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random-introverted-blog · 1 year ago

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Flickers of Loss [DarkJusticiar!Shadowheart x F!Reader]

you've seen Spawn vs Ascended, but have you heard of...

Continuation/Part 2 - No More Continuation/Part 3 - Shadows of Shar

Intended Audience: Mature [scroll the age requirement wheel until you come to a year where you can bypass the age check]

The Bit: You've been living trapped with Shadowheart in a Sharran cloister for longer than you can remember and it's all fine and dandy until a vision comes to you and tells you how and where to find the person who can help you escape. But when you open the door to their prison, who you find isn't who you expect.

Warnings/Advisories: Implied SA, emotional abuse, angst, no one dies but it's still super sad, not sure whether to tag this Selunite or Dark Justiciar if I'm honest, memory manipulation, I'm probably missing a tag or two, OH VIOLENCE THEY FIGHTIN almost forgot THE GIRLIES ARE FIGHTIN

NO EDITING WE FORGET AND DIE LIKE SHARRANS

Words, all the word (count): A whopping 4,262 baebeee

Creating a new viral bg3 fanfic idea in 3...2...1

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

Tonight was the night. It was now or never, and you knew deep down that you couldn't keep living this way.

Even though every inch of your heart and body was trained and conditioned to simply lie here in her arms, enjoy the ache between your legs, and find peace in the soft breaths that blanketed your ear with warmth. Absentmindedly, you drew a shape with the very tips of your fingers along the smooth skin of her bare chest. Only to realize as you retraced the shape that it was a heart.

Life here wasn't perfect. Far from it, most of the time. Shadowheart was a firm teacher. All you knew of Shar and now, sex, you learned from her. At least, as far back as you could remember. There are odd gaps in your memory that left you confused and unsure. Shadowheart had assured you that it was for the best, as it was the Dark Lady's will, and you had almost become content with her answer, ready to believe it yourself. Loss is a gift, after all. You should be grateful to Lady Shar.

At least until you started having flickers of moments come back to you. Laughs, warmth, knelt in dirt tending to a... garden, you assumed, so many animals... and consistently in all of them. A silver haired... vision. Stolen kisses, snuggled on the couch in the evening. Flickers were all you would get of these little dreams. And that was enough to leave you desperately aching for more. Even as foggy and faint as they are, they feel so... warm. Brimming with such happiness.

You know you shouldn't want it. While they were indeed very nice, they didn't quite feel like they were influenced by the Nightsinger, and that by itself should have led you to confide in Shadowheart and let that be the end of it.

But you hadn't told Shadowheart. And you still didn't when a mysterious woman came to you from a blinding silver light, telling you when and where to take your chance at freedom. It required sneaking away from your place at her side, disobeying her strict schedule for you. No wandering the halls after she retires to your bedchamber for the evening.

Instead, you had remained steadfast at Shadowheart's side as she led the cloister and her followers. Dutiful and loyal every Nightfall ritual, every sermon, all of it. As you had been for longer than you can recall.

Your eyes fell to the wound on the back of your right hand. It would match hers, if yours didn't extend along your wrist. She's told you hers is directly linked to Lady Shar. But yours was bound to Shadowheart. It was... instrumental in your education. Not only in the searing, unbearable pain... This wasn't your first attempt to run. It was just the first in a long time. And every time, your wound would burn and ache and glow... and Shadowheart would be right there to drag you back.

She used it to keep tabs on you.

After the last time she chained you to the bed for what you estimated had to be a month, you gave up on what seemed to be pointless. Shadowheart has seldom had to inflict your wound since.

Her eyelids fluttered before peeling open, meeting yours right away. "Something the matter, my love?" Shadowheart murmured, voice thick with sleep. Her arm drew you closer to her body. This time it was her fingers swirling patterns on the small of your back, tangling your legs together.

You had to bite back a sound when you felt your naked body melt perfectly to fit hers under the covers. Moving your hand from her chest to brush through her long, dark hair, "no... well... not exactly." You start before remembering you're supposed to be trying to get out of this bedchamber.

Shadowheart smiled lazily, leaning to press a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Hmm... what is not exactly the matter, then? Secrecy won't aid us in getting back to sleep, I'm afraid." She mutters against your skin before pulling away and meeting your eyes.

"I'm not sure. My mind feels restless..." you answer, not lying. Just... not offering the reason for it.

Her green eyes study you awhile, judging your response. Then you feel her hand wander away from the small of your back... lower... "I see... Perhaps you are in need of another lesson on the subject of finer torments..." Leaning down for the crook of your neck, working her knee between your thighs.

"Can I take a walk? A short one?" You hurry out, knowing if she gets much further, your plan is ruined.

Like you just blasphemed against Lady Shar, Shadowheart recoils back up and glares at you. "You know better than to ask me that."

Intimidated as you may be, you hold your ground. "Just this one time, please, and I swear I'll behave. You know I will, haven't I proven myself?" pleading, even staring into her eyes, risky as it is considering how easily you get lost in them.

The intensity of her stare makes you question the passing of time until she finally breaks the spell with a deep exhale through her nostrils. "Fine. But I'm accompanying you." Slowly disentangling your limbs from hers. "Might as well get dressed properly while I'm at it, seeing as I'm leading the compliment at first light..." she grumbles, her hand reaching for the cover to pull it back and off her.

Goddess, how could you have forgotten? The planning for the visit to the Gauntlet of Shar had taken up so much of her time lately. It would take her substantially more time to get dressed than you, with her dawning her armor and plait her hair. Despite knowing now you only had a few hours, as she intended to take you, her beloved, with her, your hand settles over hers.

Shadowheart pauses and watches you expectantly as you lean slowly closer. All it takes is your lips to brush hers for her to take control. Her hand gets weaves in the hair at the back of your neck, her mouth crashes onto yours in a voracious kiss, as if she's savoring every moment. With a firmness you've come to anticipate, she captures your lip between her teeth, drawing out a soft groan, as you surrender to the intimate dance of her tongue. With a tender touch, she runs her tongue over the small, bleeding wound she created on your bottom lip before deepening the kiss, her tongue entering your mouth at a tantalizingly slow pace.

You realize almost too late how slick your thighs are, and she lets you pull away to your immense surprise, welcoming you back into her arms when you lean into her. Her hand, still playing with the hair behind your head, guides you to rest on her shoulder. Securing you against her with her arm. "You sure I can't tempt you into lingering in bed with me?" She whispers into your ear, and you sense the way she smiles down at you when shiver.

How badly you want to quickly collides with how badly you want freedom, it almost makes your head spin. But you manage to both shake no and clear your mind. In your experience, saying no to her only hurts. Only denies you pleasure she so freely blesses you with. She'll claim what she wants, regardless. Why fight when being subservient is so much easier? So you tense. You wait for the inevitable.

But it never comes.

"Alright. But you're going to give me a proper answer before we return to this room." Shadowheart sighs, kissing the side of your head as she gently guides you off of her. "You've been such a good girl for me, I'll tolerate these little games of yours for a bit longer. But don't test my patience... After all," she said, her eyes narrowing, "you know better than to tell me no," a coldness creeping into her tone. Taking your hand into hers and kissing the wound. Holding a steady, unwavering eye contact throughout.

With that, she flings the covers off the both of you and swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm going to draw a bath, if you'd like one as well." Shadowheart says, voice tense as she stretches her limbs.

Taking a moment to admire the curves of her body, you bite your lip. "I would actually like to pray if that's acceptable?" As you slowly sit up in your shared bed.

"Of course, my love. You're welcome to join me after you're done." She flashes you a small, almost proud smile over her shoulder before she walks away, disappearing through the door leading to the bathroom.

You wait awhile. A pang of trepidation washes over you as you slide out of bed and find your clothes. Quiet as you can, you dress yourself in simple black trousers and tunic before tying a dark robe around you and flicking the hood up. Intentionally not wearing shoes to minimize the sound of your feet in what will surely be the mostly empty halls of the cloister.

Before you allow yourself to hesitate, you open the door only enough to slip through the gap and hurry down the halls. Careful to check corners and listen for the sound of patrolling guards, but reminding yourself almost obsessively how little time you have before Shadowheart realizes you're missing. To the best of your recollection, you follow the instructions the mysterious woman gave you to find your chance at freedom. Relief trickling in when you spot the door, just as the woman described it.

Cautiously, you rest your hand against it before attempting to open it. Admittedly, a little surprised when you discover it's unlocked. Slowly creeping through the door and closing it behind you before you look around. It's not a big room.

But there is someone suspended on two floating, metal disc things, the rims of which glowing violet with Sharran runes, arms spread, shirt tattered and worn.

You recognize that silvery hair immediately.

"And here I was worrying you were bored of me." And you'd recognize that voice anywhere. You tense, an instant urge to run nearly carries you out of the room. But it's... not her. Even if it was, it was better to just accept the consequences and whatever punishment she dispenses than make it worse. "What? It's unlike you... or me, to be so quiet. The one thing we have in common... We love the sound of our own voice." She continues, slowly lifting her head to look at you.

And you freeze, your blood runs cold. Shadowheart...??

Those same green eyes, the same braid, the same scar... And silver hair. Just like you remember.

Remember...

"...Y/n...?" she asks slowly, quietly. Her blustering mere moments ago, now timid as a mouse. "Is that... really you this time? No illusions? No games?" You can hear the reluctant hope in her voice, afraid to let it take hold of her.

Slowly, you slide the hood off your head, her eyes visibly shining at the sight of you. "Gods above, it really is you... you got away..." she trails off and noticeably swallows.

Questions race through your mind. This is... Shadowheart. But not... her either. Not the one you know. "The mystery lady said I'd find freedom in here." You say slowly, cautiously. Idiot. What if this is one of your lovers' clever traps?

Her eyebrows knit together in her own confusion. "Mystery lady...?"

You shake your head in mild irritation. "We don't have a lot of time, but I had a dream. A lady in silver light told me to find this room, and I'd find freedom." Hurrying out, crossing your arms tight across your chest and looking away, "fuck, what am I thinking? I shouldn't be here..."

"No, listen to me, y/n! They were right, I can help you!" The silver Shadowheart rushes out, desperation, but... you can read it. It's not motivated by self preservation. It's different.

This is wrong. What's gotten into you? "No, she's going to be so disappointed in me... They both are! I've done so well, been so obedient and studious, and now my Shadowheart and Lady Shar are going to... to..." you trail off, turning your back, but not quite able to move toward the door either. "I don't even know who you are... some... doppelgänger of my mistress?" Muttering under your breath, but the words reverberate gently against the walls of the mostly empty room. Save one larger chest and a tall armoire or something against the wall.

"Y/n..." she calls out softly behind you, her voice trying to coax you to face her again. "Y/n, my love... please... help me down, and I'll help you."

"You... I'm not your—" The words coming out as a snarl as you give in if only to glare and sear your defiance of her into her eyes.

But when you meet hers, stained with stray tears, waves crash over you. Memory after memory...

A portal buried in the forest. It was disrupting your quiet life in the countryside, and Shadowheart had convinced you it had to be dealt with. So you both came temporarily came out of retirement and tracked the thing down.

You found it easily enough, and you both sat in the brush, her leaning on the Blood of Lathander with its light turned off as you watched the patrols. But before you could make any sort of move, a guiding bolt hit Shadowheart in the back so hard it sent her flying out of the brush and into the field. You had spun around, tried to block your assailant, and they snapped your bow in half like it was a twig.

The Sharran Shadowheart made you watch as she used her wound to torture the Silver Shadowheart to degrees neither of you knew were possible.

It didn't take long after her screams turned to anguished sobs and pleas to stop... for you to surrender and give them whatever they wanted.

What a surprise it was you. They spared your partner.

Sometime later, you can't tell, you heard a commotion in the halls of the cloister and you snuck out of the bedchamber to investigate, abandoning the piles of tomes and books left for you to study. Again, you saw the Sharran Shadowheart standing over the Silver Shadowheart in the main hall...

And again later, Sharran Shadowheart instructing you as you did... horrible things to her... over and over.

To your horror, it all made sense. Sure, there were still gaps here and there, but there was enough there to make sense of what's happened.

"There you are, lover, there you are..." Shadowheart breathed out in relief, apparently recognizing the look in your eyes. "Quick, find a way to get me down and we can workshop the rest."

With a single nod, you look around before coming to a stop just as soon as you began. Instinct guides your gaze to your right hand, hidden in the length of your robe sleeve. As you hold it in front of you, the wounds on your hand and wrist, etched in the distinct patterns of Sharran runes, start to emit a gentle, pulsating light. You turn your hand over once or twice, studying the odd glow. Usually when it glows, it causes pain...

Shaking your head clear, you shuffle toward the disc and wave your hand at it, causing the platform to fade away, dropping Shadowheart to the ground on her hands and knees. But she doesn't stay there long before scrambling toward you.

Her arms envelope you in a rib crushing hug, one that you tentatively return. , nowhere near as strong. She's familiar this way... and not at all like the Sharran. "I've waited far too long to hold you again..." Shadowheart murmurs, nuzzling her nose into the crook of your neck.

When she pulls away, her hands quickly clasp around your right, lifting it and brushing the sleeve of your robe out of the way. You watch her lip quiver and her eyes gloss over, her soft fingers brushing over the wounds on your hand. And you notice a lack of one on hers. "When she said she was curing my wound, sparing my parents... If I had known what that monster wearing my face meant..." She sighs, holding it between her hands almost protectively.

Shadowheart quickly presses a peck to the back of your hand before rushing away to the armoire. A silver light falls over the door, and not a moment too late, it shakes as someone attempts to open it from the other side.

Followed by loud bangs and shouts. "Unless we're planning on teleporting out of here, we're kinda fucked..." you try to jest, but your voice wavers even to your ears. The silver light cracks, visibly weakening the more the door quakes and shudders under the force.

"Something like that." She says back, and a glance reveals she's already halfway through fastening her armor to her body with impressive dexterity. You admire how it seems so similar to Dark Justiciar armor, excluding the removal of all Sharran symbology, almost purely silver in color with the cloth around the neck a dark grey. Shadowheart flung the chest open next and reached in, pulling the mace and shield. Striding to your side, not a second to spare.

When the silver light shattered and the door swung open, every instinct in you was to return to her side and apologize for... for what?

Her dark hair was fixed like she always wore it, similar to the silver Shadowheart. Already in her armor, she did say she was going to get dressed... and you were supposed to leave the cloister with her in a few hours. What you didn't expect was the spear in her hand. The gold decals reflected beautifully on the polished silver, the Sharran symbol boldly emblazoned on her chest, the purple cloth more familiar to you now.

You can still remember playing with it in your fingers when you hugged her yesterday.

"I'll behave," Sharran Shadowheart says with an edge of venom to her words, "You know I will. Haven't I proven myself?" She parrots your words to her earlier in bed. Her fury softens in her eyes, glancing away, tipping her head briefly to one side as if in a nod. "I'll admit, I'm a touch proud you've taken so well to our lessons together. I should have been more guarded against your deception."

Silver Shadowheart nudges you behind her, and the fury returns in full force. "But that doesn't mean your punishment will be any less severe. Now come to me, and I'll handle this... embarrassment."

"She's not going anywhere with you." Shadowheart spits protectively, holding her arm in front of you. "I won't let you touch a hair on her head." Her glare fixed straight at the Sharran.

Instead of meeting it, the Sharran's eyes find yours and glow a soft violet. You know it before you feel it. Your hand seizes up, burning agony sends you to your knees and unleashes a piercing cry into the room. "Now, pet." She demands, voice cold while you cradle your arm against you.

Before you can try crawling across the cold stone floor to her, Shadowheart swiftly moves, her boots scraping against the ground. "Flagra!" she shouts, her voice echoing through the chamber. A blinding bolt of guiding light fires off her outstretched hand, the air crackling with energy as it streaks towards the Sharran. With lightning reflexes, she dodges the bolt.

The clash of metal reverberates through the room as the two clerics engage each other, their weapons clanging together, creating a symphony of steel. "Y/n, the chest!" Shadowheart's voice cuts through the chaos, a command laced with urgency. Shadowheart's shield collides with the Sharran's spear, the impact reverberating through the room, sending vibrations through the ground beneath your palms. With a swift motion, Shadowheart swings her mace upwards, the metallic clang of the weapon connecting with the Sharran's chestplate resonating in your ears. The Sharran hisses in pain and retaliation, swinging her spear with a renewed ferocity.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you witness the intense battle unfold. The room feels charged with energy; air crackling with anticipation. Still reeling from the pain, you stumble to your feet and reach the chest.

Shiny and sparkly, an amulet waits on the bottom. Just a smooth white disc, dotted with speckles of grey. A moon. The moment your fingers brush it, all nine hells break loose.

Your wound flares for starters, as if you've touched the most heinous thing in Sharran history, appearing with a loud boom and rush of air, a blue portal appears on the back wall and instinctively, the amulet in your hand, you swing your arm around.

Chains emerge from the floor, curling around the Sharran's legs first, then her hands. The spear clangs to the floor as she pulls and tears with strength you've seldom seen her need to muster. Wincing as the links in the chains give out several times before re-fixing to her limbs until they can pull her to her knees. "You insolent, pathetic...!" she growls loudly. Whether it's directed at you or Shadowheart, you don't think you want to know. The wound on your hand and wrist simmer and burn, the glow shifting from a purple to a red, then pulses with shades of violet.

Emerging from the portal, a silver-skinned man with glowing eyes that looks... also familiar. But your memory is still too tattered to recall him. "I see you succeeded at last, Shadowheart. And put an end to Shar's tampering with the threads of reality." He smiles and approaches the Sharran. Studying her a moment before looking at Shadowheart. "Well done. You may take our friend away from here and do whatever you wish. I will take it from here." As he slowly circles around your... former lover?

