jon’s.  “But I’ll try – for you.  For you both.”

           Jon releases the breath he’d been holding tight to his chest since the moment she stood.

           Arya looks to the ground a moment, fingers curling around her belt in some small measure of surety.  “Because she’s the bravest person I know and I think I owe her that much.”  She shakes her head, fingers tightening over her belt, and then she’s turning from them, huffing her frustration.  “This is so strange.  This is so… gods, but our brother.”

           “Arya.”

           Her name on his lips stops her with her hand on the door, her back resolutely to him.

           Jon rises from his seat, unsure, standing halfway between the hearth and his sister at the door, Bran still sitting silently behind him, eyes lingering on the fire in the hearth rather than the scene before him.  “I know this isn’t… how you wanted things to happen but – ”

           “Will you be kind?”

           Her question throws him, startles him to stillness, his breath catching in his chest.

           Arya presses a fist to the wood of the door, eyes fixed to the motion.  “Will you be kind to her?” she repeats, voice eerily steady.

           Jon swallows back the trepidation, nodding.  “Yes.”  The answer is easier than he thinks.

           “Will you be faithful?”

           He squares his shoulders.  “Yes.”

           She sighs, her fist unfurling before sliding down the door to rest along the handle. “Will you be constant?”

           “Yes.”

           She looks at him over her shoulder, her face earnest and temperate all at once, her eyes a familiar grey (you may not have my name, but you have my blood).  She takes a breath, holds it but a moment, and then lets it taste air, nodding just the once, a short, adamant tilt of her head.  “Good.  She deserves that, at the very least.”

Jon watches her, mouth parted, a mute nod his only answer.

Arya glances over to Bran, and then back to Jon, sighing with the weight of something Jon is hesitant to name.  “Then there’s nothing else I want,” she explains to him, before pulling the door free and walking from the room.

           Jon slumps back into his chair.

           Bran shrugs the furs from his shoulders and lets them bunch in his lap, his eyes taking in the fire still snapping before them.  “She’s always been a touch dramatic.  They have that in common,” he says lightly, as though in commiseration, but there is no lilt to his voice, no indication of anything nostalgic.

           Jon snaps his gaze to his younger cousin.  “You – ” He stops, catches the chuckle as it lines his throat, wiping a hand down his mouth and shaking his head.

           Bran glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

           Jon settles his face into his hands, letting the laugh overtake him then.  

           If he only looks, he would see Bran’s smile in the firelight, tame and mild as a Northern summer.

* * *

           Jon winds his arm around Sansa’s waist, tugging her into the tight curve of his body as they lay atop his furs, her mouth parting at the sigh he levels at her lips.

           His hand smooths slow circles into the small of her back as he watches her, eyes flicking over the curve of her jaw and the slant of her eyes and the wisps of her copper hair.

           Sansa lifts her hand to brace along the fading scar lining his brow, tracing the edges with tenderness.  “It’s almost gone now,” she whispers into the night.

           Jon hums lowly beneath her touch, closing his eyes beneath her hand.

           “As though it had never been,” she says softly, her hand retreating, sliding down along his jaw, past his throat, and splaying against his chest.

           Except it will always be.  These scars. These marks of war.  These remnants of a long-fought night and a deadly-still dawn. These reminders of why they ever started this tangle of limbs beneath the damning moonlight.

           Jon’s eyes flutter open to watch her.

           When he catches the faint tremor of her smile tugging at her lips, her hand curling into his tunic, her eyes shifting low, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop wanting her, needing her, finding solace from the scars in her welcoming arms.

           This balm, her salve, the way her breath pools at the base of his throat, is anchor enough.

She pushes a thigh between his legs tentatively, eyes never meeting his, and his hand stops its motion at her back, fisting in the material of her shift, his responding groan breaking against her mouth.

He can feel the rise of her chest against his at the sound, her breath hitching, tongue flicking out to wet her lips.

“Sansa,” he moans, his hips rolling instinctively into hers, his hand braced against her back where he presses her into him.

“Kiss me,” she says, and this time it isn’t a demand. It’s more a fact than anything. More an inevitable truth.

It is easy to be brave now, when he’s pressed this closely to her, when her sighs light something in him that never truly leaves, when she looks him in the eye and doesn’t blink.

Afraid.  And brave all the same.

When he presses his lips to hers he can’t collar the moan that breaks from him, or the way his hand slides over her hip greedily, or the way he pushes her back against the furs and drapes her with his weight, his heat, his eager body curling tight against hers.

He fumbles for her hand, winding his fingers through hers, stitching their palms together with a keening need, an intensity just shy of feverish.

Her woolen dress lays abandoned on the floor ‘til morning, the tallow of his room’s candles burning low, and sometime in the night, when their courage flares bright and long and languid, he whispers his affections into her skin like a promising dawn, silencing their ghosts with a forgotten twilight.

[7deadlycinderellas]

If the summer of our lives could just come again, ch21

Ao3 link

The Bite

Sansa’s not overly fond of boats, but she enjoys the sight of the winter seas and the smell of the salty air. Catelyn holds up much the same, staying still and in their cabin as much as possible.The pair of guards that travel with them have both haven’t been at sea before, and their transition is not exactly smooth. Even well-behaved Lady whines and turns around constantly in the metal cage up on the dock she had to be coaxed into.

“It’s only a few days, girl,” Sansa had assured her, and you won’t have to stay in there any longer.”

The voyage is actually quite dull. None of the rest of the crew give the two of them any notice other than the occasional “milady”. And so after a day or two Sansa finally asks.

“Mother, what was Aunt Lysa like as a girl?”

Catelyn’s face is faraway, caught up in the past.

“Shy. Timid. If she was in trouble with our father, she would run and hide. Some part of me wonders if she’s still doing that, staying up here in the Vale all the time.”

She looks at Sansa’s face, seeing the pinch of her lips. She sighs.

“You can say what you’re thinking. I’ve listened to what you’ve said over the years. I know my sister isn’t well. I should have pushed more to understand her emotions when father betrothed her to Jon Arryn.”

“If you wrote to grandfather, he would probably tell you.”

Hoster Tully is still alive now, but letters have come periodically that his health is failing. Catelyn has longed to visit, but not felt she could leave Winterfell.

“Do you know?”

Sansa bites her lip before speaking.

“Petyr Baelish got her with child, and grandfather tricked her into drinking tea that bled the pregnancy. He married her off to Jon Arryn because he had no heirs and she was apparently proven fertile.”

Catelyn’s gasps don’t pause Sansa’s words. Her face is contemplative.

“I wonder if maybe that’s why she lost so many children over the years. And Robin’s so sickly...I pity Aunt Lysa, I really do, but it’s not the good kind of pity.”

“You told us…”

Sansa nods.

“She poisoned Jon Arryn on Littlefinger’s suggestion. She did it because all these years later, she was still...obsessed with him. Not that it would have mattered, he only ever had eyes for you.”

Catelyn opens her mouth as if to protest, but from all the years, she can’t fight Sansa’s take on any of her perspective. And try as she might, Sansa still can’t tell her anything. She can’t tell her mother that despite Littlefinger’s decade long obsession with her that after her death he still managed to almost immediately project his affections onto her daughter.

“And all of that, all of it caused so much of this whole damn mess. I wish Father had told you about Jon from the beginning, but I can’t even imagine the mess there would have been if you accidentally let something on to either Lysa or Petyr.”

And as so, their voyage continues in silence.

Getting off the ship in Gulltown is a relief, but as they approach the Eyrie Sansa feels her heart skip beats and catch in her throat. She remembers the last time she was here. Seeing the craggy mountains poking up out of the ground puts her right back into the young girl who was certain so recently that she was safe but was slowly coming to the realization that she was just as unsafe as before.

The snow is packed tightly enough that travel isn’t too difficult. It’s terribly cold, but the sky is quite clear.

The easiest way up is still by mule. It takes Sansa longer than she’s proud of to recognize the girl leading them up the path, to place the face of one of the friends she had made during her short stint as Alayne Stone.

“Mya,” she mutters. It must be a bit louder than she’d intended, because the guide turns her head back.

“Did you say something milady?”

Sansa quietly shakes her head.

She slows her mule so she’s beside her mother.

“I didn’t know her too well before, I knew she was a Stone, but I never saw….”

Catelyn’s face is confused. After a breath, Sansa explains.

“She looks just like Gendry.”

Maybe one of these days, she’ll be able to tell Mya how lucky she is to be out of King’s Landing. How lucky she is to be alive.

For now they have bigger fish to fry.

 Winterfell

Bran’s chest clenches every time he thinks of Septima’s journey. He had labored over the note he had tied to her leg for so long, in hopes of delaying having to send her. She’s the strongest of them, with the most stamina, but when he set her off, he still feels his gut twist in fear for her.

He’s clearly still caught up in this when Robb has to swat his hand at dinner to get his attention. He’s still got half a piece of ham stuck with his fork. He glances around and all the others have left the table already.

“Sorry. Aren’t you usually gone by now?”

Robb sits beside him backwards on the bench, stretching out and resting his shoulders against the table.

“Father’s back to doing petitions as Lord, so I’m taking advantage of the chance to not do anything.”

Bran sticks his last bit of ham in his mouth, chews and swallows.

“You should come with me out to the training yard, Arya was going to challenge Brienne now that the weather’s clear.”

Robb smiles.

“Will that be a good show?”

Bran grins in return.

“Arya just wants someone who won’t hold back on her.”

This is the truth. Most of the Free Folk favor bows and melee weapons over swords, and Robb and Theon are never going to fight her with all their strength.

Watching her get to go toe to toe with Brienne is a joy. Bran seeing her smile like she is is a very rare chance.

Her and Brienne swing and parry and the steel of their swords sings out in the winter air. They don’t fight the same at all, Brienne with solid hits and an unmoveable stance and Arya with fluidity and misdirection. By the time Arya loses grip on her sword and yields, she’s sweating and panting, and grinning like a madman.

There’s a group gathered to watch. Even Ned has taken a break from petitions to watch his youngest in her element. Once the fight is over, most of them shift around, disappointed. Shireen bursts forward to congratulate Brienne, and Robb quietly takes up his sword to ask for comments.

Bran slowly makes his way up to where his father stands and watches. They haven’t had much time to talk, alone, since the group had returned to Winterfell. Bran still sometimes wondered if he was the Stark the most distanced from Ned. Even his memory of him before had faded some, having not seen him since before his fall, and having been so much younger than the others.