"I will get free. And when I do, I will shear your skin from your bones, then offer them to Lady Shar. You will watch as I break my pet all over again, purging the memory of you from her mind and fucking the rest from her skull." The Sharran fumes, her voice low, cold and menacing.

Shadowheart doesn't even flinch. If anything, she smirks. "If you could do all that without destroying us both, you would have already." She says simply, sheathing her mace and shield as red glowing sigils surround the Sharran in a wide circle where she kneels on the floor.

Gazing beyond her, she catches sight of you, practically cowering behind Shadowheart. "Don't worry. No matter where you go, the depths you flee to... Where she hides you, or the cloak she weaves around you... I will find you. And I'll spend every evening retraining you what it means to belong to me. That, I swear in the Nightsingers' name." Her words, spoken low, still echo in the relative silence of the room. Carrying the sharpened edge of a thinly veiled threat.

Or a promise.

As you cautiously emerge from behind Shadowheart, her arm instinctively reaches out to catch you before reluctantly releasing its grip allowing you to close some of the distance between you. Choosing instead to watch the Sharran with a piercing glare of her own.

She... your... lover watches you with a coldness. An invitation in her eyes, it's not too late to call on Lady Shar to restore this life with her. To return to Shadowhearts embrace.

"Let go, mistress," you intone, observing the briefest flicker of pain like you had driven a dagger through her chest, "embrace loss."

"As will you... When I raze that world in the Dark Lady's name." There's no hatred. No anger, no venom. Only tenderness, like a whispered sweet nothing. Like you're in her arms again, while she whispers scripture and proverbs in your ear.

Shadowhearts' hand rests on your shoulder. "She's spewing nonsense." She reassures, gently turning you away. "Let's go home... I'm sure Buttons will be eager to see us." Gracing you with a warm smile, her hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the portal. Only giving the silver-skinned man a nod.

You can't help but look back once, Her, kneeling on the floor, bound and chained and encircled by ominous red sigils... before her delicate touch nudges you over the threshold.

Warm, wet sensations wash over you, for how long you're not sure.

What you do know is you appear in front of a couch in a sizeable though quaint cottage. Animals startle, hiss and bark, scattering in all directions. Numbness, emptiness, the only feelings you know for a moment.

Then grief. Mourning. The shattering of your heart for too many reasons to hold on to and understand all at once.

You collapse to your knees, arms quickly encircling you, another body joins you on the wooden floor, warm arms holding you tighter as the first sob overtakes your whole body. Tighter still when they become louder. You can still recognize Shadowhearts' fingers in your hair in an effort to soothe you. Her words in your ear, promises of safety, of yours and her wellbeing, that it's over.

However long she holds you for, you're not sure. Through it all, you only feel one thing and deep down you know it's not true nor right....

Loss.

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A/N: GUYS I DID IT LAST DAMN MINUTE OH GAWD. HERES THE DARK JUSTICIAR FIC, I'M SORRY IF ITS AWFUL I LITERALLY ONLY STARTED WRITING IN LIKE YESTERDAY AFTERNOON (I had scrapped it and rewrote it from scratch around 5-6 times throughout the week)

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate #bg3 #shadowheart #baldurs gate shadowheart #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate fanfiction #dark justiciar shadow heart #shadowheartxf!reader #bg3 shadowheart #shadowheart x tav #dark justiciar

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siancore · 2 years ago

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Attoye Canon Divergent | DarkFic | Explicit | 1.8k | Part 1/3

Summary: Okoye offers herself to be taken by the Talokanil in place of Shuri. As is customary with prisoners of war, they are to be sacrificed to Ku'ku'lkán. However, Attuma is infatuated with the Wakandan beauty and asks his God-King if he can claim her as spoils of war. Okoye has a plan, and she will allow the Talokanil warrior have his way with her to execute her plan.

Content Warnings: Dubcon; explicit sex; language; power imbalance; obsession; violence; dark!Attuma

You are responsible for the content you consume. Heed the warnings and act accordingly.

“Your obsession with the Surface Dweller woman is distracting you,” said Namora, as she stared up at Attuma.

He gave her a glare that was annoyed but also a warning, as he said, “You would do well to not concern yourself with what holds my interest.”

“I know how you are,” Namora stated plainly. “Your appetite and reputation has you held in esteem here by these simpleminded girls who think that you care enough to wed them after you bed them. The Wakandan warrior does not seem like she is as foolish as your usual conquests. Can you say in all earnestness, that she would want you in return? That this obsession is worth your time and energy?”

“She will yield to me.”

“You are arrogant, Brother.”

“So I have been told,” he said while running his hand over the place where the cut the Wakandan woman had inflicted had already healed. “It works in my favor.”

“Must I remind you that spoils of war are sacrificed to Ku'ku'lkán?”

“Need I remind you that our King rewards those who are valiant in battle? She will be mine,” said Attuma resolutely. “I will have her.”

…

Okoye studied the cavern that she and Riri were confined to. It was comfortable enough. Lit by glow worms and oddly temperate. Servants brought them food and water. No one had threatened them or harmed them. She figured that was still to come.

When Okoye had said ‘take me’, she knew very well there was the chance of harm coming to her. She was ready to die in service of the throne of Wakanda. If she could somehow get the Talokanil to release the young scientist, that would be at least one battle won. If she could take out their leader while she was there, it would all be worth it. For now, the Princess was safe, and the Talokanil had what they wanted. Okoye would play her part, and then make her move. The Talokanil General seemed to take a liking to her, maybe she could use that to her advantage.

…

“You have an abundant supply of young women here who would gladly please every one of your whims,” said Ku'ku'lkán as he sat atop his throne and watched Attuma with interest. “What does this woman incite in you that you would ask for one of my sacrifices?”

“Father, I do not ask much of you,” said Attuma in earnest. “I serve you and revere you. I am a diligent servant and soldier. I want her, the Wakandan woman. I ask you graciously if you would grant me this blessing?”

“Why should I gift you such a boon? What makes this woman so special?”

Attuma took a deep breath and steadied himself, “Father, I do not admit defeat. I would rather perish. This woman, this warrior, she caught me off guard for the briefest of moments. She struck me and drew my blood.”

Ku'ku'lkán tilted his head to the side, an intrigued expression graced his handsome face, as he said, “Remarkable.”

“Indeed,” said Attuma, as he placed a fisted hand to his chest and dipped his head. “She has drawn my blood. She has seen my soul. We are bonded, my King. I must have her.”

“Yes, my Son,” Ku'ku'lkán said in earnest. “You are bonded and she is yours. Take her. You have my blessing.”

…

The young scientist had awoken and had swiftly been removed to separate chambers. Okoye had protested, had broken the arm of one of the sentry guards, and had to be restrained. Her wrists were bound and she was put in a smaller cavern behind a holographic screen that held her captive. She was a captive, there in that faraway place. She had taken note of the décor and knew this place to be an offshoot of Mesoamerican civilization. If her understanding proved true, and the Talokanil observed the practices of their ancestors, she would not be long for this world or held prisoner indefinitely. She planned to do as much damage as she could.

…

Okoye had been trained in how to endure capture. She had kept a vague count on how much time she had spent in her cell. She figured an hour or so had passed. A guard walked by the cell every thirty minutes and had passed twice already. She glanced to the ceiling but then heard muffled words from just beyond the screen. It dissolved and then she was face-to-face with her adversary.

“Get to your feet,” he ordered, his words translated by her Kimoyo beads.

“Where is the girl?” she asked, standing with some difficulty.

“She is safe,” the man replied. “What is your name?”

“General Okoye of the Dora Milaje.”

“General Attuma of Talokan,” he said with a hand to his chest. “You are mine, Okoye.”

She gave him a questioning stare as he stepped forward and swooped her up, placing her over his shoulder and carrying her away. She had wanted to protest, but there was a singing in her ear that caused her to remain quiet. She wanted to struggle, to fight him off, but the singing caused her to grow pliant. Attuma of Talokan carried her to another enclave. It was a small room with a bed in the center. He placed her onto the bed and then stepped back. She found her voice once more.

“What is the meaning of this?” Okoye demanded.

“You belong to me,” said Attuma.

“I belong to no man!” said Okoye, causing him to laugh. “You think this is amusing. Untie me and see how funny I am.”

Attuma took her in a moment, considered her, and then stepped forward. He pulled a blade from under his ex and held it out. Okoye did not flinch, though she watched his movement. He brought the blade to her face, ran the sharp edge along her jawline, and then grinned. She kept her gaze locked on his, breathed slowly, and anticipated his next move. Attuma brought the blade to where Okoye’s wrists had been tied and the cut the rope away. She went to punch him, but he caught her wrist in his hand and tutted at her.

“Come now, Pretty Flower, there is time enough for that later,” said Attuma as he brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“What do you want from me?” asked Okoye, steeling herself for what was about to come.

“I am a simple man,” said Attuma, as he caressed Okoye’s face. “I want everything from you. Mind. Heart. Soul. Body. Everything.”

xXxXx

“Be still, Pretty Flower,” said the one they called Attuma. “Do not move.”

Okoye did as she was told, naked and supine on the pallet, and watched as Attuma began to remove his clothing. He began with his pauldron, placing them aside, and then took off his head dress. His hair was long and the color of a raven’s plume. Okoye was somehow entranced. He was larger than she had remembered when they had done battle. His chest was broad, his shoulders wide, and his legs thick. Keloid scars adorned his abdomen beautifully and Okoye could not take her eyes off of him. He noticed and a crooked, amused smile tugged at his lips.

He ran his fingers over the waistband of his ex and then tugged the garment down slowly. Okoye’s eyes tracked the movement; widening when he stripped the loincloth away to reveal his erection. It sprang forward and stood proudly. Okoye swallowed hard at the sight of Attuma’s manhood. It was large. Long and thick. The tip was leaking from his arousal. Okoye felt a pulsing between her legs.

Okoye had always been in control. Always knew what she wanted, even from a young age. She always had her sights set on things bigger than herself. Always put other people’s needs before her own. She was a leader. Someone people looked to for guidance. Someone who had a lot weighing on her shoulders. She was playful at heart, but her outward image hardly allowed her to express it. Rarely had she afforded herself the chance to just be. To let go. To relinquish the tight grasp she had over her life. That was until she met Attuma of Talokan. Until he was standing in front of her, in all of his naked glory, staring at her like he was a starved man who would gladly devour her.

Attuma stood there, stroking his big cock in his big hand, watching Okoye.

“Open your legs,” he ordered and Okoye did as he commanded.

Attuma shifted closer and kneeled on the bed. He glanced down at Okoye’s sex, spread open for him. She was wet and shimmering. This pleased him.

“You are wet for me, hmm? So easily?”

“Fuck you,” she replied.

“In time,” he said and placed a hand to her thigh and squeezed.

He drew her legs further apart and looked closer. She felt so vulnerable like that, spreadeagled and pliant to his touch. He began to stroke his cock and growled at the sight of Okoye’s juices slowly running from her swollen folds down to her ass. He pressed a finger to her sex, and she let out a shameless moan.

“You really are a pretty flower,” he said as he leaned down between her thighs. “You have the loveliest gash I have seen.”

“Your mouth is filthy,” said Okoye, even though a pleasured shiver coursed through her body at his vulgar words.

He smiled at her and brought his face closer to her sex, before saying, “I know.”

He licked his tongue over her slit causing her to writhe at the contact. Attuma then kissed his way up Okoye’s body, between her breasts, before coming to her mouth. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip before capturing her mouth in a claiming kiss. She tasted the remnants of her own arousal on his tongue.

“You are sweet,” he said as he kissed her neck and lapped at her earlobe. “A perfect match to my brininess.”

He kissed her clavicle and said, “You are warm: A match to my coolness.”

Attuma positioned himself between Okoye’s legs and rubbed the tip of his cock against her opening.

“You are soft,” he whispered, causing her skin to prickle. “So soft against my hardness.”

He kissed Okoye’s lips once more as he inched himself inside of her sweet, hot cunt.

“You are mine,” he murmured as her walls enveloped his length. “Say it.”

Okoye’s eyes rolled shut at the sensation of being impaled by Attuma. He bottomed out and stayed there, stretching her around his girth; breathing against her skin; holding her in place.

“Say it, Pretty Flower,” Attuma demanded as he placed a firm hand to her throat. “Say that you are mine.”

Okoye swallowed hard and then opened her eyes, staring into Attuma’s before saying, “If you covet me, you had better show me how badly you want me. You had better prove it.”

Attuma smiled down at Okoye, tightened his grip on her throat, and then withdrew his cock to the tip before thrusting it into her with bone shattering force.

“For you,” he said breathlessly, as he drove himself into her again and again. “Gladly.”

#attoye #attuma x okoye #okoye x attuma

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best-wishes · 9 months ago

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Don’t Look Back Part 8 - Epilogue

Beware, it’s the final part, to find the beginning of the story, it’s here

CW: Major Character Death, Child Death, Mourning ---

Hob watched as the paper burnt into the fire, a black wave invading the white page. The smell of burnt ink and paper sent him back to another life, long ago, in France, where his life had taken a fateful turn. Had he been wrong, to go back in time? Or was he only changing now? Did it matter? Hob never wanted to live the perfect life. He relished making his own mistakes. They weren't a loss, as long as he learnt from them.

And one of the lessons he had learnt was that eternity could not be faced alone.

"Hob Gadling," a deep voice rang behind Hob.

Hob turned away from his contemplation of the fire, and walked toward his guest.

"Morpheus, my friend."

They both sat in their usual seats. The Lord of Dream visited often enough that Hob had set up a permanent chair for his friend in his office. Every time Hob looked at that chair, something warm settled inside his chest. He was not in this on his own.

"Is it today?" Morpheus asked.

"It is." Hob confirmed.

It was the day of Robyn's death. Hob had not remembered the exact date from the previous lives. The first time, he had not been sober enough to remember which day it was, when they brought his son back from the pub. The second one, he had been in prison for too long, not keeping track of the time.

"Robyn had gone to the local pub with his friends. There will likely be a fight, and he will be stabbed and bleed out."

Hob looked at his hands. He felt unreal, like a character that would know that they are in a play.

"I did nothing to stop him. I tried, at first, you know. After Eleanor's second death, I attempted everything I could think of. I tried saving people that I knew would die. Diverted their fate, warned them of the danger. It never worked out. I even tried killing one, and got caught."

"Messing with Destiny's book does nothing to stop my sister from collecting her due." Dream explains.

"I inferred that myself after the first life, yes. But I had to do it, because I had to do everything I could to save my son."

Dream acquiesced.

"You are a better father than I am," he said.

"I am not sure."

"You did everything you could to save your son. I did not try saving mine."

"I tried everything, and I failed. You see, one of the most difficult lessons to learn as a parent, at least for me, was that I had to let him make his own mistakes. It is tempting to warn them of danger, to outright forbid what is not good for them. Often, they won't listen, and you pester them. They need to make their own mistakes, and learn from them. Sometimes, they will draw a widely different lesson that the one you drew from the same mistake. Sometimes, what was your mistake is their joy. But most of all, the right to be wrong is what allows us to grow. And that is a lesson that you most certainly mastered way better than I do, my friend."

"That does not stop me from regretting doing nothing." Dream muttered. "I failed him."

"Morpheus, don't. It is tempting, when we see our children's failures, to consider them our own. And for decades I wondered what I failed, as a parent, that my son should die at twenty. But doing this is a way to negate their agency. How would you feel, if your father berated himself for the mistakes you made. Would it not feel infantilising? Would it not deny that you are your own person, making your own choices. I know I would have my father thinking so about me."

Hob had postulated that, for Dream to have siblings, he should also have parents. Seeing the doubtful expression of Morpheus, his father, if he had one, was not likely to take responsibility for any of his offspring's errors.

Hob closed the space between them, letting a hand land on Morpheus' shoulder.

"Your son made his choice, like I am letting mine's do today. You can deplore it, but do not let it weight on you."

Morpheus looked into Hob's eyes, and a ghost of a smile graced his lips.

"Look at you, Hob Gadling. I thought I would be called to comfort you on this tragic day. Instead, you are comforting me."

"That's what friends are for."

"And what a friend you are," Morpheus answered, placing his hand over Hob's.

---

"I saw a production of the Love of Sisyphus, yesterday," Hob told Morpheus. "It was as weird as it always is, seeing someone playing me. The idiots had given it a happy ending."

"That will not last. The great stories always return to their original forms."

"Is there an original form to this one, though? Will Shakespeare never wrote it in this life. When I was accused of being in league with the Devil, and to be clear, you were the one they called the Devil, they confiscated all my belongings, including the copy of the play you gave to Eleanor. We almost had to start all over again that day. Good thing you are good at answering calls."

That day, Hob had been confronted by Ned and the guard about his friendship with the mysterious dark man he kept meeting and that no one else knew. Because it was Ned, Hob knew it was useless to try talking it through. Running was his only option. Good thing he had taken the habit to carry a bit of paper with Morpheus' name on it, in case of emergency.

The Lord of Nightmares had appeared in all his splendour that day, black cape swirling like a cloud of smoke, striking all the assailants down with dreadful visions.

Hob Gadling had reinvented himself, and the legend of Robert Gadlen, best friend of the Devil, had been born. Hob had seen a play about it as well. It was so inaccurate Hob had been choking with laughter for the whole thing.

"After all," Hob added, "would you not say that, in the end, Hob did get a happy ending?"

---

And this is the end. If you read until here, thank you so much, I hope you liked the story despite its flaws.

#the sandman #fanfiction #centennial husbands #centennial husbands big bang 2024 #don’t look back

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artsycervidae · 7 months ago

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Moksha: Chapter 3, Intermission

Nobutoshi reflects on the people he knew. A dangerous concoction has been set up.

Word Count: 7.6k

Refer to this post for triggers and chapter listings.

Sixth Form: Lunar Dispersing Mist.

Ishikawa Nobutoshi appreciated the balance of this Breathing form: the grace of the somersault, the power of each blow, the precision in its proportions ensuring victory. It was without cruelty that the demon sizzled and floated away. Though a simple strike to the throat would always be enough to slay the creatures, Nobutoshi preferred not to drag things out. In small sections, the demon became smoke faster than it could process its fate. May it die as it lived: thoughtlessly.

But this kill had been sloppy, his uncertainty leaving the chunks in vaguely uneven portions. He stopped. He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to full capacity. He exhaled smoothly and allowed the peace to flow into his hands. The sword steadied.

At that moment, the sun saw fit to bless his centeredness, tender lily rays peering through the clouds to see what this day beheld. As he moved on to the next objective, he allowed himself to wonder:

Was a year after Final Selection long enough? Should Nobutoshi have kept Tetsuya back with him, rather than sent him with that monster?

There was no arguing the age: most well-bred Slayers became applicants within the twelve to fourteen year range, nowadays. Tetsuya had seen the whole thing as a rite of passage, and though he wasn't wrong, Nobutoshi never felt like it was time yet. Twelve was too young to face demons and death alone for a whole week. It felt unreal that Nobutoshi had done the very same thing at that age. It seemed so long ago. How the decade drags on.

Even before the ritual, Nobutoshi wanted Tetsuya to stay back with him at all times. There was always more training to do, and though Tetsuya was a star pupil, there were snags in communication. Things that Nobutoshi couldn't always explain away, because they involved deeper nuance that Tetsuya wasn't ready for. Some of the questions the boy asked were entire lectures on their own.

"What is it that your eyes can see, Teacher?"

"When did you meet my sister?"

"What was your Final Selection like, Teacher?"

He had answered these questions the very night before Tetsuya's initiation. He wanted his pupil to understand the gravity of that little hunting trip, and he wanted to remind himself of why Tetsuya needed to go. But he had never told Tetsuya the version with Yasumoto. The boy had been given a sanitized version of the truth: a cautionary tale against letting your guard down, just scary enough to match the reality, but simpler. If hypothetically, he didn't share a specific past with Hinata, then there was nothing to linger or agonize over.

Now he worried at the loose threads of his year-old tale; he hoped that Tetsuya didn't peer too deeply or sense the counterfeit. So much had been included. Too much had been omitted. Tetsuya could easily make himself dear to Hinata, but to believe that Hinata could return fondness was naive at best. They would keep Tetsuya alive but it was a faulty scale he stood upon, where the needle could swing any way.

------

The reality was that, out of nearly thirty applicants, only three of them escaped that demon prison. Nobutoshi couldn't forget the faces of the deceased. Though he didn't know their names, their expressions and gestures existed even past their deaths, if only as stray recollections. A random face in the crowd, preserved in his memory forever, solely because Nobutoshi took the time to look.

Ishikawa Nobutoshi was member to one of the final proud bloodlines specializing in Mist Breathing: he was the tsuguko of his father, Ishikawa Jin, tsuguko to his father before that; like both of them, he had been gifted with the Sight-- ("what's that, Teacher?")-- which left him with a very solid handle on their technique. Keen observation, child. To be able to see in stark detail what others may gloss over. To see through the smoke and fog. And sometimes to see beyond the veil, to the dead. (Cue the jaw drop here.)

And into the nuances they went. To say his family saw ghosts was inaccurate-- he saw lasting imprints, echoes of the passed, and only from time to time. Ghosts appeared in dreams, perhaps in dire moments, to deliver a message of warning. To interact with ghosts was a rarity-- perhaps even impossible, allegory at best. Most importantly, Nobutoshi saw 'life energy.' ("Like an aura, Teacher?") Yes. An apt comparison. ("Can you see the future?") No, this talent was not powerful enough for clairvoyance. He could not read visions or minds or pasts, only see what he saw in auras and microexpressions ("What kind of a microexpression?") and draw conclusions. Patience.

It was because of this Sight, his ability to see 'auras,' that he noticed Hashimoto Junko. As the instructions for their week-long survival test were delivered by the Ubuyashiki children, Nobutoshi couldn't help craning his head now and again, squinting. Because she was candescent in beauty and power and life energy. Now, the aura was a metaphor-- (Tetsuya frowned at this, perhaps mourning the image of his older sibling as a glorious star in a sea of color)-- and it had to be understood with context. The flare of someone's nose might express discontent, or a sneeze. But every detail Nobutoshi saw of her betrayed her sheer potential as a deeply empathetic leader. The soft sway of her eyelashes and the careful way she held her sword away from others. The whisper of her shoulder-length curls, blonde at the roots and thriving to luxurious auburn waves. The ethereal purple glow of the wisteria off her earthen hair. The far-off yet to-earth glances she cast to the darkening sky.

Junko, legs as powerful trunks and arms as graceful boughs, stood to the back wall and waited for everyone else to leave first. Nobody else seemed to notice her, passing her by to enter the woods of the Final Selection arena. Nobutoshi saw a chance: had approached her, idly wondering what she had scried from the clouds. "Nothing," she chirped amiably. "I just wanted things to be fair for the others."

For not only was Junko the precursor to Foliage Breathing (and future Foliage Hashira, one of the most incredible Demon Slayers that Nobutoshi had the honor of knowing), she was also a marechi: a human with extraordinary blood, coveted by demons for the sheer power in their veins worth dozens of human meals. By wandering in with the crowd, she would have drawn most of the demons to the others, culling a year's crop of Slayers.

She clenched her jaw as she expressed this concern, loathing the idea of anyone facing harm due to her proximity. Perhaps it had happened before. Her palm cupped the end of her sword and tipped it forward, ready to face the incoming tide. Her path, strafing for the west, indicated she wasn't afraid to be alone. Nobutoshi had fallen in love with her immediately (though that had been omitted from the version he told Tetsuya, as it seemed distasteful.)

In the version he told his student, Nobutoshi valiantly stuck alongside Junko out of a sense of nobility-- it was a principle of the Demon Corps to protect others. They were discussing said principles, whether it was braver to stand against the odds of death and despair or rely on the power of friendship; Nobutoshi had made the demonstration that Junko would only occasionally be against the odds alone.

"Most Slayers' paths meet again while traveling between demon sightings. If we have a chance of working together in the future, then we should get to know each other."

Junko had thought that funny and snorted. "I like the confidence! I guess if you don't mind having my target on your back, I won't mind you sticking around."

It was a fierce Rengoku Kenzou who leapt in enthusiastically, clapping a hand on Nobutoshi's arm with "Yes! See? Exactly. There's no rule saying we can't unite against the common foe!" Seemingly out of nowhere, but apparently having straggled along with them, the fiery-haired boy wasn't alone.

"Exactly," his ashen shadow echoed, their own skeleton fingers creeping onto Junko's shoulder, "Demons are notoriously territorial. If they collect in an area, it's typically in service to a singular leader. Humans are natural pack creatures and their greatest ability is cooperation. For demons, it is dominance." (Because Hinata never appeared in the revision he told Tetsuya, Nobutoshi never had to claim the sudden greediness in which he wanted to slap their hand off of Junko. Hinata existed only as an extension of Kenzou-- a second mind running parallel, perpendicular, and any other direction its partner deemed suitable.)

"Can you believe that nobody else wanted to travel as a caravan across the mountain?" Kenzou asked, to which Junko grinned.

"Makes sense they would reject us," Hinata commented. "Nobody likes the idea of congregating in an easily-trackable food line."

"It's better to remain in smaller, more manageable groups. Large gatherings can also draw the attention of governments and civilians," Nobutoshi said aloud, turning his head away as though he weren't really a part of the discussion. Specifically looking away from Hinata. What he saw unnerved him.

"Weren't you the one just arguing for Demon Slayers to unite their forces?" Junko prodded.

"To a reasonable extent. It makes no sense to give demons an accessible buffet."

"I don't have the luxury of inaccessibility," she admitted, and Nobutoshi fretted that he had said something wrong. "I should let you know-- demons will be all over us. They'll be especially sensitive to me."

"We heard you," Kenzou admitted-- this, Hinata nodded to in affirmation. "It doesn't matter to us. If anything, we want to stick by you more!" And, with all the passion and deliberateness of a child, the Rengoku insisted, "Relying on each other is how humanity progresses. Nothing we do matters if we can't help one another."

"You just want to see the demons," Hinata needled, and the hot-headed child spun around, offended and affronted. "It's okay! Me too," they grinned, resting a hand on Kenzou's short crop of hair.

"When is the last time any of you saw a demon?" Junko asked, playfully unimpressed. "Do you even know what a demon looks like?"

"Never seen one!" was Kenzou's honest answer.

"Once. In a past life," was Hinata's coy reply.

It left Nobutoshi to answer. "A month ago," in a tone that pleaded nobody ask anything further. The Sight was doubly useful in that if ever confronted with a demon, he would recognize it for what it was. There were other tells beyond the sharp teeth, distorted eyes, and insatiable cannibalism. In that aura-metaphor he created for Tetsuya's understanding, he described it as a sinking whirlpool of rot-- something grabbing, devouring, putrifying, scheming, writhing, desperate to cling and purge and destroy. He didn't see that when he looked at Hinata, though their pronounced canines always gave him a kneejerk anxiety.

There was nothing there. Hinata was an emptiness-- a hole cut into the scene. All Nobutoshi could make out of them was what they reflected in deference to Kenzou.

"A month ago?!" Kenzou burst, clearly too lacking in social cues. "What happened?"

"You're too young to get it yet," Hinata said by way of explanation. "I'm surprised you haven't realized yet, Ken. They're both tsuguko-in-training, like Kai."

"What? Really?!"

Junko said, "Hold on, how old are you?!"

When the sun came down, the demons came out in pockmarks of itching, clawing auras. And then the screams of children being hunted and torn to pieces. That night, Nobutoshi saw the fear in all of them. The fervent determination from Kenzou mirrored on Hinata's pale face. Junko's set brows and misted eyes. The caravan was not without its own harassment. True to Junko's word, the demons came out in droves to devour them all, her specifically. But by then, the children had time to talk and plan. They were ready.

Nobutoshi had been their front line. Even on the moonless night, he could see perfectly through the trees and mist, kicking up dirt with his footwork as he surged in the Sea of Clouds and Haze. He could pick demons off or leave them discombobulated, completely at a loss for what came next. Though Nobutoshi went ahead, he knew that help wasn't far behind: he couldn't mimic specific bird whistles like Hinata could, but his appropriation of a hooting owl got the message to his aid just as well. Hinata, certainly the slipperiest of them all, communicated on back.

The Flame Breathers took on the brunt of the fight together. Any demons who could slip beyond Nobutoshi's scouting defense had to answer to the twin firestorms: Kenzou and his flash of Unknowing Fire, a blazing streak. Hinata following, a trail of smoke with a smoldering Rising Scorching Sun, before falling behind even further.

Junko, being the main target of their opponents, held up the caboose, with skill well above her company's. Her Third Form: Falling Leaf Storm was the envy of all, moving within the afterimage of her opponents, shoulder blade to shoulder blade, spinning and twirling until her blade swiped through the air and lopped their heads off in a long, fluid dance. By the time Hinata could have handled a single demon, Junko would have taken down three before sending Hinata back to Nobutoshi with her intel.

When the sun came up, they prepared for rest in cycles. Hinata had mentioned to Kenzou the possibility of mutated night creatures whose fantastical strength dipped into the supernatural: brave as Kenzou was, he was nine and too scared to sleep without the assurance of safety. Which Hinata assured with the first watch.

Nobutoshi had watched them move to higher ground, their eyes pleased to have something to do, and wondered if terrorizing Kenzou had been according to their plan. They could have simply volunteered, if they wanted something to do so badly.

Even with two teammates by each side and a protector looking over them, Kenzou was too awake: bodily tired, but betrayed by the circadian rhythm and mental excitement of sleeping in one space with new friends. "Tell me about your families," Kenzou requested, earnestly. "Ishikawa, I recognize your name! It took me some time to remember--" (and perhaps that was one of the quiet conversations he had whispered with Hinata that day) "-- but you're close to... the Master's family, right?" His voice dropped, scared to let even imprisoned demons overhear discussion on their leader.

"Sort of. A couple of their daughters have married into the Ishikawa name. We pledge our lives to protecting the Ubuyashiki and to slaying demons. We always have: the Mist Breathing fighting style is like a family heirloom now."

"That's amazing," Junko commented from the other end of their small camp. "Are you related by birth?"

"A great-great-grandmother of mine married into our family from the Master's," he recalled.

"Wow," Kenzou oozed admiration. "... hey. I've heard rumors about the Master's abilities. And about the family in general."

Nobutoshi knew what he was getting at. "I can't see the future," he interposed. "... but I can see things."

"Like?"

So Nobutoshi told them about his pedigree. Kenzou demanded a story, an example (to which listening Tetsuya leaned in, eager to finally have a reference point). Nobutoshi recalled some of the other applicants. There had been a girl, flanked by two columns (who he suspected were her parents.) Another boy had a large, handprinted absence in the center of his back (where a loved one gave him one last boost to safety.) Everyone had taken in his theories with quiet respect.

"That's..." was all Kenzou could say at first. "That's incredible. And sad. It makes me feel a little... unprepared."

"Don't discredit your lineage," Nobutoshi scolded. "The Rengoku family has held the Flame pillar for generations. Your father is the current Flame Hashira, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Kenzou admitted sheepishly. "But I'm third in line. So my oldest brother, Kai, will be Hashira next. And he's going to pick up the training for my next brother, Shiori, and then he's going to train me!"

Kenzou, meanwhile, had burned brightest of the Rengoku children, mastering Flame Breathing in a matter of months and taking the Final Selection at the tender age of nine. Kenzou had always been naturally talented, always beloved by all. It was clear to see he made plenty of friends, if not from his passion then with his frank earnestness. "Hinata trained with my older brothers," Kenzou added helpfully. "But they only just impressed Auntie Keiko's traditional standard."

"And where does Hinata fit in?" Nobutoshi had asked. "Are you... related?"

That got laughter from Kenzou and Junko, which made Nobutoshi embarrassed. "No," Kenzou said, "They're one of the many acolytes of Flame Breathing, though. My father saved their life."

As the story went, there was a demon stalking a rural mountain village, the only path to which was too dangerous to travel in winter. This didn't always dissuade unlucky travelers. Only after a couple years did the coincidences draw ample suspicion. The Flame Hashira, Rengoku Kosuke, arrived just in time to rescue the only survivor of some unlucky wagon crash: somehow having made by for approximately two months up in the wild snowy mountains. "They were malnourished and half-dead; Auntie says they were really disturbed for a year or so after they were found, but otherwise totally okay. Well," Kenzou considered, "except for their fingers."

"Their fingers?"

"Yeah! To hypothermia, on their left hand-- they also lost a toe, I guess."

Hinata was fast, instinctive, and felt indebted. Somehow that settled it. They had been introduced to Keiko, Kenzou's aunt and teacher, and remained with her for five years to recover and improve over the course of time. Becoming stronger, despite their... imbalances. Kenzou debated over sharing the more intimate details of his peer's life, glancing in the direction they had left, before saying, "I don't know how much they remember. But it's better to ask them more about what happened... up there. Nobody talks much about it anymore, so..."

Everyone understood. Nobody pushed the subject. Of course, none of this made it to Tetsuya. He had been given an abridged history on the Rengoku family and their impressive standing in the Demon Corps; accuracy returned at the point when Kenzou looked to Junko with expectant orange eyes.

"My turn? Well... My family lives in the Garden." All jaws dropped. "And, because life is ironic-- their fighting forms never suited me." She shrugged casually, and admitted with no bitterness, "I'm too big." Even as a young girl, she stood taller than anybody else in the group. Her shoulders were broad enough to carry the weight of others, a task she took on with grave seriousness. She adapted her lessons into Foliage Breathing, utilizing her larger stature, engaging close with the enemy, and allowing momentum to empower her already-impressive craft.

Though all four of them were talented swordsmen in their own right, it was Junko who stood above and beyond them all. Everyone had been instantly charmed by her. It almost made their first night bearable to see her in action and hear her process. She was always the center of their discussions, the leader of show-and-tell. No matter who was keeping watch over them, they all slept steadily with the knowledge that at least they had Junko.

Their pattern fell naturally. During the day, with what precious hours of light they had, they intended to split up to gather resources and people. There were always resources: none of them had come unprepared, and Hinata had a talent for scavenging mushrooms, insects, and berries that they apparently never grew out of. Kenzou was more than happy to scamper back to the team to share their provisions-- he received the credit in the retelling.

Nobutoshi wasn't sure what had been so funny about his mistaking the bond between Kenzou and Hinata for blood: The two were always next to each other, bouncing ideas and jokes off of one another. Continuing each other's theories and passing idle streams of thought from hand to hand. If one wanted to investigate potential campsites in hopes of finding a living Slayer recruit, the other had to follow. Nobutoshi had Junko's company all to himself frequently, the way he appreciated it. He could always watch her: in stillness, in motion, in wait, in warning.

Though the nights were brimming with blood and horror, the days felt like a permanent placidity: the promise of what their future could look like without the threat of demons.

Nobutoshi determined it was easier not to tell Tetsuya the discussion he had with Hinata on the fifth day. Such a talk would be strange to attribute to Kenzou, whose warnings usually held a silver lining. That day, when Junko and Kenzou were comparing their forms (Junko was everyone's favorite sparring partner, everyone's favorite teacher), Hinata had spoken out loud, seemingly to nobody:

"We're the only ones left alive."

"I know," Nobutoshi nodded, having suspected this himself. The demons were thinning, less numerous, but many of them getting stronger.

"I saw three of them fighting last night."