“How are you holding up?”

Ned’s face is a swirl of emotions. Joy at being home, uncertainty because of what he’s missed, confusion at what he does not understand.

“Every time I turn around there’s something else. I’ve never even seen Arya fight with a full sized sword before, only than skinny one Jon gave her.”

Bran smiles. Arya had mentioned to him once that she was very glad Ned was gone when she and Meera had come back in with Osha and she’d been covered with blood. She hadn’t wanted him to see her like that.

“She still uses it sometimes. It suits her, she knows she’s not going to be stronger than most opponents, so she compensates by being faster, harder to hit and less predictable. “

There’s a pause. Bran hoists himself up to sit on one of the posts of the low fence separating the training yard from the areas around it.

“I used to take pride in knowing every member of my household,” Ned admits, “Now everywhere I go I see faces I don’t recognize.”

“I recognize most of them,” Bran comments, “You can always just ask, you’ve been gone nearly four years and we’ve taken in so many of the free folk into service.”

Ned’s eyes become nearly frightened at this moment.

“I’m worried every time we get ravens that there will be something from King’s Landing. When I was Hand I was able to keep all word of the fleeing free folk we’re sheltering from Robert’s ears, and everything about what’s happening over the wall. If anything reaches Joffrey’s ears I can’t promise I can stop us inviting his and Tywin’s wrath for doing this without consent or knowledge of the crown, ignoring what might happen if Stannis finds out.”

Shit, Bran thought. That hadn’t occurred to him. So much of this had been so much easier before, when the North had declared its independence and hadn’t had to take into account the opinions of any King other than the King in the North.

Ned shakes his head suddenly.

“Never mind that right now though, I need to go and retrieve Robb. We need to go over plans before we set out for the Dreadfort before supper comes and it begins to get dark.”

Bran nods.

“I’m heading to the smithy. Do you have anything I need to pass on to Gendry?”

“What’s he working on now?”

“The next shipment of dragon glass isn’t due for a few more days. I know he said he wanted to work on our armor supplies as well.”

“Good. Tell him to keep on it.”

When Bran enters the smithy and is hit in the face by the blast of hot air, Gendry appears to already be on it. He’s punching out a sheet of chainmail at the moment. Bran nods in greeting, and Gendry returns it silently.

Meera’s sitting on one of the benches, a pile of cut ash and oak branches at her feet. Handles for spears, axes and arrows, slowly appeared from the wood working in her hands under her knife. Lots of arrows, as many as she could cut. Gendry, she had assured Bran before, did not have the patience for woodwork, it was a slow, careful process.

He is surprised, however, to see Shireen sitting on her right side. She had been spending most of her days in the library.

She too, waves in greeting, as Bran sits on the bench to Meera’s left, feet resting beside the pile of wood.

“I was asking Gendry if he’d met anyone else in my family,” Shireen explains, her voice cracking only a little.

Gendry pauses, to nod.

“Told her I met her father only once and he was fine with letting the red woman sacrifice me the same way she did her.“

Bran cringes. Gendry seems to agree, the haunted look in his eye telling. The first time he had seen Gendry at Winterfell, the raven had summoned his vision of that night at Dragonstone. It was one of the many he wished he could wipe from his memory.

“He also told me that Ser Davos saved his life then.”

Gendry nods, and Bran becomes very glad that Davos could still be counted among their numbers.

Meera fishes around trying to find him a spare knife, but then pauses and hands him hers and stands when Gendry asks her for a favor.

“What are you doing?”

Gendry’s holding a piece of string and making marks on a piece of parchment.

“Since I’m starting with the armor stores, I wanted to make Arya a hauberk. Plate armor is better in a joust, but unless you’re going up against clubs and solid blows chainmail works fine, especially over leather, and it won’t slow her down. Meera’s close enough to her size I can use her to make the measurements before I punch out the chain.”

Bran smiles.

“So I take it you’re not going to be foolish and try to convince her not to fight this time?”

Gendry snorts.

“I know her well enough to know that that would be a pointless exercise that would just make us both angry. But I won’t send her out ill-equipped, and I would feel much better knowing I made it.”

Good, Bran thinks. That is what this whole situation has been for. None of them will be going into this ill-equipped.

Meera finds a smaller knife, and so Bran joins her in cutting down the wood, and beneath them forms a thick pile of tinder to feed the forge. Gendry and Shireen continue chatting amiably. Watching them, Bran can note the family resemblance, though it’s more in mannerisms than in their facial features.

Quietly, Meera asks him.

“Is Septima getting close?”

Bran nods.

“I let her rest until dinner time. She should go over before supper. Once that happens, I’m going to stay in her for a while.”

Meera nods. She sets down her knife briefly, and reaches out to grasp his empty hand in hers.

“I’ll stay with you.”

He slips in and out of Septima a few times throughout the afternoon. When she finally reaches Eastwatch-By-the-Sea, Shireen has quietly slipped out to return to the library.

Bran takes a deep breath.

“This might take a while.”

Gendry nods.

“I’ll bring you some supper if you’re going to stay.”

And then he leaves Bran and Meera alone.

“You’re doing fine though? You don’t want to wait until after supper?”

Bran shakes his head.

“I’d rather just get this done.”

With a smile that’s only a little sad, she leans in and softly kisses the corner of his mouth. And with a stupid grin, he leans back to the wall, and lets himself drift off.

And with that, Meera is alone. She isn’t idle though. Once she finishes splitting up the branch she’d been working on, she fishes out a paper and quill.

She hasn’t even written a single line, when the door opens. Meera is surprised to see Ned enter, holding a plate of leftover bread and fried ham.

“Lord Stark,” she addresses, standing to take the plate from him.

“Gendry said the two of you were still out here, thought I should check up.”

Meera turns to look at Bran, his eyes still all white. Ned looks discomforted, and she completely understands.

“He’s over the wall, trying to find Jon.”

Ned doesn’t know quite what to say. Meera looks him straight in the eye for a moment.

“We think that if something had happened to him, the wolves would have known. Summer knew when something happened to Gray Wind before.”

Summer, who has been dutifully following up behind Bran wherever he goes, to catch him if he trips.

Meera sets the plate beside her on top of an empty crate.

“I’m writing to my father,” she tells Ned, “To see if he thinks we have the resources to take any non combatants. We did before.”

That was what the crannogmen had spent most of the Long Night doing, sheltering those who tried to flee south and became lost.

Ned nods,

“Good. tell me what he says. Tell him just to write to me, it would be nice to hear from an old friend.”

His eyes stay on Bran and her questioningly, Meera suddenly aware of how closely together they’re sitting. Maybe she ought be a little embarrassed, but she’s not. Touching Bran has become second nature again. She remembers back in the cave, the day he had realized his hair had started to get tangled among the leaves and branches, and sheepishly asked her to cut it. And that afterwards, she had realized it hadn't felt strange at all.

Quietly, she tells Ned,

“You don’t need to worry too much about the two of us. We’re not too great putting things into words. Feels like if we do, something will come by and break it.”

The feelings are old, she thinks to herself, even if the kissing is new.

Ned smiles, and Meera recognizes the same sad smile she must have had on her own face often.

“Perhaps I should write to your father too.”

Meera feels the corner of her mouth turn up involuntarily when she recognizes his intent.

“I think he would like that.”

And with a tilt of the head in Bran’s direction.

“And don’t worry about your son, I’ll make sure he comes back.”

The first time Bran wakes up, Meera’s covered her legs with a blanket Gendry keeps stashed in the little shed behind the smithy.

Bran starts to say something, but his stomach growls before he can speak.

Meera glances up, and then points at the platter

Bran takes a piece of ham.

“I just need a break.”

“See anything interesting?”

Bran chews his piece and swallows before responding.

“Septima’s flying northwest through the haunted forest. She’s passed where Craster’s Keep was and is near the Antler River. When she gets to the Fist of the First Men, I’ll have her turn East. If she gets all the way North…”

He trails off. All the way north she’ll have to pass back down through Thenn and far too close to the Land of Always Winter.

“I haven’t seen much of anything. Snow, trees. The villages I’ve seen are empty. A couple areas look like they’ve been burned, like a fire for corpses got out of control until it burned itself out.”

“Have you seen any….”

After a long moment, he says.

“Now so far...If I’m not back by midnight, shake me until I come out. Don’t let me forget I’m actually going to need to sleep tonight.”

It’s not midnight, but it’s close when Bran suddenly shudders back to life. Meera had been one inch away from dozing off herself when his sudden movement rouses her.

“Bran! Are you alright? What did you see?”

She places a hand on each side of his face in an attempt to steady him. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re red and wet with tears. He reaches out to grasp both of her arms.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

 Over the Wall

Gilly sits with Jon and Rowan sometimes now. She makes many marks on her map now. Rowan some time ago claimed Jon knew most of the words she could teach him, and now all he could do was learn to speak them in his own voice. She seems pleased to have something useful to do, having been increasingly emotionally volatile since the revelation about the tree’s memory. Her son insists on being called Sam now, he won’t hear any different.

Once Gilly told Jon when the three of them were alone that, “Perhaps Aemon was never his name anyhow.”

Parts of Jon still desperately wants to ask Rowan what her ultimate plan for teaching him all of this is, but watching her, around the fire, beside him in the snow, he’s beginning to wonder if she even really knows.

He asks the trees about the Others now. There aren’t many wildlings left in the north, Jon discovers. Hundreds, thousands perhaps, have fled or tried to flee, and few remain. Not live ones anyway.

The villages along the far western edge of the Frostfangs have been devastated. Bodies, human and animal both, slaughtered and arranged in symbols even the trees don’t understand. Even Ygritte quakes when he tells her of what the trees have told him is happening outside, his stories of places she might have once known devastated.

And when the villages aren’t empty…

Sometimes it seems as though the white walkers appear out of the night itself, from the fog and snow. Sometimes when they appear the night seems to follow them like a perpetual cloud. Even if it’s just a few of them, they always seem a whole army. They’re ice blades cut down man and beast alike.

And as for the Night King, Jon is only somewhat to see him ride upon an undead steed. The stories that the others could raise bears and wolves and other beasts as well as men has turned out to be true. And no one mostly bothered to burn their corpses.

“Rowan,” Jon finally asks one day, “You’re so sure that the Night King is trying to lead his armies over the Wall...but nothing we are doing here seems to be something that could stop that.”