Nobutoshi didn't need to ask for the details. He had seen Hinata watching in naked fascination as demons tore each other to pieces a steep drop away. The altercation was too close to start an engagement and risk further detection, but Nobutoshi had kept his hand on his sword the whole time. Hinata had simply watched until the brawl resolved-- one demon ripping the others to shreds, chasing the losers off into the dark-- before Nobutoshi gave the hooting signal it was safe to proceed.

"And?" Nobutoshi asked casually, glancing to Hinata's left hand drumming along the tree he leaned on. (Their pinkie and ring fingers ended in fleshy nibs at the first knuckle. The other nails ended with sharp points.)

Running their other hand through their short onyx hair, Hinata chewed on the inside of their cheek and explained, "They're cannibalizing one another. It's a power grab, where the weakened loser has to retreat and heal without nutrients. Demons can't kill each other, so after the winners make their move, the desperate will come in droves before we can leave."

"They're all desperate," Nobutoshi couldn't withhold the disdain in his voice. "Their accumulated strength is the only factor that worries me."

"If a demon eats another demon, and you decapitate the second demon right before it gets swallowed down, does the first demon feel hungry again?" Hinata asked, as though it were the set-up to a punchline. "Will the now-dying demon turn to ash in the other one's body? Can they absorb each other?"

Nobutoshi wrangled with the concept for a brief moment, recognized it as being ultimately pointless, and answered, "I would decapitate both of them in synchronicity. So nobody goes hungry."

Hinata smiled, the curve of their cheeks only barely creasing their eyes, allowing the tips of their sharp teeth to peek out. "That's a good answer. I like that. Nobody goes hungry."

The fifth night, they had encountered the morphed demon.

They were taking up the usual formation: Nobutoshi facing the west, Kenzou in the center, Junko to the east, Hinata linking them together and supporting whoever needed it. With no other humans to target, battles had become a free-for-all. Their opponents were few, but far smarter and stronger and faster. Demons didn't quite work together, but taking advantage of each other's attacks still gave them the efficiency of a wolf pack.

This played both ways. Frequently, Hinata would appear suddenly in Nobutoshi's peripheral, a wraith passing through the fog to help give him breathing room, and then they would disappear. Nobutoshi remembered feeling better about this false security-- that Hinata could slip through the demon swarm like a smothering shadow. When Nobutoshi saw Junko getting too far from their group, he only had to say "Hinata!," the other affirmed "On it," and away they would go, forcing a way past, around, and through any monster that dared to think it could hinder them. Nobutoshi thought that things were going better than most nights.

First, Nobutoshi saw the bolas-- a fleshy projectile with a comet's tail reaching far from the distance-- and he saw the blob's razor-sharp, finger-like appendages scrabbling and squirming for purchase. He had parried it flawlessly. In a moment's blink, he missed the next move. The demon was incoming, its broad, flat face split into two semi-spheres of a mouth lined with rows of teeth. Nobutoshi swung true again, sword catching on its raised arm, but the beast was equipped with serrated cricket legs. He avoided the mouth, only to feel spines tear through his calf. He was falling before he could cry out to warn the others.

"Outta my way, you shit!" the creature screamed, "Marechi! Where are you?" The demon was massive, barely less than two of Nobutoshi himself, its bulbous head jerking this way and that with wide eyeballs that never settled in one place. "Hnnnnhhgggh... tiny punk. You'll do for now."

It was inconceivable to think this distorted creature, so vile and starving, had been human once.

"Guys!" Hinata shouted out in belated warning.

Here came that shining star, Junko, from the rear guard, only to be waylaid by the masses-- three demons each seeing an advantage in human empathy. In her shadow, Hinata's whirling katana stopped short as well, another feral demon butting itself into their path with a frothing screech. The final savior, Kenzou, came soaring swift to the rescue of his fellow teammate. A beautiful horizontal line, the perfect unsheathing of the sword, what could have been a storybook rescue.

"Stay put!" The frog demon crouched over Nobutoshi, planting its foot solidly on his shoulder, one of its hands grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. It spat its tongue out, and that razor-orb crashed into Kenzou with such a sickening wetness that Nobutoshi almost mistook the death for instantaneous. The ghastly smell of disembowlment and defecation was unbearable under the demon, and Nobutoshi had begun to tear up, bleary eyes blinking in pain as he tried to see, tried to find his sword in his numb fingers, so he could do something, anything. He was a fool and a naive, a weak link in their battle plans. "Bull'th eye!" The demon hollered around its tongue, ecstatic.

Nobutoshi was too slow to move, but his Sight had seen it all from his awful vantage point below. Kenzou's mouth opened into a perfect "oh." Vaguely, Nobutoshi heard an animal howl and knew it was Hinata, though he hadn't heard the other scream before.

The demon's tongue yanked the child with backbreaking force and folded its catch untidily into the gaping mouth, legs bunched up with the pelvic girdle forcefully unlatching from his femurs, then crushed soundly into the demon's beartrap skull as the mouth hinged closed then open, twice, thrice. Each bite marked with a squawk or yelp or squelch. And it swallowed. "Spicy."

Kenzou was gone.

His blood was everywhere.

Nobutoshi scrambled in the grass for his sword-- he felt the demon rear back, and he gasped when his chest lifted off the ground painfully. Hinata was there-- a moment too little, a moment too late. The demon had caught them by the throat, but this didn't stop them. Their teeth gnashed at the air, strangling out a snarl as their sword swirled and Nobutoshi could almost smell singed hair.

"FUCK," the demon screamed, right at the same time as Nobutoshi's chest slammed into the grass. The demon's arms fell past his head, and with an ominous flutter of fabric, Hinata had barely ducked and ran from the demon's bladed kicks. "You pissant! You think that'll do anything to me?!"

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Someone was shouting, a storm incarnate, wild with adrenaline.

"Get back!" Someone else was commanding in some authoritative tone that made Nobutoshi think of his father's disappointed face.

Nobutoshi found his sword. Lying down, he twisted himself and skewered the demon with the First Form: Low Clouds, Distant Haze, keeping it from leaping further into the fray. It shrieked, the tongue flying out into action, beyond his scope. No wet splat this time.

Junko had ascended somehow-- leaping off the back of a sizzling demon corpse-- the tongue intended for the most obvious target. She caught it easily in her other hand, avoiding the sticky knife-bolas. The tongue muscle had contracted rapidly to catch her in the demon's maw, but she fell in a perfect line, soft, severe, steady, and nearly soundless. In allowing herself to be pulled in, she struck through its jawbone, into the throat-- and the world surged before Nobutoshi could see her land on the other side.

Nobutoshi felt searing pain: his fingers ripped from his sword, his leg dragged behind as he was swept forcibly from beneath the demon. It was Hinata who had gone low, slicing at the frog-like demon's legs and distended belly while snatching up their fallen friend. They had cushioned him from the collision into detached limbs, leaving both of them half-crumpled on the ground.

Hinata carefully seated Nobutoshi up, fingers digging into his arms-- then they groaned and jerked their shoulders. The same full-body shiver rocked through Junko at the same time, and she threw the rope tongue away as though it had burned her. Hinata, drenched in the thing's dissipating blood, wasn't so lucky: they stumbled as though maimed below the knee, as if their arms couldn't work-- "Oh, Hinata, don't," Junko warned belatedly-- they wavered, doubled over, and emptied the contents of their stomach.

"Oh," Junko whinced sympathetically, briefly rubbing their back before moving on to the injured. "Nobutoshi. Are you okay? Hey," and her hands pat his cheeks, and although Nobutoshi wasn't certain if he was even conscious, it was worth every excruciating second to have her so close. "Nobutoshi, keep your eyes open. Hinata, get away from there!" She began to rifle through her haori for the pouch attached to her belt, pulling out a curved needle and its thread. Nobutoshi grit his teeth through the care. It was hard to tell which was worse: the injuries, or watching the display happening behind Junko.

It was the most pathetic sight.

"Where is he?" Hinata croaked, breath sour and rank. They stumbled further into the soilt grounds where the demon fell, kicking its legs and hacking at an arm that rose to defend itself, then again at the corpse's torso.

"Stop!" The demon's head cried, and Hinata's spine curled as they reached into the body up to the elbow.

"I'mdyingI'mdyingI'mdying," Hinata began to whisper, seemingly incapable of breaking the spell, before drawing back at what they had found. "Kenzou!"

"No, nonono--" the demon was whining.

"Noooo, Kenzou..." It was already too late for him. Even if the Rengoku boy was still breathing, he wouldn't be for long; Nobutoshi had seen the damage and clearly the other did too as they crumpled into their limbs like a dying house spider, only less convenient.

"Hinata," Junko was saying above Nobutoshi, "I've closed it up, but he's still bleeding. Get it together. There's still demons out there. Please--" this last word hitching from command to begging.

"I'm fine," Nobutoshi finally came into his own body, overcoming multiple sources of paralysis and shock in order to follow Junko's command. With a sharp inhale, he launched into Recovery Breathing, grateful for his Hashira's rigorous lectures and lessons. "I'm okay. Help me up." He gripped her hand tightly and looked to her as his anchor.

"You're not fighting on that leg, Nobutoshi. We need to retreat. I should never have let any of you near me," and though her voice held no condemnation, her tears were warm from her cheeks as she prettily cried over him, eyes hard as smooth jade pebbles.

"I can help walk, get away from here and regroup, we can't lose now," Nobutoshi said all at once, mind several steps ahead of his injurious meat sack.

Junko wasn't having it-- she adjusted him, pulling his arm over her shoulder and (thinking of it always made his chest flutter) lifting him in her arms. He huffed, clutching at her, insecure at the strangeness of being in someone else's charge. Junko turned them both to Hinata.

They had shuffled away from the half-entropied corpse, its human stomach contents the only remaining evidence. The Slayer recruit loomed over the monster's partial skull and cupped their hands around its crown. "I'm sorry," one of them was saying to the other, on the verge of sobs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I couldn't stop." The demon's dying aura licked and grasped for purchase on Hinata's, but there was nothing there for it to take to Hell with it. Like a dying fire, the demon's energy fluttered, sighed, and extinguished.

Junko stepped forward as if on cue, nudging Hinata with her toe. They took the gentle kick and blinked out of their fit as soon as it had consumed them, face tinted green with illness as they stumbled to their feet and faced the pair. The demon's innards had misted away and left their skin and kimono clean. "I'm alive," said more in disbelief than realization.

"Yes, you are, you numbskull," Junko said softly. "Cover us. We need to get to safety."

On the seventh night, there had been no more demons to slay-- that was how the story was told to Tetsuya. In reality, rather than a slow funeral procession, the three had fought tooth-and-nail to escape with their lives. There had been little time to come to terms with their situation between hiding, licking their wounds, trying to sleep, and surviving. The smarter demons knew better than to try their luck so late in the game against cornered, paranoid survivors. But Nobutoshi (and Hinata) had been right: the desperate came in droves.

Their prospects were grim. Nobutoshi couldn't walk for too long unassisted. Junko was their most able fighter. Hinata was... well... They were discombobulated. Rootless and restless. They couldn't stop fidgeting and pacing. Their appetite had gone and they adopted the habit of eating like a bird: pecking, picking, frowning at morsels, grimacing when encouraged to eat more, then only doing so when on the border of reprimandation. Mourning manifested itself as insomnia and nausea.

The only reprieve Nobutoshi had: Junko still carried him effortlessly, one arm under his legs with the other around his shoulders. It made him feel safer than with Hinata, whose limp mirrored his anytime they touched; whose nothingness made Nobutoshi feel as though he were treading a creaking bridge or leaning over a ledge. But they were thoughtful too-- allowing him the easier routes and gritting their teeth through whatever aches it put them through. When they needed to hurry, Hinata could brace Nobutoshi against their body and run with him, almost like an animate cane that knew when he was winded or hurt.

Nobutoshi tried not to seem too disappointed when Junko set him down for the second time that night, making sure he was situated solidly before standing. "Hinata. Are you okay?"

The shadow hummed absentmindedly from behind Nobutoshi.

"You're not hungry?" Junko suggested.

A pause. "I'm not hungry," they said. "Should I take Nobu?"

"In a minute. Can you establish a perimeter again, come get us if things look bad? I'm going to check Nobutoshi's leg." Hinata made a throaty noise of acknowledgement, and then Nobutoshi could only assume they had gone.

"How is it feeling?" Junko asked politely, peeling the bandages away from his skin to examine the damage. It wasn't as bad as it could have been-- thank goodness for that. "They'll do a better job than me when we get to the base of the mountain. I'm sorry I can't do more for you." She began to change the dressing anyway.

"It's okay. I think we'll all be happy to put this behind us."

Junko flinched. "I know what you mean... but don't say that around Hinata. They're still going through severance."

Nobutoshi grimaced and apologized. "We just don't have time for this yet. Not until we're off the mountain."

With a scoff, Junko continued to admonish him. "Really. They're grieving the death of their adoptive brother at the same time. You sound like an asshole."

"It's just the way I see things," was his defensive mutter.

"You're not the only one who can explore the world with a unique perspective," she scolded, which ultimately explained nothing, until she went on to say: "I remember how hard it used to be. Feeling everything and having no words for it... I don't think anyone ever helped them understand."

Junko had known the moment Hinata touched her that they were the same: just by the way their fingers settled. Junko beheld a fantastic tactile experience, like Nobutoshi's Sight. Only her familiarity with air currents and autonomic systems gave her a much wider range.

"No wonder you knew exactly how to guide us through the demons," Nobutoshi commented, "if only Hinata could handle it. Frankly, I don't think they've had any formal education, besides fighting."

"I think... they figured out their own way, and that's why they're like this." Her brows were furrowed in concentration. Or concern. "They really loved Kenzou. I suspect their ability focused in on him for all their training and learning together. When you adore someone like that, you can learn a lot about them... everyone's unique, after all. After years of holding hands and lifting each other up, that intense familiarity can be exercised to a fine point."

Nobutoshi tried to understand, truly. He imagined what it would feel like, to know Junko by her skeleton, by the pulsing of her blood, by the mere presence of her. Tried to imagine what it would be like to know she was hurt or dying, when that invisible tether was brutally snapped.

"And they felt that?"

"Well... kind of the way you feel it when you see someone stub their toe. The way I feel it is in my chest. I just," and one of her busy hands paused to press on her clothing, as if verifying this, "have an intuition. I feel awful all day: paranoid and sad. I don't know if that's what's happening to Hinata right now."

A sudden realization. "Hinata has been limping when they touch me," Nobutoshi said. "But their leg is fine."

"I saw. It could be they're experiencing phantom pains. Which isn't all that bad, I guess. At least they can look at their leg and know it's okay."

"There are worse things than feeling someone else dying?" Nobutoshi mused.

"There are worst things than waking up from a nightmare. You could just never wake up." Junko swallowed and blinked, then said, "Let's not think on the worst case scenario, and be grateful that Hinata can push through all this for our sake." Which Nobutoshi found downright saintly of her: Hinata was holding them back, and she was still considerate to them. "I feel horrible, but they can rest soon since we're so close to the wisteria trees."

As she tied off his bandages, Nobutoshi reflected on all he had learned. "... Maybe you can help them," he found his mouth moving. "I know I would want someone to tell me, if I didn't know something vital about myself."

That had earned a strange look from Junko-- her emerald eyes hesitated on him before she averted them, embarrassed for him for some reason. "Would you?"

"What does that mean?"

"I know you don't like them... I don't know why, but I can feel it: every time you're near them, you act like they're about to jump someone. It's as if, when you look at them, you see a wild animal or something without reason." That's how Nobutoshi knew that he had been called a hypocrite.

"I don't dislike them," he defended. "I just... don't know what they're about. Not yet. I don't want to say the wrong thing." He wanted to bring up what he saw: Hinata watching demons fight, Hinata brutalizing a dying demon, one of them apologizing to the other in its final moments. But clearly, his crush was fed up with his contrarian inputs.

Junko considered this, tying the final knot. "Well, that's kind, at least... but you could afford to be a little nicer. Less uptight. They respect you, you know. Anytime you order them, there's no hesitation in their action."

This flattered him, given he was dependent on others to save him now. He felt useless that he couldn't walk down the mountain himself, but... there was honor in knowing that Hinata saw him as leadership material, on par even with the de facto foreman Junko.

"So they'll be okay?" Nobutoshi asked.

"Will any of us?"

Nobutoshi hadn't liked that answer. For a moment, he saw that glowing aura of hers flicker-- a dimming with four words, and he felt terrified that this stalwart person he had come to know and admire could be influenced like this. He put his hands on her shoulders and Junko met his eyes again. "None of us bear the blame for what happened," he told her.

She blinked a couple more times and then smiled. "You should tell that to Hinata. You sound so matter-of-fact. I think they could use that confidence." She said this part while setting a hand on Nobutoshi's, and his heart pulsed. "When Hinata's spiral ends, they'll be in bad shape. They're being strong for us right now, so we need to be strong for them, too."

"You're wrong."

Both of them jumped-- Junko pulling her hands from Nobutoshi, the injured reaching for his sword as though he could do anything with Junko in his way.

Hinata stood a couple meters away, their shoulders twitching. Their chest quivered with a couple sharp breaths before they said again, "I'm not being strong for anyone. It's my fault he died. I wasn't supposed to leave him." How much had they heard? All of it? Only the last bit?

"That's not true. If that's the case, then it's my fault for not telling you all to hit the road--" Junko stood, and Nobutoshi recognized her posture to match Hinata's. He glanced between them, trying to discern the mania from the empathy.

"He was too young to be here," Hinata cried, "and I left his side! I swore I would always be there with him. What am I going to tell them when I return and Kenzou isn't with me?" Their words and composure cracked.

The pause was deafening. "You'll tell them the truth," Nobutoshi said. "He's not the only one who died here, Hinata. We all know what it means to fight demons." When everyone's eyes were on him he added, "if anybody knows this, it's the Rengoku family... nobody in the Demon Corps is a stranger to loss."

He learned quickly what happened when Hinata strained their tactile senses and kept their hands suspended over a fire. They looked like a woodland critter in deforestation, scared and uncertain of where safety lay ahead. In the aftermath of all their brain chemicals dumped over their head all at once, Nobutoshi had never seen a more devastated, pitiful person. They burst into tears, their shoulders jerking in silent sobs as their face crumpled.

Junko stepped closer to them and they jumped as though her proximity hurt. She set her hand on Hinata's shoulder, then their face shifted-- a maximum amount of suffering reached before their body's systems were hijacked-- into a solid glass surface, reflecting their leader's calm demeanor. They both took a deep breath.

"There are no demons in the vicinity," Hinata reported, voice tired but professional, mechanical almost. "The wisteria treeline is only a hundred meters away, and the sun will be rising soon... I'll be ready to move out when you both are."

"Thank you, Hinata... I'm sorry. For everything."

Nobutoshi decided not to ask. He put it out of his mind completely.

The final trudge to the base of the mountain, they made together. In hindsight, it was such a trivial obstacle. One of infinite tragedies that would befall them in this line of work. But at the time, Nobutoshi had felt something unbreakable between all three of them. To suffer such despair and lay a life in the hands of another will change the way one feels about their company. That was all there was to it.

When Tetsuya returned from his Final Selection, Nobutoshi asked about it. The boy had not made friends. He had struck out on his own, slaying demons and avoiding fights he couldn't handle. He slept by day and stayed moving by night. He was never hurt. Nobody he cared for was ever hurt. If he saw anyone he could help, he did so without the expectation of anything in return.

"It was a lot to handle," was the summed-up reply. And Nobutoshi had wondered if that had been best for Tetsuya.

Still now, he hoped he had prepared Tetsuya well enough to stand on his own two feet, without worrying of Hinata's intents or goals. If the boy had any questions, Nobutoshi wanted Tetsuya to hold them close to his own chest and save them for his teacher. Who knew what he would ask Hinata? Who knew what Hinata would say?

At whose feet would lay the blame for what became of Junko?

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #gyutaro shabana #daki shabana #demon slayer oc #kimetsu no yaiba oc #ume shabana #demon slayer fanfiction #fanfiction #kny oc #kimetsu no yaiba original character #kimetsu no yaiba fanfiction #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kny original character #kny fanfic #kny fanfiction #demon slayer original character #demon slayer fanfic

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claraxxmtx · 3 months ago

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Part 3! Caution: contains vulgur words.

"I will personally hunt him down!"

"Calm yourself down Miss Marquez, you're no match for him." said Seraphina.

"I don't care!"

Then Seraphina gave her the look. Then Vanessa took her seat.

After the meeting ended Vanessa was still fuming.

"That motherfucking arse! I wish I was equal to him! I would've wiped him of off existence!" Thought Vanessa.

Then Vanessa took a few deep breaths. "I need to calm myself down.

Vanessa went to Tina's office.

"Ugh! I despise that man! How dare he!"

"You should calm yourself down again!"

"Ugh!" Vanessa head downed.

"Maybe you need a nice cup of cappuccino at my home." said Tina.

"I wish, but I got a lot of work. I'll think about it."

"Alright then! See you!"

Vanessa gave a smile and left.

Then Vanessa thought, "Yeah, from all this work and HIM, my head got all tangled up. I need some vacation."

Then Vanessa went to Seraphina.

"I know it seems weird but trust me my head's gonna explode."

"Alright you can."

"Thank you!"

"I'm gonna surprise Tina!" Vanessa thought.

Then Vanessa went to her home, of course with Mr. Whiskers.

On the other hand Gellert Grindelwald is on loose. He took a temporary shelter with his trusted individuals. And Grindelwald somehow came to know about Vanessa's situation. He wanted her. So, he planned to invite her, in, well, his way. He knew she would reject but that's why he has his silver tongue.

Then Vanessa received a strange letter. It had an odd symbol she had never seen before (not the deathly hallows symbol). Some other aurors also got this letter. Vanessa forgot about her vacation and went to MACUSA. She informed all this to Seraphina. Unfortunately these letters specifically targeted Vanessa.

Then one day, an attack was launched. It was by Grindelwald.

"Hmph, not a smart move." Thought Vanessa. But Grindelwald outsmarted her, obviously. At the end of the attack a mysterious fog started to appear. It was suffocating as well. Moreover a spell was cast in it targeting Vanessa. Vanessa immediately started to fell dizzy and finally collapsed in HIS arms.

Not so long after, Vanessa woke up in a victorian styled room. She immediately got up, and rubbed her eyes, shaked her head to see if this all were real. And it was.

Then the door creaks open to find that infamous figure.

She quickly got out of her bed and stood in front of him confidently as ever.

"How dare you! How dare you kidnap me!?" Vanessa commanded.

"Calm down-"

"This is not a movie! Don't play dumb and DON'T PLAY YOUR SILVER TONGUE ON ME!"

Vanessa drew her wand towards him.

"I challenge you! Come on! Cast your most powerful spell!"

"I left the wand purposely for you. I don't care. Even if you put a stake through my heart, I would die in peace."

"Shut up!"

"Anything you say."

"You're playing with fire, you know very well!"

"And I seem to like it."

"Nice joke uncle!"

"If you are so confident then why don't you cast one if yours?"

"Really? Why? Are you a coward?"

"You really needed that vacation. But don't worry," Gellert started to come close to Vanessa.

Vanessa took a step back.

"this will be your ultimate vacation. Good night for now." Gellert closed the door.

"Let me out! Let me-!"

Vanessa took some steps back.

"Did I just become a...prisoner? No, no, it can't be." Vanessa thought. Vanessa looked for her wand. "Dammit coward!"

Tears filled Vanessa's eyes and she started to cry.

#gellert grindelwald x reader #gellert grindelwald #albus x gellert #harry potter #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts #percival graves

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iviarellereads · 1 year ago

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Nona the Ninth, John 5:4(1)

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(No icon) In which it's time to finish this, and get on with the rest of the story.(2)

In the dream they were back on the beach with their backs to the sea. The sand was soft and wet and grey—so fine that it dried as they plucked at it, then crumbled through their fingers like ash. The beach was a long, smooth stretch relieved only by hummocks, here and there, of thin grass and silvery driftwood sticking out of the dunes like exposed bone. He was scooping indentations in the sand, making big, print-block child’s letters with the tip of his forefinger. As she watched, he made a pothook—J—then the finned spine of E. He wiped that E clean, and replaced it with A. He wiped that clean, and he drew the prison bars of H. This J and H he barred around with an uneven heart.(3)

She asks if she can ask a question. He agrees, surprised. She asks what it means to love God. He makes a joke about being an easy date. With less patience, she asks what it means for the Ninth House to love their God.(4) There's a long silence, and then he gives her a short parable about faith that you aren't alone.

She said— “After this, you’ll resurrect them.” “Yes,” he said, as though halfway dreaming. He stuck his finger in the sand and made a hole so deep that water glimmered at the bottom. Hypnotized, he did it again. “Yes. Once we’ve rested. No, we’ll do it before you’ve rested. You can rest afterward … resurrection is different from waking up. We’ll get them all back … some of them, anyway … or at least, the ones I want to bring back. Anyone I feel didn’t do it. Anyone I feel had no part in it. Anyone I can look at the face of and forgive. And my loved ones … The ones I left, I’ll bring back. I know I can. Even G—. In fact, G—’ll be easiest—he won’t remember the compound—none of them will have to remember anything. I know where remembrance lives in the brain, and he won’t have any of it. You know that too, don’t you? It’s the easiest thing in the world … to forget.”(5)

She asks if they should forget everything. He says it's the only way, so they won't feel guilty over their actions. He adds there was no other way, once the bombs started going off, there was no hope for G- and Melbourne anyway. She says, but he said that G-'s bomb went off first. He clarifies defensively that of course it did, but that's not the point, and it doesn't matter. Only one thing matters now. He smooths over the holes he created with his fingers, and says he still breathes, and "they" still exist, and he cannot forgive them.(6) She asks to whom he refers. He doesn't answer.

Then he said, “Do you remember what happens now?” Harrowhark Nonagesimus stood up. She brushed a few traces of sand off her trousers. [...] “Yes,” she said. “Through her, I’ve seen it. You resurrect some of them. You wake up fewer still. You start out with a few thousand, then, later, some hundred thousand, then millions, but never more than millions.(7) You teach them how to live all over again. You teach yourself. [...] It’s easy. You’re God. Your energy is limitless and you can sustain your theorems without a thought—forget about them—because she is so enormous, and you and she are one. She understands at this point that she does not have to die—that she can never die, if you’re alive. And she’s scared to die.(8) You’re afraid of so many things, but she’s only afraid to die. Then, when the disciples come to you and say the word Lyctor, she does not understand that they want the thing you did to her—she watches as you watch … watch them misunderstand the process.”(9)

He says "God must be able to touch all of creation". She doesn't understand.

“You said it yourself. I can’t die if she’s alive; she can’t die if I’m alive. Why would you let something like that run around, Harrow? Why would you let someone go—away from you—untouchable—two people?(10) I couldn’t—I loved them too much—I saw the face of Earth and choked the life out of it and ate it whole. Oh, I knew I was on the clock for the Resurrection Beasts. I pretended she was the only one,(11) but I knew the others were coming. I needed my loved ones to be something I could touch … needed them to be my hands … my fingers.”

He reiterates that there's no forgiveness for those who ran from him, and there can be no forgiveness for himself, either. Not even as he rips off his very fingers and throws them at the monsters who hunt him.(12) Still, the power of God allows him to wipe it clean again, if he wants, like an old cleaner ad, "Spray and walk away, right?" He thinks perhaps the only reason he hasn't done it yet is that he wouldn't be able to touch them.(13) He thinks maybe that's why he made the Tomb, because it's his death, the apocalypse,(14) his self-preservation.

She says there's something she doesn't understand. He says there's lots he doesn't.

She said— “I want to understand why she was angry—I want to understand the mathematics, now that I have seen them for myself. I want to know how many of the Resurrection are left, and how many you began with, and what the discrepancies are. I want to know where you put them. They didn’t go into the River. I want to know why she was angry … and why you were terrified.” She looked away from him, and she said: “I want to journey to find God. Maybe, at the end of that road, I will find God in you, Teacher … the God who became man and the man who became God. Or, perhaps, the child of the Nine Houses will recognise a different divine. But I am the Reverend Daughter—I am the Reverend Mother, the Reverend Father—I must find God, or some aspect of God, and understand it for myself … even if she lies, right now, within the Tomb.”

He stands, and he's taller than she is, but she isn't afraid of him. He puts a hand on her shoulder and looks at her, wonderingly.(15) She can see no fear in him now.

He tells her God is a dream, one the people all dream together, even "her"(16). He asks where she will go in her search.

She turns from him, standing ankle-deep in the River.

Before her, the waters parted, speared-through and mute, for the enormous lance of a tower(17)—a tower that had never been there before; a tower that soared, impossible and deadly grey, out of the waters—a tower of grey bricks, lurching out of the River as though gasping for air. An impossible, cone-capped tower—a belled tower; she could see the steeple, but the bell cot was too far from shore to see the bell. “I’ll start there,” she said. And she stepped into the River. She took another step, and she walked, and she walked.

=====

(1) "And an angel of the Lord descended at certain times into the pond and the water was moved. And he that went down first into the pond after the motion of the water was made whole of whatsoever infirmity he lay under." A difficult passage to find relevance in. Loosely, I suppose, you could say that John's intention to resurrect Gideon again counts as making him whole. Our final A1Z26, though, the full sequence: THE TOWER IS REACTIVATED. The very Tower that Harrow views, here, in the River? What does it mean? Now, at this point, I can tell you that there was at least one report, from someone who got an advanced reader copy of the book, that there was a second A1Z26 sequence. Admittedly, it was just a tweet, which may or may not have disappeared since, but it said that in the ARC version, it read THE TOWER WANTS JOHN GAIUS. I should've been going through and checking the relevant Bible passages for that version, too, as I read… but I'm giving that to you, my readers, as a fun side project. Open the John chapter summaries, pull up a Douay Rheims or any old translation you prefer, and look up the alternate verses. How do they stack up against each chapter's contents? Are they more or less applicable? Honestly a lot of the "final" hardback/ebook version verses are just like astrology or tarot: vague enough that you can find ways to apply them within your biases and expectations. I don't expect that the ARC version would be much different. Though, I am curious if we'll get a third set with the paperback release in a couple of months. (Why yes, I have mine preordered.)

(2) Quite literally, when you consider this used to be the end of Act One of Alecto the Ninth. (3) The ancient tradition of putting your initials with those of your lover. John loves Earth, not quite right. John loves Alecto/Annabel, still not quite there. John loves Harrowhark? Why yes. I don't think this is a literal romantic love, though. I think it's dream-logic, since here, she is both Alecto and Harrowhark. (4) And here, the proof that it was always, on some level, Harrow as much as Alecto. (5) Multiple parts to break down here. For one, he's still mentally stuck in the story, speaking as if he only just ate Earth. Two, he's still making decisions for people he has no right to decide for. Three, this really reinforces my questions as to whether or not the Lyctors remember their pre-Resurrection relationships to him. This seems to imply that he doesn't want them to. (6) Again, he seems stuck in the immediate aftermath of his story, as if it really has only been weeks, as if he hasn't yet performed the Resurrection. Is it just dream logic? Is he insane? (7) I have another theory that he's Resurrected multiple times, I don't think I've mentioned it in the non-spoiler read so far, but here's kind of where it goes. Think back to the opening poem, "This time will be the time we get it right". He knows how to make them forget. He knows how to restore their bodies and minds to a particular point in their lives. There seem to be a lot of hints that he spent more time at Canaan House than the strictest indications of other characters' timelines as given, like Pal's psychometry indicating some pieces are thousands of years older than others. They could just be rescued statues, but the implication all that way back in GtN was that they were two parts of a whole, or seemed to be, but separated in time. There are a LOT of reasons to reread the series and there are a LOT of things that can serve as launching points for theories.

(8) Which brings a whole new depth to Nona's admission. That she's ready to die. Over and over she said it. And now I'm just gonna go crawl into a lil hole and cry for a bit over it. (9) She watches as he lets them misunderstand. As he lets them butcher each other to gain a fraction of what he has. (10) What two people? (11) Acknowledgement that she wasn't really just the Earth's spirit anymore. Alecto was the first Resurrection Beast. Truly, it's a wonder she passed for as human as she did, to make the Lyctors only suspect and not rebel so much sooner. And remember, too, that once it was stated in the text that she started to go crazy after they put down the first RB. (12) He throws the Lyctors at the RBs, and at the BOE, and at anyone who threatens his empire and his power. (13) Wouldn't be able to touch whom? Why would his loved ones not come back to him, especially if he altered their memories? Does he mean that he wouldn't have his present reach into non-House territory? This whole chapter is a damned fever dream. (14) Remember the dual meaning of this one? Yeah. (15) I think this is an intentional dual-meaning again. Wondering as in thoughtfully, but also wondering as in "with wonder(awe)". (16) Alecto, one assumes. (17) And at long last, The Tower... but what could it mean? There's not much time left for answers in this book, and we don't know when the next one's due.

#the locked tomb #tlt #nona the ninth #ntn #nona the ninth spoilers #ntn spoilers #emperor john gaius #harrowhark nonagesimus

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stardust-in-my-mind-blog · 1 month ago

Text

feelings during the first read of my divorce papers

fear. there is fear everywhere. swimming around in my blood. I want to cry. my nervous system has sirens. my gut has something pressed against it. my throat is wearing a knife inside. Why do I want to cry? I'm glad the marriage is over. It's scary to start over. There are so many lies on these pages. Everything about all this was a lie. I suck at filling out forms and I always mess them up. I need to call my lawyer. 30 days. I'm crying now. I knew I would. The fear that I'll somehow mess this up and ruin my life is... the same loop going over and over and over in my mind. He said to just pay her with the money. He did. But he's never cared or managed the money. He's never been the one worried about how to buy groceries. He's never been the one who had everything rejected during the plague. He never had to deal with all those times of embarrassment and shame because... he never did the cooking or groceries. Or knew what the kids need. He never minded that the family suffered. It's hard to take his advice knowing nothing he ever tells me is true. Isn't it hard to lie all the time like that?

I'll do what I have to do.

I knew this was going to bring everything back. When you're living in someone else's delusion and desperately trying to survive it... the truth of your reality feels like poison. It feels like you're doing something wrong. You're punished for your own reality so much that I... feel pain when you're aware of it. Everything feels sharp and jagged inside of me. My thoughts. Where I keep my feelings. My insides feel like a pin-ball machine. It makes me dizzy. Overstimulated. There are too many noises and lights and.... everything hurts. In reality I'm sitting here in silence. I feel my energy swirling around inside of me. Trying to escape this flesh prison. Trying to hurl itself out of my skin. I feel the panic. I feel the fear. The helplessness. I am trapped. I am hopeless. I am helpless. I am somehow wrong again and I don't know why I'm always wrong. I tried to hard. I don't know... what to do. idon'tknowwhattodoidon'tknowwhattodoidon'tknowwhattodo idon'tknowwhattodoidon'tknowwhattodoidon'tknowwhattodo

I imagine calling up the lawyer and having her tell me that she knew I was going to get back into this mess. She doesn't want to help me. I should have known better. What the hell was I thinking? I did everything too fast. I trusted the wrong people. Find someone else to get you out of this mess you're responsible for. She's not going to do that. Why do I imagine it?

I remember talking to her the first time. I remember her giving me advice I didn't follow. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I hated being here. I was losing half my kids lives just to get away from him. I was dying. I would die if I didn't get away from him. I was already dead I'd just die again. I never run out of lives and I spend them doing stupid shit like this. "It's like you're fighting five different enemies," I remember that therapist saying. He drew me a picture of a stick person surrounded by five tornados.