“I don’t think it is something that can be stopped.”

Jon is taken aback.

“Then what…”

Rowan’s smile is bitter.

“I am the last of my kind. All I am trying to do is pass on the knowledge I have, to try and mitigate some of the damage I know is coming. These things you are learning are very old, and I would hate to see them lost.”

Jon’s insides twist. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. But watching Rowan, he cannot find the words to rebuke her. She reaches out and touches his hands.

“I have given you what weapons I can. Knowledge, foresight understanding. The iron and dragonglass will prevent the long dead from rising. And that sword your girl found may be valuable as well. The tunnels will allow us to flee south with ease when the time comes.”

“Flee?” Jon asks, “How will we know when it’s time.”

Rowan reaches and tucks a bit of his hair behind his ear fondly. Her skin doesn’t feel like a human’s skin, but rather like something else Jon can’t put his finger on.

“I feel that is something that we will become aware of very quickly when the time comes.”

She pauses for a long moment, her ears drooping and disappearing into her hairline.

“I’m sorry if you feel I have misled you in anyway.”

Jon’s insides settle themselves. This has not been how he expected his life to go, before or after the great revelations his siblings had hoisted upon him. But…

“Thank you,” he tells Rowan quietly, “For never mentioning my name.”

It’s a short way of saying what he means. That she never spoke of him as something he couldn’t help. He wasn’t a bastard here, or a crow, or a Stark. Nothing, perhaps, except a human. The only standard Rowan held him to was her hopes for him, and she always thought he could achieve it. Maybe that’s what Ygritte meant by this place being good for him.

After supper, he sits at the mouth of the cave, watching the sky. Ygritte quietly joins him. He looks at her, and starts to say something, but is interrupted.

“Is that...a raven?” Ygritte asks.

The large bird isn’t flying straight, but weaving back and forth. It finally settles on a branch of the illusory weirwood tree, and Jon swears it looks at him.

And then flies straight towards him.

Jon only manages to steel himself for a moment, certain he is about to feel claws dig into his face, when the bird, instead, lands neatly on his wrist, and shakes it’s foot.

There’s a paper tied to it. Jon removes it, and unrolls the letter. This doesn’t make a lick of sense, that a raven could fly this far north, that it would.

“Come home brother, if you can. The long night is coming, and we’ll need you by our side.”

Jon exchanges an astonished, emotional expression with Ygritte when he reads the words.

“I’ll show Rowan in the morning. And we’ll go from there.”

That night, Jon has another dream. It’s not symbolic. He sees his uncle Benjen, cornered on the bank of the Milkwater, of a wight raising it’s ice blade to him.

And of another shaking its head. And the rest surrounding him.

He doesn’t see his uncle fall. But he sees him overwhelmed, and carried off.

The last Jon sees before he wakes is his uncle dropped on the frozen ground, at the feet of the Night King.

[madamebaggio]

Chapter 5

Jon was held back by some lords who wanted to discuss the siblings. He promised the men he would talk about it on the meeting they had for the afternoon. He just had no idea of what he would say.

When he finally managed to free himself from them, he heard that the four siblings were with Davos on the courtyard.

He could see Arya, Brienne –and curiously –Sansa there, watching a match. Podrick was also there and three of the four visitors were also watching. They were all dressed in the same clothes of the day before. Sansa would have to find them new ones.

He came closer and realized that Davos was facing Edmund, their swords locked in combat. Tormund –whom Jon hadn’t seen before –was yelling encouragements in form of insults to both of them.

Jon stopped close to his family. “Good morning.” He murmured.

Arya just grumbled her answer, eyes fixed on the fight. Brienne –respectful as always –properly greeted her King.

“Good morning, Jon.” Sansa murmured to him. He was relieved she’d finally taken to calling him Jon when there wasn’t anyone around.

“Early start for everybody?” He asked, indicating the siblings with his head.

“I guess that nobody had a good night of sleep.” She answered.

Jon’s eyes went to the match once again. The young boy could really hold his own. His foot work was a bit different from what Jon had learned, like his fighting style was different. It still proved efficient, though, when he disarmed Davos.

“I yield.” The older man said in good humor, hands up.

Edmund bowed to him. “It was a pleasure sparring with you, my Lord.”

Davos clapped a hand on his shoulder. “The pleasure was all mine, lad.” He turned to the other. “Lord Peter, a round?”

“Would you mind if I had a turn with my sister first?” He indicated Susan with his head. “She’s terrible at this.”

“Why, thank you, Peter. You’re so kind.” She rolled her eyes.

Davos chuckled. “Have at it, children.”

Susan huffed as she entered the courtyard and picked the sword from Edmund’s hand. “I hate sword fighting.”

“I am aware of that.” Peter swung the sword he got from Davos experimentally. “And that’s exactly why you need to practice. This sword is different from the one you’re used to, it’s heavier. Be careful.”

“Give me a second.” She asked, sticking the tip of the sword on the ground, before removing her jacket and throwing it to Lucy. She picked her sword again and swung it around a bit. “Let us start.”

Jon observed as the siblings circled each other before Susan attacked and Peter parried her. She was wearing a billowing white shirt with some kind of blue corset on top of it, but every time she moved her arm, the collar of said shirt revealed more of her skin. It was… Distracting.

Jon wasn’t happy that he noticed it.

“Susan, lift your arm or I’m going to cut it off!” Peter barked to his sister.

“With a blunt sword?” She snapped back.

Edmund snickered. “If Peter doesn’t cool it, Sue is likely to run him with that sword. Blunt or not.”

Lucy shook her head. “She’s slow today and she hates swords. Peter is going to win soon.”

“Care to make a wager?” Edmund asked.

“Yes.” They shook hands.

Davos watched on amused, and almost missed the moment Peter tripped his sister, who went down hard. However, before he could make her yield, Susan rolled and kicked the back of his knee, making her brother fall.

Both pulled their swords at the same time, their tips stopping close to the other’s belly. It was a draw.

“You’re getting slow, brother.” Susan smirked at her brother.

“Maybe you’re getting better, sister.” He smirked back at her, before rising and offering her a hand to do the same.

“Lord Peter.” Jon stepped closer. “May I have the next turn with you?”

Peter arched a brow and Susan had to elbow him. “Of course, your Grace.”

Susan passed by Jon and gave him the sword. “Peter normally leaves his left side open.” She informed, before going to where her other siblings were.

“That one is a piece of work.” Arya commented with Sansa.

“They can call the brother High King as much as they want.” Sansa spoke. “She’s obviously the one they follow.”

Peter and Jon circled each other for a bit, before they finally started attacking.

“Is it me…” Lucy started slowly, “Or are they really fighting?”

Susan looked from her brother to the King. “Oh heavens.” She huffed.

“Should we do something?” Lucy asked concerned.

“Why?” Edmund was completely unconcerned.

Jon hit Peter with the back of his hand, but the other man didn’t go down.

“This is ridiculous.” Susan decided. “Podrick.”

The man turned so fast to Susan he almost fell to the ground. “My Lady?”

“I need a bucket of water.” She told him. “Could you get me one?”

“Bucket of water?” He looked confused. “Sure, My Lady.”

He ran off and came back quick with the bucket. Good thing, because Peter had just hit the King that was housing them and Susan was pretty sure there was blood now.

“Where should I take it, My Lady?” Podrick asked.

“Just give it to me.” She smiled sweetly at him.

He looked beyond puzzled now, but still passed the bucket to her. Susan thanked him and marched to the courtyard.

And threw all the water at her brother and the King.

The cold water. While they were outside, surrounded by snow. It wasn’t pleasant.

“SUSAN!” Peter bellowed.

“If the two of you are finished you the alpha male demonstration…” She said calmly, gently putting the bucket down. “We all have things to do. I imagine the King’s time is precious.”

Jon looked to Peter, just to find the other man already looking at him. The King wouldn’t know how to explain what happened. This man, this supposed King, was a prideful, arrogant one, however Jon always prided himself on being reasonably level headed.

Apparently he wasn’t that level headed anymore.

“You’re right, as usual.” Peter gave his sister a winning smile. “I apologize, Your Grace.”

“It’s not necessary.” Jon grumbled.

“Now, get me some arrows, Peter.” Susan told her brother. “If you are lucky I won’t use you as a target.” She arched a brow at him.

Jon felt a smile tugging at his lips, but fought it. He nodded at the siblings and turned to leave the courtyard, only to find Lady Lucy talking to Ghost.

“Hello, sir. What’s your name?”

Edmund elbowed his sister –they did that a lot to each other. “Wolves don’t speak, Lucy.” His voice was a bit strained.

She seemed confused for a moment, then she saw Jon. “Your Grace. Who is this?” She asked indicating Ghost.

Jon observed his wolf with a curious frown. He was obediently sitting in front of Lady Lucy, allowing her to pet him, in a way he never let anyone but the other Starks do. “This is Ghost. He’s like a friend.”

“As he should be.” Lucy smiled at him.

“My sister is very fond of animals, Your Grace.” Edmund gave him a strained smile. “Often talks to them.”

There was something there, but Jon just wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps Lady Lucy had some kind of gift that made possible for her to communicate with animals?

The sound of arrows hitting targets made Jon turn back to where Susan and Peter were still standing. She was firing arrows at the stationary targets so fast, that Jon took a moment to realize where the arrows came from.

She was holding them on her draw hand, and passing them to the arrow in a split second. He’d never seen someone shoot so fast. And it wasn’t just fast: she was hitting bull’s eye every single time.

“She doesn’t miss.” Jon murmured.

“Ever.” Edmund agreed. “We always keep that in mind before disagreeing with her.”

“Once she shot at a Lord from across a ballroom.” Lucy informed excited. “He had a goblet to his mouth and it ended stuck to a column.”

Jon arched a brow. “Good to know.”

He was starting to wonder if he’d made a good choice when he let the Pevensies stay. He looked up to the sky; it was blue, clear and the weak Winter sun was shining for the first time in a week.

Perhaps there was something there.

Notes: The only thing that’s difficult about this story is getting appropriate gifs from William Mosley... hhahahah

Anyway... Gifs are not mine, if you know who they belong to, please, let me know.

This Pevensies are going to drive Jon insane... But I’ll bet he’ll love it. Let me know your feelings.