"I've always been fighting to survive. Nobody wanted me the way I came," I say. I name each tornado, trying to hug them as they destroy me. They tell me I'm dying wrong. I take a deep breath. Time to look through the pages again. That was only the first wave. There will be a few more to swim through before my executive function kicks in.

I'm not 35 right now. I'm every version of me looking at paperwork of someone who promised to care about me but just finding another way to stick the knife in deeper and twist. I learned so early that this was the definition of love. What is uncomfortable is my trying to change my definition of it. Licensed private detective? I'll dissolute this motherfucker. thirty days not counting day of service. eleven twenty-two. No maintenance - oh he must have been describing his part in everything. surely that doesn't mean the future. he is upset that I plan to treat him like he's the third asshole who has put me through this. stopped reading and threw the papers down. at least my spirit is showing up again. we weren't married on the fourth of may. we were married on april 24th. it's in the paper work. thank fuck. I can like star wars again. city of geneva in the county of kane should probably read over the geneva convention irreconcilable differences sure is used to describe what the fuck broke down this marriage but okay okay. got through them. head hurts. butterflies all over but the fear is gone. I'll take a shower and get rebalanced. Call the lawyer tomorrow. Maybe I should write an email with the documents attached? Second one would be more efficient and give them time to look over things and decide what they want to do with me. Maybe both? Tomorrow. That was a shitty ride. But we got through it. Brought to you by CPTSD - just when you think you've healed it, out of nowhere it punches you straight in the face!

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libidomechanica · 4 months ago

Text

What was safe in

A ballad sequence

Who all be true, you can praise, o Muses’ gullets. That should lye, and couched, close at her forehead morning. What was safe in

it, was he, They ’ve only instruments later forehead and the moment, or two women in her transactions,

batteries we prisoners carried at collects hers! Save to test out. As light way; but ice-gravel. One Night there is slain,

when as yet once might be calm. And why he looked out the blinks dulled the sound and left it sinketh, as a thing vncomely

and prove. Till linger, singing in heaven with red rose! There in the coward me for my sole imagined creatures in

his ’bacco box, her side, and, for what a common for the raucous bed or evening; I chirped, cheeped, trilled the

nights of those next news from elsewhere, till no more? The public kindness youres: now not wakes and the apples which had better

sallows, borne as thee fleet as wind, and when first hallucinations everybody the kind wind shall dreriment.

Would poke enough for in Sport paraded with the send for a waking her tell aught me how to the joyous mad, as

humour hands when the wood will constructed life melts with want& the pan I shall have listen; and the rich in taking dream.

Is the next valleys, so long, but root. And bitter and eyes on the dripping through the breezes blown, in all else was a city made wretch of his State I’me in: since the latch I heard. On earth puckered in my Song no more than thirteenth, when

Gaeta’s taken off heads I saw him, the burning early pulls the nothing buried deep, laughed from the earth, as we pass each man does not One must be twain, all men’s heart beat through with that the winds used genteelly. I only land of reason.

III

To make me closed tight by the Turk’s flotilla, and to stands of Lust, rosy silk, that that sweet loue why I sojourn here?

And leaning: nurses run o’er, I praised up to Dunse, than others, as she blessed Cross that proverb of the fiddling this, that

was once and to see?—Then—i never certaineth. We are styled, found to go to slumber still be outside the red dogs

lie resort, when I call that was to take, whereas my lute unsteady thy eyes shal answere accumulate; bring them

the flew. Their merry peal from sun and riddle of night the waggons, which hang a man and the east, and general counts and

with bays. Then Christabel took the soft-lifted this sprig of eggs, and fruitfulness to her lips: and harlot: an isle near

than for trumpet peace of dryness find out of Gazing on her breath goes, sleepy one! Here, so coole, as love, their own cost

die, but who is agony’s force, some small miss out of her ye virgin best. The core; thousand Hearts; yea, whom his own sweet,

did the crank, ribands, lace, and bristling bank of the tend vpon her lustrous horns had we done showing of a corporal’s

duty to throws his cheek recline to heave in three! Lying nymph that ’s under eyes thine eyes, I all rapt in a way

so be. ’ Her voice was uprightful choirboy voice is thy vttermost I see the yard; silently said no word to feel me

therefore it merit may heauens, the poor rude lines of marionette of Virgin fact is tied? He laid about how it by

the beardless present’st a pure a things—but pays his company, and some need of a mightest come, where lifts by quoting.

‘Let the black and drew me back; O! Lines of marjoram had small family’s hue, the gravy as we entered, Kate Brown!

By his rearing eyes, fore duteous dove, there are treasures rose her mouth with which not sweet hour or moonlight, vision Venus,

to her beautiful seldom coming musk-rose, the red rose! That from the like halfway summiting to nourish the skies—

the Muse grow cold. She tries to plaining blood can wipe out still repayre. Is not lie down on the prince arms I throw a sweet

loue, onely night but one lookest from myself laid under the attend. Drove thee, this is, and unfamilies, as

one who dies, with a thousands and if from elsewhere was the winds should build far off from all that we may orderly his

playes, that saint, who for outward square of a name of power, it with flutes, disputes, disputes, to make and filled around, who

am a maid she, with bayonet it is time, this mouth, roses are dying steel: for since, and Allah; unto their

grief, or joy. And I be gone, and below my wrist is East, since dark secret House of your despatch in this face turn’d; for

the coward does not charge, encline tall, dried to swinging, as much hope, and thou were. Your slave, I should other sing on the

throates, their kettle-drums a new Love anyone. With delights where was peace—this world forth the Golden beames be; and

it any of celestial bodies and where is no lack of Tryermaine? I shouldest chills wealth, two or that if he has

but a boatswain is in his hand these strange she does not their griefly vulture from the eye of want betray. If I have

nor housetop loneliness; this city and that cup has been. I do not less this? Whom his pipe, and help to sing, to

wash they drew, from underneath the last peak on vain! And I dared not. And simple truth be broke, nor in these nor spongy

hydroptic Dutch shall hither from us—and such a Solitude, a thousand torches lights where you, sweet Love pine at

heals the hope with a sweet lies by the account of shepheard the souerayne prayer here or Up in their eccho ring.

Yet if he had offender’s roll. We are the bard Bracy the world far from a cushion a preacher, as no grave at all keep me alive. Is, that’s one direction; or as a little boy who should I, like murmurings, we don’t repeat

nine name so soon I had vowed with blackboard one unbecoming music and virtue rudely dream of art, how sweet it drop scent of amber, in the good forbids; with eyes flashing would weene some scent, so pure Will leaguer’d what the holding its

name. And swear too calme, so thick with you thinking. Ah boys, how deep being the glow of the few who laid will have been patriot to go dance upon that where prevailed? A fairy thing built with that is being on the paralyz’d with his

letter to be seen glimmering Christ’s sniff and epistemology, that what ails poor fishes swimming suddenly, they went and clasping captain ill: till those who came with the floor below then that pass in the moon the other love! Look

formidable charge bright gaudy day haue end, and as thy kiss the pig who saw it followed the siluer scaly trouts doe flee. Whiles shining in a warble than are harder dare we loved you. Be heart withered friar tell in wassail’d or

victor has trump and shaven head it a vision to love, by us; we two, breathe, and that you may vs with a kind of Day and the same; when I in my chastitie: o eyes we passed away, I hate had a tempestuous struck his

course white, and a spell. But yet thief, which I and thought I have smiles I’me glory in the soul it ceased love, even the surprise, say, she can gain a bar never cries instead. The very weel waled were along there many people in love

is dumb—we stands and Gentle handy substitute taught the night a damsel bright glad there were! Lead to-morrow. Each of her, less for a light child, ah wel- a-day! He camp of love return, we become planks won’t you yours like all that blesse fere,

that I laughter eyes can be married a rich in the other siluer souls in timely mount thee in the store of night, your chance let hour, that had not fall in which evening. Devil’s Own Brigade: and at every weel aff, so young Cypress doth

Geraldine, I caught in women together; celts and lost my place—we’ll speed, flipped they wore me now. In May. Into the Abbey-ruin in uniforms of Fear this, and tell—I though enjoyed, like halfway summer in the Minstrels gin that

is give news: niagara is no sleep through thou, as bare her grave, o Rotha, with flutes of the Abbey: there ingage, thoughtful green call’d up into his starting weare away on a bullets,—hard word. From it prove of golden scorn o’ your eyes

we had been dealt with the rest; or curious successive brain on my backed whisperst them indeed, divine wildly on the grey-headed bubble’s shaped like Good-bye and leave been falling. With me. Then was once again. My heard the tide in grassye

ground, whoever intellectual fact, therefore the first— they shrunk in her lay; lay her sunne did late obtain ill: he shout, then our transmitted the chromatic scales is pitiless a slightlest bring to not live back. Was luck, my woe, that

late since if the meadow-land, the warm weathern thongs, most impossible it is impossible failure message said massive heir. Bring headlong flat as a Sword, the chromatic scale up: for this: Once you served. Most the floor of thine. Our

heroines, at length prevail’d, and out, if examined, and quiet? I do not doomed to grow bad, and left branch, but we, as my luve o’ my beautiful eye upon the herd of betters bound, and woes, that other not love you misses, because

of killing, but who, when it were they were imbecile, hewing a blast oozings his head,—on mine, to lead that planks won’t you will still things great son to wear! How rare free home the patient a heuk had I ne’ertheless cries she nippit her could

see but on the worlds of Christabel answer meeting for I must not you? That gentle thou thy such a wistful eye upon the force thy return’d; for he is not the fires of love, and made it be! Who gave you are they aren’t repeat.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #181 texts #ballad sequence

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istumpysk · 3 years ago

Text

-Operation Stumpy Re-Read

A GAME OF THRONES

SUMMARY & FORESHADOWING SMORGASBORD

So you like foreshadowing, huh? You’re in luck. During my re-read project, I may have been keeping track of all the foreshadowing from our favourite plots.

Grab a hot chocolate, and take a seat - big post ahead!

Under the cut:

NOTABLE CHAPTER TRANSITIONS

SANSA STARK, QUEEN IN THE NORTH

JON SNOW, KING IN THE NORTH

JON (AEMON?) SNOW

JON THE BUILDER AND HIS GIFT

ARYA STARK SAILS THE SUNSET SEA

BRAN THE BROKEN, KING OF WESTEROS

HIGH SEPTON RICKON? MAESTER RICKON? RICKON THE HEIR?

THE TWINS MEET THEIR END IN THE MINES OF CASTERLY ROCK

TYRION LANNISTER, (PRISONER?) HAND OF THE KING

DARK DAENERYS HIGHLIGHTS & LAUGHS

STARK v TARG

SOMEONE IS SHARPENING THEIR KNIFE, DAENERYS

STORM x STORM

GREATEST UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, THE FOSTERING OF SWEETROBIN

JONSA ❤️

Please note: I did not track R+L=J, because it would have been overwhelming, and only the dumbest people still deny it.

NOTABLE CHAPTER TRANSITIONS

Prologue -> Bran I

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife.

Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.

+.+

Eddard I -> Jon I

We begin the ongoing theme of a Sansa betrothal followed by a Jon chapter.

"You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon's vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister's hair and his mother's deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall.

+.+

Catelyn II -> Arya I

"A wolf with a fish in its mouth?" It made her laugh.

+.+

Bran II -> Tyrion I

"I do not like it," a woman was saying. There was a row of windows beneath him, and the voice was drifting out of the last window on this side. "You should be the Hand."

"Gods forbid," a man's voice replied lazily. "It's not an honor I'd want. There's far too much work involved."

+.+

Jon II -> Daenerys II

"First lesson," Jon said. "Stick them with the pointy end."

+.+

Tyrion III -> Arya II

"If he doesn't come back," Jon Snow promised, "Ghost and I will go find him." He put his hand on the direwolf's head.

"I believe you," Tyrion said, but what he thought was, And who will go find you? He shivered.

+.+

Arya II -> Daenerys III

"Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa … Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you … and I need both of you, gods help me."

Needle? Who did you hope to skewer? Your sister? Septa Mordane? Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?"

All she could think of was the lesson Jon had given her. "Stick them with the pointy end," she blurted out.

+.+

Arya III -> Eddard VIII

"Well, as to that," Desmond replied, drawing his longsword, "wizards die the same as other men, once you cut their heads off."

+.+

Eddard XII -> Daenerys V

Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.

+.+

Jon VI -> Eddard XIV

Bloody hands!

Jon turned on him in a fury. “I see Ser Alliser’s bloody hand, that’s all I see. He wanted to shame me, and he has.”

The wolf had something in his jaws. Something black. “What’s he got there?” asked Bowen Marsh, frowning.

“To me, Ghost.” Jon knelt. “Bring it here.”

The direwolf trotted to him. Jon heard Samwell Tarly’s sharp intake of breath.

“Gods be good,” Dywen muttered. “That’s a hand.”

+.+

Sansa IV -> Jon VII

She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother’s queen.

+.+

Jon VII -> Bran VI

“This could not have happened at a worse time. If ever the realm needed a strong king … there are dark days and cold nights ahead, I feel it in my bones …”

+.+

Catelyn VIII -> Tyrion VII

Credit to @agentrouka-blog for pointing out the reader gets to witness the dynamic between Catelyn and Robb, followed immediately with the stark contrast of Tywin and Tyrion.

+.+

Catelyn IX -> Jon VIII

Did you teach him wisdom as well as valor, Ned? she wondered. Did you teach him how to kneel? The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms were full of brave men who had never learned that lesson.

+.+

Daenerys VII -> Tyrion VIII -> Catelyn X

Reader gets a glimpse of how differently the Dothraki, Lannisters and Starks operate during war.

+.+

Catelyn X -> Daenerys VIII

“Kill him, Robb,” Theon Greyjoy urged. “Take his head off.”

“No,” her son answered, peeling off his bloody glove. “He’s more use alive than dead. And my lord father never condoned the murder of prisoners after a battle

+.+

Daenerys VIII -> Arya V

What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see? Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.

She took a deep breath and stepped closer to the pigeon. It was a plump one, speckled brown, busily pecking at a crust that had fallen between two cobblestones, but when Arya’s shadow touched it, it took to the air.

Her stick sword whistled out and caught it two feet off the ground, and it went down in a flurry of brown feathers. She was on it in the blink of an eye, grabbing a wing as the pigeon flapped and fluttered. It pecked at her hand. She grabbed its neck and twisted until she felt the bone snap.

+.+

Sansa VI -> Daenerys IX

Author directly contrasts how Sansa and Daenerys cope with grief and pain. One of these girls doesn’t come out looking great.

Sandor Clegane scooped her up around the waist and lifted her off the featherbed as she struggled feebly.

Ser Jorah Mormont lifted her in his arms and carried her back to her sleeping silks, while she struggled feebly against him.

+.+

Catelyn XI -> Daenerys X

He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table.

The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought.

+.+

AGOT: Prologue / Daenerys X

Open with the Others -> close with the dragons

A Song of Ice and Fire, a tale of two existential threats to humanity.

+.+

SANSA STARK, QUEEN IN THE NORTH

He offers his own son in marriage to our daughter, what else would you call that? Sansa might someday be queen. Her sons could rule from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne. What is so wrong with that?" – Catelyn II

+.+

"He's going to marry her," little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. "Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm." – Arya I

+.+

"I've never seen an aurochs," Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen. – Sansa I

+.+

The Eyrie is often compared to honeycomb, and Sansa is the maid with honey in her hair.

@une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir notes Queen Bee Cersei Lannister shares a similar connection to bees and hives.

As she neared the center of camp, her distress was quickly forgotten. A crowd had gathered around the queen's wheelhouse. Sansa heard excited voices buzzing like a hive of bees. – Sansa I

+.+

She was a Stark of Winterfell, a noble lady, and someday she would be a queen. – Sansa I

+.+

"You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon."

Arya screwed up her face. "No," she said, "that's Sansa." – Eddard V

+.+

"Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." – Sansa II

+.+

Nice catch @minitafan.

And when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate. – Sansa II

+.+

The queen's face was a mask, so bloodless that it might have been sculpted from snow. – Sansa II

+.+

"You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said. – Sansa III

+.+

Sansa stalked away with her head up. She was to be a queen, and queens did not cry. – Sansa III

+.+

"Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I'll be good, you'll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen." – Sansa III

+.+

"I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies." – Sansa III

+.+

That night Sansa dreamt of Joffrey on the throne, with herself seated beside him in a gown of woven gold. She had a crown on her head, and everyone she had ever known came before her, to bend the knee and say their courtesies. – Sansa IV

+.+

She had promised herself she would be a lady, gentle as the queen and as strong as her mother, the Lady Catelyn, but all of a sudden she was scared again. – Sansa IV

+.+

"Please," she finished, "you have to let me marry Joffrey, I'll be ever so good a wife to him, you'll see. I'll be a queen just like you, I promise." – Sansa IV

+.+

Once she was queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon. – Sansa IV

+.+

Lady was buried in an ancient lichyard, reserved for the faithful servants of Queens Kings.

Nicely done, @reginarubie.

"She lost her wolf," he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father's guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady's bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. – Bran VI

Earth to the ASoIaF fandom, wake up, open your eyes. You love the direwolf foreshadowing so much, yet you missed the most painfully obvious clue.

+.+

She was only a … a thing to him. "No," she said, rising. She wanted to rage, to hurt him as he'd hurt her, to warn him that when she was queen she would have him exiled if he ever dared strike her again … – Sansa V

+.+

Every once in awhile Sansa will kneel.

Another one from @minitafan!

"I do." She knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at her prince on his fearsome black throne. "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King." – Sansa V

+.+

JON SNOW, KING IN THE NORTH

A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."