[killthebxy]

          this verse is based on the idea that Jon was brought back from the dead by the Night King, rather than Melisandre, and it was inspired by this fanart: CLICK. it is a mix of book and show canon, with some points of divergence from both. as it is my only verse where i explicitly write Jon as a villain/antagonist, a disclaimer is in order before anything else:

while not present in this background, the threads and plots within this verse may contain references or explicit mentions of topics such as violence and cruelty, murder and genocide, humiliation and degradation, manipulation and abuse --- among others of similar nature;

i am not my muse, which is unfortunate because i would love to be Jon Snow; out of jokes, though, mun =/= muse and i am the first one clearly stating that i do not condone and will try my best to never romanticize any of the topics mentioned above. this verse exists for creative writing purposes only, as it allows me to explore ideas and scenarios that i could never do in any of my other verses --- considering that Jon is inherently a good and kind character.

          with this taken care of, let us get started. in this verse, the mutiny still happened but it took place beyond the Wall rather than at Castle Black --- more precisely, at the weirwood grove where the brothers who keep the old gods say their vows. as all attention was captured by the mutiny unfolding, they failed to notice the approaching of wights and the Others, which non-surprisingly did not end well for them. only one of the mutineers managed to escaped among the chaos that ensued, climbing on a horse to return to the Watch with the news. while everyone else was immediately turned into wights, Jon’s corpse was brought back to the Night King --- who, recognizing him from the events at Hardhome (this point will always follow show canon, even in book-based threads, as it is relevant for this verse’s background that the NK is aware that Jon has the power to destroy Others with his sword), decided he would be of more use if he retained his awareness, rather than becoming a mindless wandering corpse. therefore, the NK himself turned Jon into an Other named Snow --- symbolism of the cold and eternal winter, but as well of the stigma of being bastard-born, which is Snow’s ultimate drive for action and the grudge he constantly upholds (as will be explored in the next paragraphs).

          appearance wise, Snow looks like Jon but with the typical Other traits: deathly pale skin, hair mostly changed to grey and white, piercing blue eyes, cold black hands. while not visible, he retains the scars resulting from the stab wounds during the mutiny. his usual attire consists of armor also similar to what the Others carry, but his is entirely black --- and he continues wearing his lord commander cloak, as symbol of the role that brought him to his current state of existence. personality wise, and as a quick sum-up, Snow is everything that Jon was not: he’s cunning and deceitful where Jon was honest and honorable, heartless where Jon was merciful, ambitious where Jon was humble, selfish and egotistical where Jon was selfless. whereas he is aware of his origins and retains all of his memories as a human, Snow refers to Jon as “the boy” and as though they are two entirely separate entities; and, whereas he often refers to Jon as stupid and naive and gullible, he’s fiercely protective of Jon’s memory and his main goal is, exactly, to bring revenge upon every single person who once wronged Jon and caused him to suffer one way or the other. the main object of his hatred is, non-surprisingly, the Night’s Watch.

          Ghost was also caught up in the mutiny and, after being reborn, Snow himself brought him back as an undead direwolf whom he named Life --- a word play on his previous name and his current nature, but also symbolism for the very thing Snow wishes to eradicate from this world. Life looks similar to Ghost in everything, except he’s got blue eyes, and he’s as loyal to Snow as Ghost was to Jon. further along this verse, and after that one mutineer brought the news to Castle Black, they sent ravens both to the Iron Throne and to Daenerys --- seeing as how a lord commander turned to the armies of the dead isn’t as simple to ignore anymore, given his knowledge about the Night’s Watch and the Wall and, thus, the capacity to strike in all the right spots to bring them over to the realm. realizing this, an expedition was organized like in the show’s s07 (but far better organized lbr), and Danerys herself brought her dragons beyond the Wall to either somehow retrieve “Jon” or be rid of him for good. in this verse, it was Snow who tossed the ice lance that resulted in Viserion’s death and, as reward for his actions, the NK also allowed him to be the one to bring the dragon back to life. Snow named him Noiresiv --- it’s Viserion spelled backwards, as symbolism for his turning from fire to ice. based on the events that i’ll describe next, Snow eventually becomes the undead dragon’s rider and the one to have him bring down the Wall. all of the facts concerning Viserion/Noiresiv are also part of @qeldliie‘s own verse and headcanons.

          as i mentioned above, Snow is extremely ambitious and power-hungry and, from the moment of his revival, he was not satisfied with simply acting under the NK’s orders --- he actually wanted that role for himself, and to become the supreme ruler of every living and undead being in Westeros (and eventually beyond). therefore, while overtly acting dutiful and obedient, Snow conspired at every step to overthrow the NK and eventually succeeded --- this event may be susceptible to changes according to threads and plots, but the default will follow ideas i have discussed with @cerbinwen. with this goal accomplished and the Wall destroyed, all that’s left is to bring the Long Night to the realms of men. based on what what i just mentioned, plus everything else above, it’s easy to see that Snow is thoroughly narcissistic and demands unconditional and unfailing worship --- to the point of referring to himself as God. he considers humans as infinitely inferior beings and has no love nor mercy to offer to them, though he may be open to keeping a few of them around --- either for recognizing some usefulness to them, or simply for his own amusement and sadism.

          Snow is as skilled with a sword in hand as Jon was, but he’s ruthless in combat and, therefore, very difficult to overcome. on the other hand, he’s considerably less agile than Jon, considering the weight of his armor and also his weapon of choice. because, obviously, an Other cannot wield Valyrian steel without risking to accidentally destroy himself at each move, Snow has discarded Longclaw and instead kept an ancient weapon he unearthed at Hardhome. i headcanon that it is similar to Pyramid Head’s Great Knife (CLICK) --- a huge, heavy, rusty sword that grates and shreds rather than actually slicing. its size makes it sluggish and relatively easy to dodge for somebody who’s fast --- though, if the blow is not stopped right at the start, then it becomes impossible to parry or block against. because the thing is huge and Snow isn’t exactly tall (as Jon wasn’t), he’s got the habit of simply dragging it after himself; which he does very casually and like it’s the most natural thing, often provoking that characteristic, nerve-wrecking noise as the blade grates over the ground. Snow is impervious to wounds made by any sort of common weapon, no matter how sharp or powerful, which also explains his choice of sword and how reckless he is in combat. as with all the Others, his only weaknesses are fire, Valyrian steel/dragonsteel, and dragonglass/obsidian. Snow is effectively a dead being, having no blood circulation and no beating heart. whereas it is unnecessary to him, he usually continues breathing out of habit. and, due to the death of his human nature, he’s incapable of feeling positive emotions for the most part --- he completely ignores the meaning of empathy or mercy, and the joy he feels is solely derived of twisted motives and actions. as a final curiosity, he’s actually thoroughly confused and/or entranced by anything that is innocent and chaste, such as a child’s toy for example --- as he has lost the capacity to understand anything of that nature, or its use and usefulness.

          ONE IMPORTANT FINAL NOTE: please be aware that Snow is a terrible, wretched creature in every aspect and he’s not to be approached lightly and much less disrespectfully. unless your muse is of similar power (e.g., a deity, a supernatural being), if you get to him with a cocky attitude, you will get stabbed right through the throat and that thread will be over as soon as it starts. as well, don’t expect to be able to “change him back” or make him “good” again --- it’s not going to happen. the only person who is able to make Snow feel a semblance of human emotions is Arya, considering she’s the only one who was ever unconditionally on Jon’s side. Snow actually is afraid of/very uncomfortable around Arya, and avoids her presence as much as he can --- because she’s the living memory that he once had a heart. towards persons like Ned or Robb, Snow is indifferent for the most part but also a bit ambiguous --- because, while they were dear to Jon, they didn’t actively go out of their way to stand up for him like Arya did. towards anyone who ever wronged Jon in any way (like Sansa or Catelyn), Snow will be downright hostile at the very least. Snow is inherently cruel, manipulative, vengeful, heartless --- and i will not tame him nor tone him down. so, if you ever want to plot/write anything in this verse, please always keep his nature in mind.

[joannalannister]

hi! i know u dont like the tyrion targaryen theory (understandably so), but how do you feel about tyrion having chimerism? (if u dont know what that is, it's when a person biologically has 2 fathers bc a woman had intercourse with 2 men within a short period of time, so the kid would have one mother and two fathers)

Hi! Thanks for asking me! This is a great question, and there are several things to unpack here:

the definition of chimerism and what you’re describing

the claim that Tyrion is a chimera

how this all relates to the Tyrion Targaryen theory

what this all means for Tyrion’s story as a whole

First, let’s define some terms, because what you have described is not my understanding of chimerism. I don’t claim to have extensive knowledge of biology – I’m basing my understanding on things I read in Scientific American, Time magazine, Wikipedia, etc – so if someone more knowledgable wants to correct me where I err or link me to some published scientific articles to help me learn more, it would be most appreciated. 

You seem to be describing superfecundation, not chimerism. Superfecundation results in two (or more) babies, not one. 

Superfecundation is the fertilization of two or more ova from the same cycle by sperm from separate acts of sexual intercourse, which can lead to two babies born at the same time from two separate biological fathers. While possible in humans, it is extremely rare, and most instances in humans occur from artificial insemination. (A technology which Westeros obviously does not have.) Superfecundation results in two babies born together who are half-siblings, meaning the two children have the same mother but two different fathers. I would like to stress that, while technically possible, superfecundity is rare in human reproduction outside of a laboratory. 

Superfecundation is more common in mammals with an estrus cycle (which humans do not experience). Superfecundity is often found in cats. “Superfecundation occurs when a female mates with two or more males. One litter can potentially have multiple fathers as long as they all mate with the female in the optimum time of conception. A single kitten cannot have multiple fathers; each individual kitten in a litter has only one father.” 

In cases of superfecundation, each individual has only one set of DNA. 

A chimera is a person who has more than one set of DNA. The term comes from the mythical Chimera, a mythological creature that is part lioness, part goat, and part snake. Chimerism occurs in humans when:

a twin dies in utero and the surviving twin “eats” / absorbs the other’s DNA. “Most human chimeras were, at one time, twins. Current theories posit that genetic chimeras develop spontaneously when fraternal twin embryos fuse or when one twin absorbs the other. The absorption process is called Vanishing Twin Syndrome, a haunting phrase to describe the ingestion process.“ [x] In natural pregnancies (achieved without the use of IVF), Vanishing Twin Syndrome is estimated to occur in less than 0.5% of pregnancies; it is rare. 

blood is exchanged by twins in utero

a person undergoes an organ transplant, such as a bone marrow transplant [x]

a woman becomes pregnant, and a small number of cells from the fetus migrate into her blood and travel to different organs [x]

the DNA of a child lost in utero is absorbed by the mother, turning her into a chimera “and invisibly altering her body into a kind of living memorial” [x]

From what I understand, you would have to combine superfecundation with Vanishing Twin syndrome to achieve the chimera situation you’re describing. 

Additional articles I found interesting:

“No, women do not absorb and retain DNA from every man they have sex with“

“Here’s why ‘two-dad’ babies aren’t yet a biological reality”

Perhaps I am not looking in the right place, but the only thing I was able to find (outside of reddit) about a woman having multiple partners resulting in a chimeric pregnancy, was a theoretical discussion on a Quora forum, in which it was hypothesized that a superfecund woman had sex with two men in a very short period of time, resulting in two fertilizations (very rare), and during the pregnancy one of the twins was absorbed by the other twin (also very rare), so that the resulting baby was a chimera with two fathers. 

No statistical probabilities were given, but this seems almost statistically impossible to me, even before considering this situation in a world without modern medical technology. 

In Tyrion’s case … If we were to assume both (1) superfecundity and (2) Vanishing Twin Syndrome to create a very, very rare two-father chimera … shouldn’t we see some evidence of Aerys’s DNA, as well as Tywin’s? 

If GRRM wanted us to figure this out, wouldn’t he make it more obvious for us? Aerys had purple eyes, while Tyrion has a black eye and a green eye. Tywin has green eyes. Aerys had silver/silver-gold hair, while Tyrion has white and black hair. Tywin doesn’t have white hair, but Tommen does. Aerys didn’t have dwarfism. Tyrion has dwarfism. Tywin has metaphorical dwarfism. To me, all this simply points to Tyrion having Tywin’s (”real” and literary) DNA. 

(I mean, we’re talking about the author who referenced Olenna’s broken betrothal and “queer” right on the page in ASOS, and we were all trying to figure out for years about Olenna, and it was right there in front of us. GRRM ain’t subtle.) 

So I don’t think that Tyrion is the product of superfecundity and Vanishing Twin Syndrome, both of with would need to occur in order for Tyrion to be a chimera with Aerys as one of his two fathers. Which is very unlikely. 

(More on why Tyrion is not a secret Targaryen and #A plus J does not equal T) 

I am not even 100% certain that Tyrion is a chimera (at least not the medical definition of a chimera). Don’t get me wrong, it’s an interesting theory: Tywin and Joanna conceive a second set of twins (and twins are common among House Lannister!), and one of those twins dies in the womb and Tyrion “eats” it (more cannibalism!) and absorbs his twin’s DNA. It puts an interesting spin on this quote:

Tyrion wondered what it would be like to have a twin, and decided that he would rather not know. Bad enough to face himself in a looking glass every day. Another him was a thought too dreadful to contemplate.

If this Vanishing Twin theory were true, it’s suggestive to me of Cain and Able, a good son and a bad one, and Tyrion has both of them inside him. But as far as ASOIAF theories go, I don’t think this is one that could ever be confirmed, save by word of God, and I’m not sure that GRRM would play into such a strict dichotomy. ASOIAF themes don’t support the idea that evil could be something (or someone) separate from oneself, something Tyrion needed to “absorb”. I think GRRM would be much more likely to say that the potential for evil is inside all of us (without the need of an evil twin) and it’s something we need to fight, constantly. 

So, I mean, it’s interesting to wonder if Tyrion is a chimera! 

But I don’t think he is. 

The only observable characteristic I see that could possibly point to chimerism in Tyrion is his heterochromia (the difference in coloration of the irises, hair, and/or skin). And heterochromia can be caused by many things other than chimerism. 

Heterochromia in infants may be caused by:

Horner’s syndrome

Sturge-Weber syndrome

Waardenburg syndrome

Hirschsprung disease

Bloch-Sulzberger syndrome

von Recklinghausen disease

Bourneville disease

Parry-Romberg syndrome

“Though multiple causes have been posited, the scientific consensus is that a lack of genetic diversity is the primary reason behind heterochromia. This is due to a mutation of the genes that determine melanin distribution at the 8-HTP pathway, which usually only become corrupted due to chromosomal homogeneity.��

Tyrion’s parents were first cousins. I mean, 

Fandom: Incest causes genetic mutations! It’s bad! Won’t someone please think of the children!GRRM: Here is my favorite character, Tyrion, son of Tywin the Incestuous Blood Purity Bigot. I gave Tyrion heterochromia. Fandom: That can’t possibly be due to incest. GRRM: Maybe – just maybe – Tywin’s obsession with blood purity has really fucked his children over in more ways than one. Fandom: …nah. Tyrion is a chimera. GRRM: …is this what you all do in the years between my books? 

When there are both genetic and thematic reasons to explain Tyrion’s heterochromia in the story … well, the idea that Tyrion is a chimera seems a bit overkill. It’s really not necessary to, well, other Tyrion any more than he already is. He doesn’t need all these weird and highly improbable explanations for why he is the way he is.  

(I mean, Euron has heterochromia, and no one is suggesting he is a chimera or a secret targ.) (And I don’t want to know if anyone is; leave me in my ignorance please.) 

In terms of how I feel about Tyrion have differently colored eyes and differently colored hair, I think it is thematic. Like his brother Jaime, caught in an identity crisis halfway down the page of the White Book, halfway between the Lannister shield and the white one … I think Tyrion is caught between the Lannister ideology of dehumanization, greed, lust etc (represented by the green eye, the white blonde hair) and his own humanity (shown to us in those moments when he designs a saddle for Bran, when he speaks up for Sansa, etc, represented by the black eye, the black hair). 

(The interesting thing to me is that unlike most authors, GRRM is using black here to represent heroism and humanity, when that is traditionally represented by the color white. But black is soft, black is enveloping, like a blanket to wrap around you to save you from the icy searing white cold. "By night all banners look black")

The heterochromia is a signpost representing Tyrion’s duality, his potential to go both ways, which I talk about in detail here. 

I hope that helps explain my views, and thank you again for asking!

[megsironthrone]

A Duel

Based on this request:  Congrats on the wedding! Hope the move goes well for you. Can I request a fic with Sandor x Stark!reader where they meet in winterfell while she’s dueling Robb. Maybe Joffrey says it’s not a real fight and orders Sandor to duel her and she bests him and he basically just has heart eyes for her while they travel to kings landing? Any fluffy ending you desire. Please and thank you, love you and your blog and all the work you do for us ❤️❤️❤️❤️

And this one: Can you do a Sandor x reader where they spar together and she gives him a run for his money? and include lots of fluff?? Please and thank you

Here you are, lovelies! I do not own Sandor. He belongs to George R.R.Martin. 

Warnings: Fluff

Pairings: Sandor Clegane x fem!Stark reader

Sandor rode into Winterfell with a stern expression hidden under his dog-shaped helm. He didn’t expect anything positive out of this trip, especially not after being on the road for a month. After all, Sandor didn’t have any happy memories so far, why would they start happening now? That was before he met you.

           You were in the practice yard when Sandor first saw you. The eldest Stark daughter. It was odd to see a lady with a sword in her hand. Even more so for the lady to know what she was doing with said sword. You were having a practice duel with your brother Robb and you were good. Very good.

            “Come on, Robb!” you called out, catching Sandor and Joffrey’s attention, “You can’t go easy on me just because I’m a woman. Or are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” Robb frowned and lunged. It seemed you knew exactly what to say to irk your brother enough to make him charge. You easily side-stepped Robb’s attack and whacked him in the back with your practice sword hard enough to knock him in the dirt.

           "You should know not to let your anger get the better of you, Robb. That’s when you make mistakes.“ Sandor was secretly impressed at your knowledge. Joffrey was not. “This isn’t a real duel. Not when you know every move your opponent could make. Dog!” Sandor tore his gaze away from you and your brother. “Get in there and show that upstart girl how a real duel is won.”

           "All due respect, my prince. I hardly think it’s fair to set my sister up against a man so much bigger than she. I highly doubt Y/N will be fighting any real battles.“ You appreciated Robb trying to defend and protect you, but you gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "It’s alright. I am certain the Hound won’t really harm me.” You smiled at Robb, who still looked wary, and then at Sandor who was taken back. “Well? You heard me, Dog. Get in there.” With a grunt, Sandor entered the ring and grabbed up a practice sword.

           "Don’t hold back,“ you told him with a cheeky grin. Sandor was stunned for moment and almost missed your movements. He blocked your blow and the duel began. Sandor was surprised at how well you were able to keep up with him. You parried blow after a blow and attacked without fear of him. You were practically dancing in the ring, showing no signs of fatigue. If you were tired or in pain, you hid it well. The only sign you were even remotely effected were your panting breaths.

           Actually, it was Sandor who started feeling the effects of the fight first. At least outwardly. It wasn’t often someone could last against him as long as you had. Your eyes were full of a determined fire that Sandor found intriguing. It was impressive to him when not much else was.

           You were finally beginning to feel the fight in your muscles when you heard the shrill voice of your mother. "Y/N STARK!” You flinched visibly. Sandor lowered his sword as you both glanced up to see your mother glaring at you both with a stern look. “Get inside this instant.” You smiled sheepishly. “Yes, Mother.” Your mother gave a curt nod and turned away.

           Sandor was still looking up at where your mother had been standing when he felt the wooden sword being pressed against his neck. “I win,” you whispered gleefully. Sandor glanced at you and saw the biggest smile on your face. “Never let anything distract you, Mr. Clegane. That’s how you wind up dead.” You lowered the sword, winked, and walked away, leaving Sandor to stare after you in disbelief.

           Sandor didn’t see you in the practice ring again the rest of his stay in Winterfell. He was certain your mother had given you an earful for it. It wasn’t proper ladylike behavior for women to fight anyway. Still, Sandor had to admit that you’d started something in him that he never even dared to hope for. He wouldn’t call it love. No, Sandor didn’t love, but it was certainly an infatuation. An infatuation that would only grow as you journeyed with your father and sisters to King’s Landing.

           Throughout the journey, Sandor found it difficult to keep his eyes off you. When he was certain no one was looking, his gaze would wander over to you. He would watch as you rode your horse next to your father, as you would sit and eat with the other ladies, or as you would laugh at Arya’s shenanigans. He was beginning to feel a bit creepy with how often he was staring, but you never gave any indication that you even noticed. Until one day.