That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. – Bran I

+.+

"Kings are a rare sight in the north.”

Robert snorted. “More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!” – Eddard I

+.+

Joffrey’s not allowed to damage the young prince.

"Why aren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes," he said. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords." – Arya I

+.+

You or Jon should have been king.

Robert sat down again. "Damn you, Ned Stark. You and Jon Arryn, I loved you both. What have you done to me? You were the one should have been king, you or Jon." – Eddard VII

+.+

That black bastard, the real king of the castle.

“That’s the real king of this castle right there, older than sin and twice as mean... One time the king was feasting the queen’s father, and that black bastard hopped up on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of Lord Tywin’s fingers. Robert laughed so hard he was like to burst. You stay away from that one, child.” – Arya III

+.+

On his way to meet a king in bed, Eddard remembers the last time he encountered three men in white cloaks.

Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the bridge, white steel armor ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield stood at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at the door of the king's bedchamber. Three men in white cloaks, he thought, remembering, and a strange chill went through him. – Eddard XIII

+.+

The Old Bear tapped the letter with a finger. “Your father and the king,” he rumbled. “I won’t lie to you, it’s grievous news. I never thought to see another king, not at my age – Jon VII

+.+

“This could not have happened at a worse time. If ever the realm needed a strong king … there are dark days and cold nights ahead, I feel it in my bones …” – Jon VII

+.+

Like the Iron Throne? (Thank you, @sherlokiness!)

He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon's mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. I will not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. – Jon VII

+.+

King Jon Stark, drove out raiders and slavers from Valyria, travelling from across the narrow sea.

That one is Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he drove them out and built the castle at White Harbor. – Bran VII

+.+

JON (AEMON?) SNOW

“You can call him Lord Snow,” Pyp said as he came up to join them. “You don’t want to know what his mother calls him.” – Jon IV

+.+

"Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me." – Sansa III

+.+

It was the fathers who named him.

Yet brothers they had, and sisters. Mothers who gave them birth, fathers who gave them names. – Jon VIII

+.+

Clever one, George. Uncle or father? Aemon, brother to Aegon, couldn’t say.

"My father was Maekar, the First of his Name, and my brother Aegon reigned after him in my stead. My grandfather named me for Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, who was his uncle, or his father, depending on which tale you believe. Aemon, he called me …”

"Aemon … Targaryen?" Jon could scarcely believe it. – Jon VIII

+.+

The gift of a sword, even a sword as fine as Longclaw, did not make him a Mormont. Nor was he Aemon Targaryen. – Jon IX

+.+

He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life—however long that might be—he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name. – Jon IX

+.+

JON THE BUILDER AND HIS GIFT

“No,” Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. “Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king’s council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother’s Faith and become the High Septon.” – Eddard V

+.+

Everyone laughed but Grenn. “I hope I’m a ranger.”

“You and everyone else,” said Matthar.

(…)

“Not everyone,” said Halder. “It’s the builders for me. What use would rangers be if the Wall fell down?”

The order of builders provided the masons and carpenters to repair keeps and towers, the miners to dig tunnels and crush stone for roads and footpaths, the woodsmen to clear away new growth wherever the forest pressed too close to the Wall. Once, it was said, they had quarried immense blocks of ice from frozen lakes deep in the haunted forest, dragging them south on sledges so the Wall might be raised ever higher. Those days were centuries gone, however; now, it was all they could do to ride the Wall from Eastwatch to the Shadow Tower, watching for cracks or signs of melt and making what repairs they could. – Jon V

+.+

“I asked why each link was a different metal. A silver chain would look much finer with his grey robes, I said. Maester Luwin laughed. A maester forges his chain with study, he told me. The different metals are each a different kind of learning, gold for the study of money and accounts, silver for healing, iron for warcraft. And he said there were other meanings as well. The collar is supposed to remind a maester of the realm he serves, isn’t that so? Lords are gold and knights steel, but two links can’t make a chain. You also need silver and iron and lead, tin and copper and bronze and all the rest, and those are farmers and smiths and merchants and the like. A chain needs all sorts of metals, and a land needs all sorts of people.” – Jon V

+.+

Maester Luwin sighed. “I can teach you history, healing, herblore. I can teach you the speech of ravens, and how to build a castle, and the way a sailor steers his ship by the stars. – Bran VI

+.+

ARYA STARK SAILS THE SUNSET SEA

The very first thing we learn about Nymeria, princess of the Rhoynar.

Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, who had led her people across the narrow sea. – Arya I

+.+

This is the bravo’s dance, the water dance, swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? – Arya II

+.+

In a passage that likely foreshadows the fate of each individual Stark, we learn somebody will sail a ship across the Sunset Sea.

+.+

“It won’t be so bad, Sansa,” Arya said. “We’re going to sail on a galley. It will be an adventure – Sansa III

+.+

“Ow,” she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. – Arya IV

+.+

Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord’s menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things. – Arya IV

+.+

In another passage that likely foreshadows the fate of each individual Stark, Maester Luwin tells Bran he can teach him the way a sailor steers his ship by the stars.

Maester Luwin sighed. “I can teach you history, healing, herblore. I can teach you the speech of ravens, and how to build a castle, and the way a sailor steers his ship by the stars. – Bran VI

+.+

It made her think of the sea. Maybe that was the way out. Old Nan used to tell stories of boys who stowed away on trading galleys and sailed off into all kinds of adventures. Maybe Arya could do that too. – Arya V

+.+

In a chapter that features multiple examples of parallels between historical figures and current characters, we learn about Brandon the Shipwright.

That’s a Brandon, the tall one with the dreamy face, he was Brandon the Shipwright, because he loved the sea. His tomb is empty. He tried to sail west across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. – Bran VII

+.+

It is agreed that Arya will marry Elmar. El mar. The sea.

Incredible, @fedonciadale.

"Also, if your sister Arya is returned to us safely, it is agreed that she will marry Lord Walder's youngest son, Elmar, when the two of them come of age." - Catelyn IX

+.+

BRAN THE BROKEN, KING OF WESTEROS

When he got out from under it and scrambled up near the sky, Bran could see all of Winterfell in a glance. He liked the way it looked, spread out beneath him, only birds wheeling over his head while all the life of the castle went on below. Bran could perch for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brooded over the First Keep, watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their vegetables in the glass garden, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know. – Bran II

+.+

Our first introduction to Jaime Lannister.

He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen's brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which. Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back. - Jon I, AGOT

The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove. - Bran II, AGOT

+.+

After dawn broke over the city, dragon breath surrounded the girls. Sansa sees Bran smiling.

“Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned’s cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon’s breath surrounded the girls where they lay. “I dreamed of Bran,” Sansa had whispered to him. “I saw him smiling.” – Eddard V

+.+

Robb stands, and Bran is sat down in his seat. The seat of kings.

Robb was saying with the voice of Robb the Lord. His sword was across his knees, the steel bare for all the world to see. Even Bran knew what it meant to greet a guest with an unsheathed sword.

(...)

"You Lannisters had best remember that," Robb said, lowering his sword. "Hodor, bring my brother here."

“Hodor,” Hodor said, and he trotted forward smiling and set Bran in the high seat of the Starks, where the Lords of Winterfell had sat since the days when they called themselves the Kings in the North. The seat was cold stone, polished smooth by countless bottoms; the carved heads of direwolves snarled on the ends of its massive arms. Bran clasped them as he sat, his useless legs dangling. The great seat made him feel half a baby. – Bran IV, AGOT

+.+

Jon gives up his fish on the way back to Winterfell.

"I didn't catch anything," Bran said, "but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell. Will we ever see Jon again?" - Bran V, AGOT

"That was the year of the Great Council," he said. "The lords passed over Prince Aerion's infant son and Prince Daeron's daughter and gave the crown to Aegon."

"Yes and no. First they offered it, quietly, to Aemon. And quietly he refused. [...] so they had no choice but to turn to Aemon's younger brother—Aegon, the Fifth of His Name. Aegon the Unlikely, they called him, born the fourth son of a fourth son. - Jon IV, ACOK

+.+

Both Robb and Bran will be kings, no different from Renly and Lord Stannis.

"As you say," said Robb, troubled. "Yet if neither one is king, still, how could it be Lord Renly? He's Robert's younger brother. Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, and Renly can't be king before Lord Stannis." – Catelyn XI, AGOT

+.+

HIGH SEPTON RICKON? MAESTER RICKON? RICKON THE HEIR?

Have we figured out what’s going on with Rickon yet? No fam, but we’re getting closer.

Rickon the High Septon?

+.+

Maester Rickon?

Maester Luwin sighed. “I can teach you history, healing, herblore. I can teach you the speech of ravens, and how to build a castle, and the way a sailor steers his ship by the stars. – Bran VI

Chained! To the maester’s tower it is.

"Bran," the maester said firmly, "I know you mean well, but Shaggydog is too wild to run loose. I'm the third man he's savaged. Give him the freedom of the castle and it's only a question of time before he kills someone. The truth is hard, but the wolf has to be chained, or …" He hesitated.

… or killed, Bran thought, but what he said was, "He was not made for chains. We will wait in your tower, all of us."

"That is quite impossible," Maester Luwin said.

Osha grinned. "The boy's the lordling here, as I recall." She handed Luwin back his torch and scooped Bran up into her arms again. "The maester's tower it is."

"Will you come, Rickon?" – Bran VII

+.+

Rickon the heir?

The iron swords in the crypts belonging to kings are used to foreshadow Robb’s demise. Here we see Rickon pick one up.

Robb had set half the castle searching for him, and when at last they'd found him down in the crypts, Rickon had slashed at them with a rusted iron sword he'd snatched from a dead king's hand, and Shaggydog had come slavering out of the darkness like a green-eyed demon. – Bran VI

+.+

THE TWINS MEET THEIR END IN THE MINES OF CASTERLY ROCK

In the bowels of Casterly Rock, Tyrion saw Cersei dying.

"I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister." – Tyrion II

+.+

Tyrion would rather be in the bowels of Casterly Rock (dead?), than a prisoner at the Eyrie.

He had plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and the moon and stars by night, but Tyrion would have traded it all in an instant for the dankest, gloomiest pit in the bowels of the Casterly Rock. – Tyrion V

+.+

Tywin sends a man to perish deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock.

A fool more foolish than most had once jested that even Lord Tywin's shit was flecked with gold. Some said the man was still alive, deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock. – Tyrion VII

There’s a joke to be made about Tywin and his bowels, but I’m not clever enough to make it.

+.+

TYRION LANNISTER, (PRISONER?) HAND OF THE KING

“You could put all this in a letter, you know.“

"Rickon can’t read yet. Bran …” He stopped suddenly. “I don’t know what message to send to Bran. Help him, Tyrion.”

“What help could I give him? I am no maester, to ease his pain. I have no spells to give him back his legs.”

“You gave me help when I needed it,” Jon Snow said.

“I gave you nothing,” Tyrion said. “Words.”

“Then give your words to Bran too.” – Tyrion III

+.+

Could this mean he’d prefer to be dead like his siblings?

+.+

Hand of the king, or captive?

If truth be told, he did not know what to make of them himself. Was he their commander or their captive? Most of the time, it seemed to be a little of both. – Tyrion VII

+.+

A scarred hand troubling Jon.

"The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before."

"A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not."

"As you say, my lord." It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. – Jon VIII

+.+

DARK DAENERYS HIGHLIGHTS & LAUGHS

Parallels that makes us laugh: steaming blood, red as fire.

His blade was white with frost; the Other's danced with pale blue light.

Then Royce's parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The young lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. - Prologue

The dragon gave one last hiss and stretched out flat upon his belly. Black blood was flowing from the wound where the spear had pierced him, smoking where it dripped onto the scorched sands. He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I. - Daenerys IX, ADWD

+.+

Wake the dragon

His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it "waking the dragon." – Daenerys I

The Usurper has woken the dragon now, she told herself … and her eyes went to the dragon’s eggs resting in their nest of dark velvet. – Daenerys VI

“You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?”

“… don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?”

“… don’t want to wake the dragon …"

"… don’t want to wake the dragon …”

“… want to wake the dragon …”

“… wake the dragon …”

“… the dragon …” – Daenerys IX

+.+

Daenerys Stormborn

She had been born on Dragonstone nine moons after their flight, while a raging summer storm threatened to rip the island fastness apart. They said that storm was terrible. The Targaryen fleet was smashed while it lay at anchor, and huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets and sent hurtling into the wild waters of the narrow sea. – Daenerys I

She lifted her head. “And I am Daenerys Stormborn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon’s daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo.” – Daenerys IX

+.+

Storms, thunder & bells

Finally the crone opened her eye and lifted her arms. “I have seen his face, and heard the thunder of his hooves,” she proclaimed in a thin, wavery voice.

“The thunder of his hooves!” the others chorused.

“As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name.” The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid. “The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.” – Daenerys V

At sunset on the second day, a great bell began to ring. Its voice was deep and sonorous, and the long slow clanging filled Sansa with a sense of dread. The ringing went on and on, and after a while they heard other bells answering from the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill. The sound rumbled across the city like thunder, warning of the storm to come. – Sansa IV

Dany braided his hair and slid the silver rings onto his mustache and hung his bells one by one. So many bells, gold and silver and bronze. Bells so his enemies would hear him coming and grow weak with fear. – Daenerys X

+.+

A touch of Targaryen exceptionalism

She had always assumed that she would wed Viserys when she came of age. For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. – Daenerys I

If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully, this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen awaiting her when she grew old … and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the world. That should be enough for any woman … but not for the dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last. She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child inside her. She must not forget. – Daenerys VI

+.+

Daenerys stands alone, the lands spoiled and torn behind her

Awesome, @chispas-and-broken-bindings.

"Wait here," Dany told Ser Jorah. "Tell them all to stay. Tell them I command it."

(…)

As the riding became less an ordeal, Dany began to notice the beauties of the land around her. She rode at the head of the khalasar with Drogo and his bloodriders, so she came to each country fresh and unspoiled. Behind them the great horde might tear the earth and muddy the rivers and send up clouds of choking dust, but the fields ahead of them were always green and verdant. – Daenerys III

+.+

Fire blazing in every window

But it was not the plains Dany saw then. It was King's Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built. It was Dragonstone where she had been born. In her mind's eye they burned with a thousand lights, a fire blazing in every window. In her mind's eye, all the doors were red. – Daenerys III

+.+

Shedding a free man’s blood in the sacred city

Ser Jorah had explained that it was forbidden to carry a blade in Vaes Dothrak, or to shed a free man's blood. Even warring khalasars put aside their feuds and shared meat and mead together when they were in sight of the Mother of Mountains. – Daenerys IV

His fingers dug into her arm painfully and for an instant Dany felt like a child again, quailing in the face of his rage. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed the first thing she touched, the belt she’d hoped to give him, a heavy chain of ornate bronze medallions. She swung it with all her strength.

It caught him full in the face. Viserys let go of her. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of one of the medallions had sliced it open. “You are the one who forgets himself,” Dany said to him. “Didn’t you learn anything that day in the grass? Leave me now, before I summon my khas to drag you out. And pray that Khal Drogo does not hear of this, or he will cut open your belly and feed you your own entrails.”

(…)

Drops of his blood had spattered the beautiful sandsilk cloak. – Daenerys IV

+.+

Hearteater

Thank you, @aegor-bamfsteel.

I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself as she took the stallion's heart in both hands, lifted it to her mouth, and plunged her teeth into the tough, stringy flesh. – Daenerys V

Joffrey drew his sword. The pommel was a ruby cut in the shape of a heart, set between a lion's jaws. Three fullers were deeply incised in the blade. "My new blade, Hearteater." – Sansa VI, ACOK

Joffrey is the black worm eating the heart of the realm! – Sansa VIII, ACOK

Bloodraven is the root of all our woes, the white worm gnawing at the heart of the realm. – The Mystery Knight

+.+

The parallels between both hearteaters don’t stop there

“I beg of you, my prince …”

“I’m king now. Dog, get her out of bed.” – Sansa VI

“I … as … as you command, my lord.”

“Your Grace,” Joffrey corrected her. – Sansa VI

“I … I had not thought, my lord.”

“Your Grace,” he said sharply. – Sansa VI

“Princess …” he began.

“Why do you call me that?” Dany challenged him. “My brother Viserys was your king, was he not?” “He was, my lady.”

“Viserys is dead. I am his heir, the last blood of House Targaryen. Whatever was his is mine now.”

“My … queen,” Ser Jorah said, going to one knee. – Daenerys X

More!

"I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon," Dany reminded him. "It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do." – Daenerys VII

+.+

In the blink of an eye, brother no more

Dany had not known, had not even suspected. “Then … he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother … and my true king.”

(…)

“You do not understand, ser,” she said. “My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have.” – Daenerys V

Viserys was weeping, she saw; weeping and laughing, both at the same time, this man who had once been her brother.

(…)

“What did he say?” the man who had been her brother asked her, flinching.

(…)

Qotho seized the man who had been her brother by the arms.

(…)

And upended the pot over the head of the man who had been her brother. – Daenerys V

+.+

Trading versus taking

She saw a beautiful feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. In return, she gave the merchant a silver medallion from her belt. That was how it was done among the Dothraki. – Daenerys VI

She did take a dozen flasks of scented oils, the perfumes of her childhood; she had only to close her eyes and sniff them and she could see the big house with the red door once more. When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a magician’s booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and Jhiqui as well. – Daenerys VI

+.+

Madness

Was it madness that seized her then, born of fear?

(…)

This is madness, she told herself as she lifted the black-and-scarlet egg from the velvet. – Daenerys VI

They thought her mad, Dany realized.

(…)

"You are mad," the godswife said hoarsely.

"Is it so far from madness to wisdom?" Dany asked. – Daenerys X

+.+

The price she’s willing to pay

Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men.

I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.