           King Robert had insisted on taking a short break from riding and Sandor took advantage of it. He found a spot under a tree to sit and sharpen his sword. He sat and relaxed for the first time in days. Joffrey was spending time with Sansa and his mother and that gave Sandor a chance to breath. “I notice, you know,” a voice came from the other side of the tree, making Sandor jump slightly.

           You came around the tree and glanced at the giant of a man. For a brief moment, Sandor merely stared at you as his mind processed what you’d said. “What do ya notice?” You grinned and replied, “I notice you staring.” Sandor felt his face pale. “Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else sees it. It’ll be our little secret,” you told him with a giggle. “I don’t stare,” Sandor muttered, averting his gaze. Another little laugh made its way to his ears. “Yes, you do and I’m flattered.”

           "Why should ya be flattered about this ruined face lookin’ at ya?“ You arched a brow. "Your face isn’t ruined, Mr. Clegane. And I’m flattered that someone as strong, resilient, and handsome as you would give me the time of day for a reason other than getting into my bed.” Sandor didn’t reply. He couldn’t believe you thought all those things about him. Finally, he looked at you again. “What are ya gonna do about it? Tell yer father?”

           "As I said, it’ll be our little secret. But feel free to stare all you want and, should you ever pluck up the courage to ride next to me and strike up conversation, I’ll be happy to have your company, Mr. Clegane.“ Sandor couldn’t think of a thing to say, so he simply nodded. "Good,” you said and before Sandor realized what was happening, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. Then, you skipped away. Sandor glanced around and, after making sure no one had seen what had happened, proceeded to blush a deep crimson. 

(a/n: I hope you like it!!)

@brewsthespirit-blog @line-viper @etherealpotter @gameofwinters @littlemisscaptainfandom @frozenhuntress67 @obsessedwithgot @ladyoakensheildmalfoypurdymanson

[kittykatknits]

Hi! Love your thoughts on ASOIAF. What's your opinion on Alayne's talk w/ Lyn Corbray in WoW chapter? Also your take on certain words GRRM use to describe their talk- Do you think he writes their interaction in that chapter as if Alayne and Lyn are parrying, Sansa using her words as a sword

I was convinced we wouldn’t get a Sansa chapter until Winds came out, especially since Martin pushed the Dance chapters off. We can thank S5 of the show for giving this to us.

My initial reaction to this whole chapter, before picking it apart, is the feeling of reading a dance scene. Sansa drifts from one partner to another, interacting in a small scene before going on to the next. It also reminded me of the third Jaime chapter in SoS which features the big fight between Brienne and Jaime.

It’s the sexiest non-sex scene in the entire series. I’m not going to break down the entire fight but let’s look at this:

As he felt himself falling, he twisted the mischance into a diving lunge. His point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of her blood before his knee slammed into a rock.

-Jaime III, SoS

Jaime lunges and the point of his “sword” bits into her upper thigh. A red flower blooms, and flower is an in-universe term for a woman’s virginal state. This whole bit comes in the same book that has the Ghost of HH use the “blood on the maiden’s thigh” line just in case we somehow miss what’s going on.

The point is, the fight isn’t just a fight, there’s something else here. Jaime refers to it as a dance multiple times, other characters refer to sword fights as dances, plus we have the in-your-face Dance of Dragons.

But, Sansa doesn’t fight with swords or daggers or beasts. She uses words, courtesy, and courtly behavior. It’s still a dance though, just a difference kind of dance.

This won’t break down the entire chapter, but I do want to expand beyond her conversation with Lyn Corbray. Sansa has three separate interactions in a short span of time with his being the second. The first is with Ser Ossifer Lipps and Ser Uther Shett. Their names tell us much of what we need to know, simple opponents, nothing to worry over.

“And have you seen all those maids yourself, ser?” Alayne asked him. “You are young to be so widely travelled.”

   He blushed, which only made his pimples look angrier.  “No, my lady. I am from Gulltown.”

- Alayne I, WoW

Sansa uses her words, deflecting the compliments, showing us, the readers, that these two are harmless. Right after the above exchange, she tells herself to remember that Shett is from Gulltown and then tells them she needs to go, not bothering to wait for a reply. Sansa can easily disarm these two. She won that match and moves on to her next dancing partner.

We see Ser Lyn Corbray who is sparring with an unnamed knight who Lyn defeats. Sansa notes the ferocity behind the fighting, telling us Lyn would have killed his opponent if not for the blunted swords. She opens with this:

“Well struck, Ser Lyn,” Alayne called out. “Though I fear you’ve knocked poor Ser Owen insensible.”

She’s courteous, complimenting a knight on his skill. Corbray dismisses it, rather than accepting the words as he should:

Corbray glanced back to where his foe was being helped from the yard by his squire. “He had no sense to start with, or he should not have tried me.”

Sansa counters that:

   There is truth in that, Alayne thought, but some demon of mischief was in her that morning, so she gave Ser Lyn a thrust of her own. Smiling sweetly, she said, “My lord father tells me your brother’s new wife is with child.”

This is a dance we are looking at here, just as other dances occur in the series. Except, it’s with courtesy. This is Westeros where the family is very much a public and political institution. Lyn Corbray’s brother is going to have a child which means the line of succession is secure. Sansa uses courtesy as her armor, but the thing with armor is that it can also be made into a weapon. She struck him though and she knows it:

Oh, that’s an open wound, thought Alayne. Lyonel Corbray’s first wife had given him nothing but a frail, sickly babe who died in infancy, and during all those years Ser Lyn had remained his brother’s heir.

And because she’s so good at using her courtesy, Sansa twists her sword even more:

She smiled and said, “My father is always pleased to be of service to one of Lord Robert’s leal bannermen. I’m sure he would be most delighted to help broker a marriage for you as well, Ser Lyn.”

He’s not so easily defeated though:

“How kind of him.” Corbray’s lips drew back in something that might have been meant as a smile, though it gave Alayne a chill.

Lyn almost frightened her with a mere smile. He’s no Lipps and Shett. She needs to be more careful with Corbray and although she landed a wound against him, that’s about it. I do want to draw attention to this line, as I’ve seen it used as a criticism of Sansa:

Perhaps, instead of being Petyr’s man pretending to be Petyr’s foe, he was actually his foe pretending to be his man pretending to be his foe. Just thinking about it was enough to make her head spin.

She doesn’t have all of the information to put the whole picture together but she recognizes enough to realize it’s more than what appears on the surface. Lyn is LF’s catspaw but now we know he’s angry with LF and has no problems being vocal about it. I don’t think he was acting there. We also know that Ser Lyn spent almost six months glued to Lysa’s side and volunteered to fight as the Vale’s champion in Tyrion’s trial. Of course, LF went on to marry Lysa instead. So, is LF right? Is all Corbray needs to be happy are gold and boys? More, we know that his father gave him Lady Forlorn which his older brother is unhappy about. That tells us the dynamics between the two siblings may be even more complex than has been revealed to us so far. Lyn Corbray should make Sansa’s head spin, she should continue watching him.

Now, here’s the next dance that fascinates me (and is likely the most important of the three):

Alayne turned abruptly from the yard… and bumped into a short, sharp-faced man with a brush of orange hair who had come up behind her.  His hand shot out and caught her arm before she could fall.   “My lady.  My pardons if I took you unawares.”

   “The fault was mine. I did not see you standing there.”

Of course, this is the Mad Mouse and as this passage shows us, Sansa did not see her opponent coming. She bumped into him and he caught her. He’s a hidden dagger right in the open. They have a short, courteous exchange, but this is the part that matters:

 “A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that’s not likely, is it?”

   “I suppose not. But now you must excuse us, ser, we need to find my lord father. “

The Mad Mouse just told her that a good melee is the best he can get, unless he stumbles upon something better. That “something better” is Sansa. He knows who she is and he’s going to do something about it. Sansa missed it all. As LF told us in aFfC, even the lowest pawns have minds of their own, and that applies to the Mad Mouse as much as anyone. He won that match and Sansa never realized they were sparring, unlike with the first  two.

Of course, after this, Sansa meets with LF and then goes to an actual dance where we get to know Harry better.

A few other tidbits in this chapter that I wonder about:

   Near the keep, she ran headlong into Ser Lothor Brune and almost knocked him off his feet. “Harry the Heir?  Harry the Arse, I say. He’s just some upjumped squire.” Alayne was so grateful that she hugged him. “Thank you. Have you seen my father, ser?”

Up until now, Ser Lothor Brune has been a loyal man to LF. But, he’s developing feelings for Mya too. Maybe he will become one of LF’s hidden daggers?

Sansa lists all of her dancing partners, I think one of them will get her favor, probably a Waynwood, whichever would annoy Harry the most.

Ser Morgarth is mentioned to us as a dancing partner too. Martin wants us to remember he exists but I don’t have an idea of what for quite yet. I’m not a fan of the theory that he’s the Elder Brother in disguise though.

Hopefully I at least partially answered your question! Thanks for the ask anon!!!!

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Ramsay Bolton/Snow x Fem!Lannister Reader

King's Landing was busier than usual,being a fine Spring day,and Sandor Clegane,again,had to take care of the oldest Baratheon child, Y/N,who kept pulling on his hand to walk with her through the gardens. Her golden blonde hair kept swaying as she twirled in the divine light of the Sun,her giggles rang out like lullabies,which made Sandor chuckle softly at her childish behaviour. He knew,however,that despite her innocent and lovely appearance,her deep,emerald eyes held only mischief and cunning. She,like her mother and grandfather,was a true Lioness,despite her 'Baratheon' title. She was stubborn,and everytime someone would call her by her proper name,she'd offer a poisonous grin and correct them.

"Y/N Lannister,if you please."

The girl was the epitome of freedom,a powerful feline who manages to trick everyone into letting her do whatever she pleases,and therefore,she's either out with her beloved Guard dog,or inside,bugging into the Kingdom affairs,much to Tyrion's amusement.

And just imagine the shocked faces of Robert's advisors when they saw his daughter sitting on his leg,reading a book,and when she heard a rather disagreeable statement,she'd refute in a second,shocking everyone.

Y/N:Come on,Sandor,loosen up a bit!It's such a gorgeous day,it'd be a pity to be all grouchy~! Sandor:Sorry,little song bird,but being a Sunflower isn't my thing. Y/N:Dear Sandor,I am a Lioness,not a useless song bird,but you are excused.However,you won't be excused from missing out a nice dance with me! Sandor:Don't be ridiculous,girl,I'm your guard,not some fancy shit lord. Y/N:*chuckles* You are Sir Woof Woof,whatever do you mean~? Sandor:You're crossing a fine line there,girl,I'd pay attention if I were ya. Y/N:And what are you going to do,sweet Sandor?Bite me? Sandor:Sometimes I wonder who's a bigger cunt. Y/N:Joffrey.Always Joffrey.Definitely Joffrey.He doesn't care about you like I do~. Sandor:And he doesn't use me like you do either. Y/N:Oh,Sandor,your words cut me deeper than the Marianna Trench.Honestly,you must know my intentions of dancing with you are purer than the first snow of the year! Sandor:It hasn't snowed in King's Landing since the last Winter. Y/N:*giggles*Then...I want to see the North!Don't the Starks always say how Winter is coming?Oh,Sandor,I've never seen snow!It must be so beautiful!I am quite tired of this golden landscape,it's so old-fashioned!Silver is the new trend! Sandor:You might like snow,but only when you first see it.It's like a gorgeous enchantress,but sly and deadly,much like you. Y/N:*arranges her hair*Oh dear,that was so poetic of you,sweet Sandor!If I were to go to the North,would you come and crown me the Queen of Winter? Sandor:Snow is much better than fire,anyways. Y/N:*gleams*SWEET!I shall talk to uncle Tyrion at once!I overheard my lord father when he was talking to someone from the Small Council.Apparently,Jon Arryn died mysteriously,and he wants Ned Stark as the new Hand of the King~!Do you know what that means~? Sandor:Oh great,more death in the City of Death,how unexpected. Y/N:Call it Murderville.But I wonder...why did they call it "King's Landing"?Is here the place where Kings just...land?Fall?To their death?*gasps*Oh no,it's raining Kings! Sandor:How childish...it almost fooled me. Y/N:Come on,Sandor,relax.Let's go to a pub,and I'll treat you to all the ale you wish!Just smile for me~! Sandor:Not bloody likely,little song bird.But I'll take your offer,for now.After you.

#####

After talking to the right people,she convinced her father to ride on a horse along her beloved Hound on the way to the North,which was oddly entertaining for the both of them,much to the displeasure of her mother and brother. When they arrived,however,they were not only expected by the Starks,but another noble house- House of Bolton.

The girl quickly asked her friend about the Boltons,not having heard much about them,and found out a few details about the Lord,Roose Bolton,and his bastard son,Ramsay,who's treated just like his legal son. Much to the dismay of every existing courtesy,seeing Ned Stark,she jumps off her horse and runs to hug the said man. Most of the ones witnessing the act were horrified,while the others were quite impressed,much like the youngest Stark daughter,and a certain Bolton.

Y/N:Uncle Ned!It's so good to see you again!Oh,how I've missed you so dearly!And now that I'm finally here,I get to meet your children!I'm so excited! Ned:*ruffles her hair*Welcome to Winterfell,my Princess.These are my children,though they are a bit younger than you,I believe you will enjoy their company. Robert:Ned Stark,you look much older.The cold sure took its toll on you. Ned:And you got significantly fatter.Is it the privilege of being a King? Y/N:*giggles*You sure are best friends! Robert:*laughs*Ned Stark,my greatest friend,and Y/N Baratheon,my dearest daughter.Might I say,she reminds me so much of Lyanna... Y/N:*confused*I don't know who Lyanna was,but she must have been a truly amazing woman. Robert:Y/N,go play with the others,I and Ned have some catching up to do. Y/N:Yes,father~!Have fun! 

She got her siblings and they all introduced each other merrily or shily,and then went to play together. Arya,Myrcella and Sansa were cheering as Tommen and Bran were sparring. The young lioness,on the other hand,noticed the older Bolton boy staying lonely and observing the youngsters. Being a princess,she got in front of him and smiled brightly at him,surprising him.

Y/N:*extends hand*Hello,I heard your name is Ramsay,it is nice to meet you!I am Y/N Lannister.

Ramsay,however,smiled charmingly at her,and kneeling in front of her,he took her hand delicately and kissed it,making her cover her mouth lightly and giggle,a light blush blooming  on her pale cheeks. She was used to having people be court with her,but never this... Charming. She gently put her hand on his hair,then caressed his pale visage,smiling softly.

Ramsay:It is my honour of meeting you,Your Grace. Y/N:Honestly,Ramsay,please get up,there is no need to go this far.I'm nothing important,just another Southern girl.Forget of my titles and enjoy our time together.Shall we? Ramsay:My lady's wish is my command. Y/N:Ramsay~ Ramsay:Yes,my lady, Y/N: Just Y/N is fine,please.

He chuckled lightly and went to the group of younger children along with the fair princess. Obviously enough,Tommen lost against Bran,and the next round was Robb versus Joffrey. Much to the annoyance of the young blond,the only one cheering for him was Sansa. Robb obviously beat him up easily,but when he turned around to put back the sparring sword,Joffrey ran to attack him. To his dismay,his older sister grabbed the sword from Tommen's grasp and easily parried his blow. When the two swords collided,everyone but Joff,who growled angrily,gasped. The girl smirked victorious and easily disarmed him.

Y/N:*grins*That wasn't very honorable of you,younger brother,now,was it~?Is this how you were raised? Joff:Don't cross me,sister!

The girl was japing and taunting him further,until Robert and Ned came by,and seeing the scene unfold,rushed over.

Robert:Were you fighting again? Y/N:No,papa,but I wanted to play fight too,and one of the boys volunteered~! Robert:Are you sure you didn't beat Joffrey at sparring again? Ned:Robb? Robb:Father... Y/N:*giggles*Busted~! Ned:At this age,Lyanna was beating me up too... Robert:At this age,everyone was beating you at sparring,Ned. Y/N:*bows*What can I say,I trained with the best in the Seven Kingdoms. Robert:*laughs*She has the Baratheon fury in her blood!Look at her!Who did you train with? Y/N:Woof~

The King was confused,until Sandor Clegane handed her Joffrey's discarded sword,and patted her back,then barked,smirking proudly.

---

That night,at the feast,Y/N had both bastards sit with them at the table,making everything more chaotic than it was.

After Arya threw lemon cakes at Sansa,making her cry,Lady Catelyn made them both go to sleep.

During the commotion,Ramsay whispered a nice plan in Y/N's ear,making her slip away unnoticed,and meeting the older bastard outside,in the freezing cold.

Y/N:Why,Ramsay,whatever do you wish to show me? Ramsay:It's your first time in the North,is it not,my Princess? Y/N:It is,but it is not the first time I'd correct you. Ramsay:My apologies.I only wished to show you the North's beauty,at its finest.Nevertheless,it will always pale in comparison to you. Y/N:*giggles*Oh dear,if I had a golden dragon for everytime I've heard that,I'd be rich. Ramsay:Aren't you,already? Y/N:Borrowing money from the Braavosi Bank doesn't make you rich. Ramsay:The affairs of King's Landing are much too troublesome and confusing,so I will not bother with it. Y/N:Neither should you~.

As they walked and chatted,the girl started trembling from the freezing cold,and even her voice became shaky,making Ramsay chuckle and put his furs tightly around her. She tried to protest,arguing that he will get cold too,but he merely smiled and pointed out that Northmen are cold resistant. Getting to a high peak,the girl was left awestruck at the godly landscape in front of her.

Having started snowing,the dark blue sky suddenly lit up with thousands of powerful coloured lights,dancing and sparkling. The young lioness was gleaming and cheering,more enthusiastic than she had ever been before in her life time,and much to his shock,she hugged him tightly,thanking him.  The young bastard was rooted to the spot,not having expected such a physical act of pure affection and warmth from one that is supposedly a mere stranger in his eyes. Having grown up as a bastard and with only his father,in a cold and harsh environment,he never experienced any emotion that would make his heart leap,and not from fear.

Instinctively,he wrapped his arms tightly around the frail girl's frame,protectively,and unconsciously smiled,seeing her happiness. All his life,he's only witness dread,hate,torture,sadness,rage,misery...but this time,it seemed like a light of hope appeared in front of him. A light of purity that seemed to fill him... And he couldn't seem to get enough of it. He was greedy.

Big snowflakes were slowly falling,and with that,they knitted a crown of crystals in her golden hair,sparkling,making her look like a true Queen. And that's what he was going to do. He'll make her his Queen. All those playthings he's had his fun with were dirty,unclean,disgustingly plain,worthy of being tainted and abused. But her... This young lioness... He was going to preserve her purity and innocence... All to himself.

Being already late enough,he picked her up bridal style and walked her home,promising to take her there each night.

###

The true reason why the Boltons were at the Starks to greet the King and his family was so Roose could ask for a favour and legitimize his son,so he could one day inherit the rights of the House,which,with little persuasion,Papa Baratheon agreed (much to his daughter's glee).

Without even realizing,when she got home,she started telling Uncle Tyrion of all the nice stories she shared with Ramsay during that little amount of time,and seeing his sweet niece so happy,he decided to make up an elaborate plan and make her dream come true,as much as possible. Since Ned Stark kindly refused the Hand of the King position,saying that his kin must always remain in the North,her father had no other wise option but to trust Tyrion,yet another Lannister. And thus,he organised frequent trips to the North,giving her the role of the Ambassador of the Seven Kingdoms,and along with her dear Hound,they'd travel all day long.

---

One beautiful day of Spring,the golden maiden was taking a stroll through the forest,enjoying a light conversation with her potential paramour,when she noticed a few changes in his behaviour.

Slightly more affectionate acts

More compliments More smiles More protectiveness

And all this made the girl smirk-but she had to keep her façade,still.

Y/N:Why,sweet Ramsay,if I didn't know better,I would have said you might be...courting me~? Ramsay:And if I were to admit my crime,what would you do,My Princess? Y/N:I do not know,my dear.Your punishment might depend on the gravity of your actions~. Ramsay:But would Your Grace be merciful if this one would dare to be so bold and ask for her hand in marriage? Y/N:Honestly,I hope you are not jesting,for it would be quite a pity otherwise. Ramsay:I may love japing,but not about this subject,for I am thoroughly serious.Princess Y/N Lannister,would you allow me to be the happiest man in Westeros and become my sweet wife? Y/N:But are we not too young for this,sweet Ramsay?This is very serious,and if we don't take in account everything that might occur- Ramsay:There is no rush,so do not fret,my love.All in due time,and everything will be resolved. Y/N:Ramsay...I have only one request,before everything...and it might sound weird but... Ramsay:What is bothering you,my sweetling? Y/N:So far,we have only ever done and discussed mine own passions,but I know nothing of yours.I wish to know everything about you before I take such an important decision.Therefore...*smiles*next time you flay someone,please call me to assist you. Ramsay:*hesitant*I...am not sure how that will influence or affect your final decision,however,if this is your sincere request,and you will not be bothered by any illicit or nefarious deed I might do...then by all means,you are my guest even now.The Dreadfort has enough prisoners to last a lifetime. Y/N:*grins*Thank you for trusting me,my dear.Now,let us prepare for an entertaining activity~!

He chuckled at her and during the whole week,he showed her the dungeons,the flaying,the torture,and the hunts,in which she was greatly interested,and asked to join as well. It was a great shock for the man,who never expected such a pure golden light to enjoy and embrace his darkness,but he felt more and more attracted to her. He was lost in the well of light that engulfed her,and swore solemnly that he would make sure no harm ever comes to his angelic saviour. He will protect her from anything and anyone that might wish her ill,despite being loved by the Realm. He was now Lord Ramsay Bolton,son of Roose Bolton,and rightful heir,and he would make sure Y/N Lannister,his golden lioness,is going to love him forever.

####

All the time alone,he tried to straighten his priorities,all while still enjoying his release with Myranda,but truly,he felt rather bored of the plain girl. Nevertheless,she was the only woman worthy of keeping around for such deeds,for he would never dare taint his paramour,sent by the loving Maiden to be his light during the darkest times. He just needed her near him,to touch him with those soft and delicate hands,to gaze at him with her forest green eyes,full of love and admiration,to rest his head on her lap,by the calming river,as she played with his dark hair,and would sing some foreign song she'd hear from the travelling singers.

All of these seemed like the sweetest Utopia,which quickly broke when he realised days and weeks passed,and upon the turning moon,she hadn't returned. Gravely worried and not having received any word or letter from the South,he quickly mounted and got a few trusted members of the Bastard's Boys,and went for a private audience at the court.

But much to everyone's horror,he found out that the girl departed two weeks prior and was expected to arrive soon. Because the King specifically requested the Hound to guard his other three children during a very important meeting,the girl took with her other knights on the journey- Proving unsuccessful. Cersei was the first to go hysterical,being her mother,and ordered Varys and Maester Qyburn to gather as much intel as possible. Tyrion,thinking of a shrewd plan,sent word to Bronn to search around all low-life building and find anything useful. Within the week,they haven't found out much,which shook the whole Realm- Until a strange Raven arrived,and with it,a barely readable scrap of parchment tied to its leg.

"Save twins frey flay me save"

The paper had drops of blood and liquid that could only be tears,and the writing was as messy and shaky at it could get,but at least they had a lead,false or not. What would the Freys have against the poor girl,though? Ramsay returned to the North to tell the problem to the Starks and call all their bannermen,to aid the cause of the kidnapped Princess,and great was everyone's shock and rage when they found out the circumstances of such a horrible crime against the Crown.

In less than a Fortnight,an endless army,lead by Jaime,Ned and Ramsay went against the Lord of the Twins,the abominable Walder Frey,who kept the Lioness in his basement dungeon. After an outright war,the young Bolton's Bastard Boys managed to sneak inside and raid the castle,searching around the dungeons,until the sharp hearing of the anxious brunet heard a soft whimpering from one of the cells. Gently opening the door,he saw his golden maiden all bloody and broken,struggling to breathe,and tied up on a wooden X table,made to resemble the Bolton flaying methods.

His breathe hitched in his throat as he sat there,rooted on the spot,unable to breathe,due to the burning rage. He could only see red in front of him,as damaging thoughts were attacking his  sanity.Shaking,he could only think of the answerless questions that kept swarming his head. why her? why like this? what had he done wrong? was he not  worthy of happiness or love? No...He had to save his beloved angel sent to him by her Maiden God as a gift... The only gift he’s ever got. The only gift he’d ever need..

Regaining himself,he quickly cut off her restraints and caught her as she fell like a feather in his arms. Seeing his only means of sanity damaged and tainted,he swore eternal revenge and cursed the whole family tree of the wretched House of Frey.

###

Days later,the girl,treated by the best Maesters brought from Oldtown,managed to remain stable,but she wouldn't leave her room,nor accept any visitors. Instead,the maids would have to leave the food trays in front of the door,and relatives would have to write letters and shove them under the door,hoping-in vain-to receive a reply.

But she felt disgusted. Wretched. Tainted. She wasn't what she wanted to be. And what frustrated most,is that the true Mastermind's identity was known to her,but she just couldn't seem to remember. It was someone she knew very well... Someone she saw often at the court in King's Landing... Someone she obviously knew not to trust... But who was to be trusted in that God-Forsaken place?

knock knock knock . . .

knock knock knock

Ramsay:Love,I know you're there.I know you want to hide,but you're worrying everyone.I am not one to beg,and you know it,but open the door. Y/N:Go away... Ramsay:Don't make me break down the door. Y/N:Leave... Ramsay:My sanity is going to disappear if I don't see you soon.I can't breathe,I can't think,I can't control my anger around anyone,not even my own father. Y/N:You won't like me anymore... Ramsay:There is nothing in this world that will make me not love you.

With a soft whimper,she put her hand on the handle and opened it,still hiding behind the door,and looking down,avoiding any eye-contact. Upon seeing her,he dropped to his knees and embraced her torso,trying to calm himself. The whole scene unfolded like a bad tragedy mummers’ show,and she put her bandaged hand on his tired and desperate visage,just like in the old,happy days that passed way too soon. He kissed her hands,all her knuckles and fingers,then raised and kissed her forehead,hugging her properly and holding her tight.

The girl had had her fingernails peeled away,a cut on her face,slightly damaging her eye,and multiple cuts along her limbs,along with obvious malnutrition,which weakened her greatly,barely keeping herself standing. She let herself be engulfed in his warmth and closed her eyes,finally feeling safe,after having endured so much,for no reason,and allowed herself,for the first time,to weep at her own misery. After she managed to calm down slightly,he wiped away her tears with his thumbs,and touched foreheads.

Ramsay:The King requested an urgent Council meeting and wanted you to attend.It was the order of your little dwarf uncle. Y/N:Uncle Tyrion asked that...? Ramsay:I think there's more to it than meets the eyes.Do you know who kidnapped you? Y/N:I do,in a way.But...I'm not sure...I told Tyrion of this... Ramsay:Then this is his master plan. Y/N:How despicable...how unsightly of me...to be seen like this... Ramsay:You are the only light I see in this darkness,never doubt yourself. Y/N:So easy to speak when you’re not the ugly one. Ramsay:You are the Grace of the Realm.All these wound will soon fade,but your beauty is eternal. Y/N:Better pray you’re right,or I’ll kill you...

With help from her beloved,she out on a hooded cloak and walked to the court room,where all the Council people,Cersei,Jaime,Ned and Tywin sat,letting the couple stand in the middle of the room.

Cersei:Y/N!My sweet babe,you're finally standing.Have the Maesters attended you properly?I'll put their head on a spike otherwise. Y/N:I'm fine...but it was rather cruel to summon me while looking like this,Uncle Tyrion.Nevertheless...I... Tyrion:My sweet niece,I do hope you are feeling much better.All these people came here to see how you fareth after such a horrible crime. Y/N:*scanning the room*Yes,I am feeling much better,but I cannot say I'm fully cured yet.

Saying that,she went into a bloody coughing fit,making her lose her balance and dirty her bandages,and leaning on her paramour for support. Her mother tried to rush over,but Jaime stopped her. It was all according to the plan. She slowly took of her hood,revealing her bandaged eyes,and smirked.

Y/N:It has come to my attention that the perpetrator of my kidnapping has been caught and punished accordingly,am I correct? Varys:Yes,your Grace.Lord Walder Frey has been set up in our dungeons and is currently tortured. Y/N:Perfect.And what of the Mastermind?Varys,you and Lord Baelish are the ones with the greatest information network across Westeros and beyond. Petyr:Your Grace,I think you are mistaken,there was no Mastermind. Y/N:*smirks*Uncle Tyrion~!It seems my memory hasn’t betrayed me yet~!The disgracious cockroach that came to visit me just before I've received this wounds...was him.Petyr Baelish. Petyr:Excuse me,your Grace,but I am confused.I have not left the Kingdom. Tyrion:Is that so?Because funny enough,my trusted sources said otherwise. Petyr:Well maybe your trusted sources failed you! Tyrion:That is where you are wrong,again.You see,money never fails.Humans are so easy to corrupt with a few golden coins. Y/N:Oh,but what a shame.You were a decent Master of Coin to the Crown...But that’s where your shrewdness stops and mine overshadows yours.Don’t you know?A Lannister always pays his debts.Always.And I believe it’s high time we get rid of your treacheries and betrayels to the Realm and to the King and...experience the horrors of being tortured and humiliated. Ramsay:The flayed man is on our banners for a reason,filth.we’ve been flaying our enemies for 1000 years. Y/N:Never go against the Realm,or cross a Lioness and a Flayed man.It’s bad luck~!

Being attacked from everywhere and not being able to refute,he tried escape,but Jaime got to him much quicker,and in his rage,almost choked him to death,until his calm,but triumphant “niece” stopped him,saying that he needs proper torture,not just a petty beating.

---

All is well when it ends,and the two retreated for the rest of the day,enjoying the peace and quiet in each other's loving embrace,after such a rollercoaster of emotions and bad things happening. He held her tightly,not daring to keep his eyes off of her,in fear of the nightmare repeating itself over and over again.

Y/N:Sweet Ramsay... Ramsay:Yes,my sweetling? Y/N:I will marry you.

The time stopped for him,and he didn't even realize he was smiling brightly for the first time in his life,until he felt a light kiss,which woke him up from his trance. Seeing her gentle smile and her doe-eyes looking at him lovingly,he kissed her back just as softly,as if not to break her,but all the emotions were unleashed. As she rested her head on his chest,snuggling to him,he would sing softly a song and play with her soft golden hair. And for the first time,they finally felt at peace. Together. Forever.

((Picture by @littleaestheticmonster Thank you so much!They do amazing aesthetics! :3 ))