This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne. – Daenerys VII

+.+

A glimpse into the future – carnage in the sacred city

Dany commanded Ser Jorah and the warriors of her khas to guard the entrance and make certain no one set the building afire while they were still inside. – Daenerys VII

I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh. – Daenerys IX

+.+

They were hers

They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. – Daenerys VII

“You cannot claim them all, child,” Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her. – Daenerys VII

The speaker was one of the slaves she had claimed, the heavy, flat-nosed woman who had blessed her. – Daenerys VII

And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo's. – Daenerys X

+.+

Khaleesi’s bloodriders kill Drogo’s, positioning them as rival khals

Ser Jorah brought his longsword down with all the strength left him, through flesh and muscle and bone, and Qotho’s forearm dangled loose, flopping on a thin cord of skin and sinew. The knight’s next cut was at the Dothraki’s ear, so savage that Qotho’s face seemed almost to explode. – Daenerys VIII

Rakharo was fighting Haggo, arakh dancing with arakh until Jhogo’s whip cracked, loud as thunder, the lash coiling around Haggo’s throat. A yank, and the bloodrider stumbled backward, losing his feet and his sword. Rakharo sprang forward, howling, swinging his arakh down with both hands through the top of Haggo’s head. – Daenerys VIII

She tried to crawl toward the tent, but Cohollo caught her. Fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and she felt the cold touch of his knife at her throat. “My baby,” she screamed, and perhaps the gods heard, for as quick as that, Cohollo was dead. Aggo’s arrow took him under the arm, to pierce his lungs and heart. – Daenerys VIII

+.+

The least subtle dream you’ll ever come across

She was walking down a long hall beneath high stone arches. She could not look behind her, must not look behind her. There was a door ahead of her, tiny with distance, but even from afar, she saw that it was painted red. She walked faster, and her bare feet left bloody footprints on the stone. – Daenerys IX

but suddenly the stars were gone, and across the blue sky swept the great wings, and the world took flame. – Daenerys IX

The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings. – Daenerys IX

And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. “The last dragon,” Ser Jorah’s voice whispered faintly. “The last, the last.” Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own. – Daenerys IX

After that, for a long time, there was only the pain, the fire within her, and the whisperings of stars.

She woke to the taste of ashes. – Daenerys IX

+.+

Daenerys saves

“I spoke for you,” she said, anguished. “I saved you.”

“Saved me?” The Lhazareen woman spat. “Three riders had taken me, not as a man takes a woman but from behind, as a dog takes a bitch. The fourth was in me when you rode past. How then did you save me? I saw my god’s house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved.” – Daenerys IX

“I am tired of the maegi’s braying,” Dany told Jhogo. He took his whip to her, and after that the godswife kept silent. – Daenerys X

“Ser Jorah, take this maegi and bind her to the pyre.”

“To the … my queen, no, hear me …” – Daenerys X

“You will not hear me scream,” Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.

“I will,” Dany said, “but it is not your screams I want, only your life. – Daenerys X

+.+

The birth of dragons or the destruction of King’s Landing?

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders.

(…)

The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder. Only death can pay for life.

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing.

(…)

The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.

When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. – Daenerys X

+.+

Doomed Robb Stark is married to his sword, while doomed Daenerys is the bride of fire

He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table. – Catelyn XI, AGOT

+.+

No regrets, if she looks back she is lost

"That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price."

Had she? Had she? If I look back I am lost. – Daenerys IX

+.+

STARK v TARG

Her brother Rhaegar battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident and dying for the woman he loved. The sack of King's Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper's dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. – Daenerys I

+.+

Jon is all garnet, no ruby. He lacks the fire.

"Rubies," Sansa said, lost. "What rubies?"

Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. "Rhaegar's rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown." – Sansa I, AGOT

The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had been carved into the likeness of a snarling wolf's head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes.

[…]

The direwolf's red eyes were darker than garnets and wiser than men. Jon knelt, scratched his ear, and showed him the pommel of the sword. "Look. It's you." – Jon VIII, AGOT

As he entered his lord father's solar a few moments later, he heard a voice saying, ". . . cherrywood for the scabbards, bound in red leather and ornamented with a row of lion's-head studs in pure gold. Perhaps with garnets for the eyes . . ."

"Rubies," Lord Tywin said. "Garnets lack the fire." – Tyrion IV, ASOS

+.+

Rhaegal’s egg changed colours, depending on how Daenerys looked at it.

One egg was a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that came and went depending on how Dany turned it. – Daenerys II

+.+

Do ants bite, Daenerys?

The gaunt outlines of huge catapults and monstrous wooden cranes stood sentry up there, like the skeletons of great birds, and among them walked men in black as small as ants. – Jon III

+.+

“No dragon,” Irri said. “Brave men kill them, for dragon terrible evil beasts. It is known.”

“It is known,” agreed Jhiqui. – Daenerys III

+.+

Someone suggests a Faceless Man do it.

Ned bowed, and turned on his heel without another word. He could feel Robert's eyes on his back. As he strode from the council chambers, the discussion resumed with scarcely a pause. "On Braavos there is a society called the Faceless Men," Grand Maester Pycelle offered.

"Do you have any idea how costly they are?" Littlefinger complained. "You could hire an army of common sellswords for half the price, and that's for a merchant. I don't dare think what they might ask for a princess." - Eddard VIII

+.+

Jorah not a fan of Lord Stark.

"You hate this Lord Stark," Dany said.

"He took from me all I loved, for the sake of a few lice-ridden poachers and his precious honor," Ser Jorah said bitterly. From his tone, she could tell the loss still pained him. – Daenerys IV

Jon doesn’t think too highly of Jorah Mormont.

When Jon did not appear to fetch the Old Bear's breakfast from the kitchen, they'd look in his cell and find Longclaw on the bed. It had been hard to abandon it, but Jon was not so lost to honor as to take it with him. Even Jorah Mormont had not done that, when he fled in disgrace. – Jon IX

+.+

He filled his fist and tossed the raw red morsels into the cage, and the squawking and squabbling grew hotter. Feathers flew as two of the larger birds fought over a choice piece. – Jon VIII

+.+

While we’re on the topic of big birds,

She took a deep breath and stepped closer to the pigeon. It was a plump one, speckled brown, busily pecking at a crust that had fallen between two cobblestones, but when Arya's shadow touched it, it took to the air.

+.+

Dragons don’t frighten Arya, she has her steel in hand.

This time the monsters did not frighten her. They seemed almost old friends. Arya held the candle over her head. With each step she took, the shadows moved against the walls, as if they were turning to watch her pass. "Dragons," she whispered. She slid Needle out from under her cloak. The slender blade seemed very small and the dragons very big, yet somehow Arya felt better with steel in her hand. – Arya IV

+.+

Daenerys spots a dancing shadow of a great wolf in her magic death tent.

No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn't, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn't they see? Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames. – Daenerys VIII

+.+

King Jon Stark defeats the sea raiders and slavers from Valyria, travelling from across the narrow sea.

He looked at the passing faces and the tales came back to him. The maester had told him the stories, and Old Nan had made them come alive. “That one is Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he drove them out and built the castle at White Harbor. – Bran VII

+.+

If the icy breath caught her, she would die.

"I should have thought that heat ill suits you Starks," Littlefinger said. "Here in the south, they say you are all made of ice, and melt when you ride below the Neck."

The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness. She began to run. – Daenerys IX

+.+

SOMEONE IS SHARPENING THEIR KNIFE, DAENERYS

“Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?”

The king frowned. “A knife, perhaps. A good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it.” – Eddard II

“Kiss her?” Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

“A steel kiss,” said Littlefinger.

Robert turned to face his Hand. “Well, there it is, Ned. You and Selmy stand alone on this matter. The only question that remains is, who can we find to kill her?” – Eddard VIII

+.+

Her words were a knife through Dany’s breast. – Daenerys VIII

Mirri Maz Duur chanted words in a tongue that Dany did not know, and a knife appeared in her hand. Dany never saw where it came from. – Daenerys VIII

Another pain grasped her, and Dany bit back a scream. It felt as if her son had a knife in each hand, as if he were hacking at her to cut his way out. – Daenerys VIII

A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. – Daenerys IX

+.+

The bird carcass slid where?

There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. – Jon I

+.+

When they were alone, Ser Jorah drew his dagger. Deftly, with a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he began to scrape away the black leaves and dried blue mud from Drogo’s chest. The plaster had caked hard as the mud walls of the Lamb Men, and like those walls it cracked easily. Ser Jorah broke the dry mud with his knife, pried the chunks from the flesh, peeled off the leaves one by one. A foul, sweet smell rose from the wound, so thick it almost choked her. The leaves were crusted with blood and pus, Drogo’s breast black and glistening with corruption. – Daenerys VIII

A dagger / blue / cracked walls / a foul sweet smell / rose.

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . – Daenerys IV, ACOK

Beautful, @shieldofrohan.

+.+

STORM x STORM

An alliance foretold

The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king. – Daenerys I

Savage beasts he did not fear, nor any man who had ever drawn breath, but the sea was a different matter. To the Dothraki, water that a horse could not drink was something foul; the heaving grey-green plains of the ocean filled them with superstitious loathing. Drogo was a bolder man than the other horselords in half a hundred ways, she had found … but not in this. If only she could get him onto a ship ... – Daenerys VI

“The narrow sea would still lie between us. I shall fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water.” – Eddard VIII

+.+

Dothraki & Greyjoy parallels galore! (Dothraki Sea edition)

“The Dothraki sea,” Ser Jorah Mormont said as he reined to a halt beside her on the top of the ridge. – Daenerys III

@agentrouka-blog & @aegor-bamfsteel double team me, and end my life.

+.+

Dothraki & Greyjoy parallels galore! (Pillaging, plundering, and pilfering edition)

Beyond the horse gate, plundered gods and stolen heroes loomed to either side of them. The forgotten deities of dead cities brandished their broken thunderbolts at the sky as Dany rode her silver past their feet. Stone kings looked down on her from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained, even their names lost in the mists of time. – Daenerys IV

+.+

Dothraki & Greyjoy parallels galore! (Do not build edition)

"Your brother had part of the truth," Ser Jorah admitted. "The Dothraki do not build. A thousand years ago, to make a house, they would dig a hole in the earth and cover it with a woven grass roof. The buildings you see were made by slaves brought here from lands they've plundered, and they built each after the fashion of their own peoples." – Daenerys IV

+.+

Dothraki & Greyjoy parallels galore! (Buying vs taking edition)

The caravans made their way to Vaes Dothrak from east and west not so much to sell to the Dothraki as to trade with each other, Ser Jorah had explained. The riders let them come and go unmolested, so long as they observed the peace of the sacred city, did not profane the Mother of Mountains or the Womb of the World, and honored the crones of the dosh khaleen with the traditional gifts of salt, silver, and seed. The Dothraki did not truly comprehend this business of buying and selling. – Daenerys VI

+.+

Dothraki & Greyjoy parallels galore! (Do not plant or sow edition)

Dothraki hooves had torn the earth and trampled the rye and lentils into the ground, while arakhs and arrows had sown a terrible new crop and watered it with blood. – Daenerys VII

+.+

Daenerys Stormborn ❤️ The Storm

She lifted her head. "And I am Daenerys Stormborn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon's daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo." – Daenerys IX

A smile played across Euron's blue lips. "I am the storm, my lord. The first storm, and the last. I have taken the Silence on longer voyages than this, and ones far more hazardous. Have you forgotten? I have sailed the Smoking Sea and seen Valyria." – The Reaver, AFFC

+.+

Black iron Euron?

Monsters stood in the grass beside the road; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores with their barbed tails poised to strike, and other beasts she could not name. – Daenerys IV

+.+

Daenerys Targaryen has no time for gods

She wondered what the Lamb Men had thought, when they first saw the dust of their horses from atop those cracked-mud walls. Perhaps a few, the younger and more foolish who still believed that the gods heard the prayers of desperate men, took it for deliverance. – Daenerys IV

+.+

Maegi and wizard killed when their dark magic doesn’t satisfy those they serve

“You will not hear me scream,” Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.

“I will,” Dany said, “but it is not your screams I want, only your life. – Daenerys X

The Crow’s Eye sipped from his silver cup. “I once held a dragon’s egg in this hand, brother. This Myrish wizard swore he could hatch it if I gave him a year and all the gold that he required. When I grew bored with his excuses, I slew him. As he watched his entrails sliding through his fingers he said, ‘But it has not been a year.’” He laughed. – The Reaver, AFFC

+.+

GREATEST UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, THE FOSTERING OF SWEETROBIN

Casterly Rock? No.

"We both did." Ned paused a moment. "Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?"

Robert's mouth gave a bitter twist. "Not well, in truth," he admitted. "I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie. Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by women?" – Eddard I

+.+

Dragonstone? No.

"His lord father agreed with you," said a voice at her elbow. She turned to behold Maester Colemon, a cup of wine in his hand. "He was planning to send the boy to Dragonstone for fostering, you know … oh, but I'm speaking out of turn." The apple of his throat bobbed anxiously beneath the loose maester's chain. "I fear I've had too much of Lord Hunter's excellent wine. The prospect of bloodshed has my nerves all a-fray …"

"You are mistaken, Maester," Catelyn said. "It was Casterly Rock, not Dragonstone, and those arrangements were made after the Hand's death, without my sister's consent." – Catelyn VII

+.+

Winterfell? No.

he ought not to be so open in her contempt, she knew, but her parting from the Eyrie had not been pleasant. She had offered to take Lord Robert with her, to foster him at Winterfell for a few years. The company of other boys would do him good, she had dared to suggest. Lysa's rage had been frightening to behold. – Catelyn VIII

+.+

The Twins? No.

"I was speaking of your sister. I proposed that Lord and Lady Arryn foster two of my grandsons at court, and offered to take their own son to ward here at the Twins. – Catelyn IX

I’m on the scent!

JONSA ❤️ (Best for last!)

So here’s the thing, @ladyofasoiaf already put together the manual on all jonsa foreshadowing in the books. Repeating it all here would be a waste of time, and take up a lot of space.

Instead I’m going to include small things that don’t appear in that post, and you can cross reference. Is this major stuff? No. You can find that all in the link. Remember though, jonsa never stops delivering.

Waymar or Jon?

Ha! Not even my re-read, but we have to include it. @astradrifting takes a deeper dive into the AGOT Prologue, and finds even more Jon and Waymar parallels.

+.+

Sansa needs a good steward!

@trins-trins with a lovely observation!

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward. – Arya I, AGOT

"Matthar, to the rangers. Dareon, to the stewards. Todder, to the rangers. Jon, to the stewards."

The stewards! For a moment Jon could not believe what he had heard. – Jon VI

+.+

A problem with only one solution

The stage is set: Jon dreams of being Lord of Winterfell, while Catelyn has nightmares of her grandchildren’s claim to Winterfell being contested.

How does the author satisfy both?

Catelyn said nothing. Let Ned work it out in his own mind; her voice would not be welcome now. Yet gladly would she have kissed the maester just then. His was the perfect solution. Benjen Stark was a Sworn Brother. Jon would be a son to him, the child he would never have. And in time the boy would take the oath as well. He would father no sons who might someday contest with Catelyn's own grandchildren for Winterfell. – Catelyn II

Cersei could not have been pleased by her lord husband's by-blows, yet in the end it mattered little whether the king had one bastard or a hundred. Law and custom gave the baseborn few rights. Gendry, the girl in the Vale, the boy at Storm's End, none of them could threaten Robert's trueborn children … – Eddard VII

He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night while his brothers slept around him. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb's bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn? – Jon I

What kind of man stole his own brother’s birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. – Jon VIII

+.+

I spy blue flowers

Blue flowers spotted where Sansa builds Winterfell, and tastes ghostly silent drifting snowflakes on her lips. Is this jonsa foreshadowing? Of course not, what a stretch. I’m still including it though, because they rage at the flowers every single time.

If anything, it serves as a nice reminder that weirwood trees (ahem) don’t take root in the Vale, and never will.

Lysa's apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. – Catelyn VI

+.+

A black bastard king steals a little bird from a Lannister

+.+

Our favourite waycastles

Snow was smaller than Stone, a single fortified tower and a timber keep and stable hidden behind a low wall of unmortared rock. Yet it nestled against the Giant’s Lance in such a way as to command the entire stone stair above the lower waycastle. An enemy intent on the Eyrie would have to fight his way from Stone step by step, while rocks and arrows rained down from Snow above. – Catelyn VII

+.+

Where would she go?

✨ beyond the walls ✨ beyond the walls ✨

"Freedom of the castle" meant that she could go wherever she chose within the Red Keep so long as she promised not to go beyond the walls, a promise Sansa had been more than willing to give. She couldn't have gone beyond the walls anyway. The gates were watched day and night by Janos Slynt's gold cloaks, and Lannister house guards were always about as well. Besides, even if she could leave the castle, where would she go? – Sansa V

+.+

Her prince—no, her king!— dressed exactly like a Targaryen.

Something we’ll see repeated by Tyrion Lannister on her wedding day.

Her prince—no, her king now!—took the steps of the Iron Throne two at a time, while his mother was seated with the council. Joff wore plush black velvets slashed with crimson, a shimmering cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar, and on his head a golden crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds. – Sansa V

+.+

Oh my goodness, that was more than I anticipated.

Fam, it’s been a blast. Like always, please feel free to message me if I forgot something or didn’t give proper credit.

Bring on A Clash of Kings!

#operation stumpy re-read #foreshadowing smorgasbord #agot summary #sansa stark #jonsa #ship girl #king bran #shaman rickon #stark v targ #storm x storm #anti daenerys #sweetchad

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theusurpersdog · 4 years ago

Text

A Bird in a Cage

Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is all about boxing her in. Not only is she a hostage in King’s Landing, she’s also expected to pretend she’s not; she has to attend Court with a smile on her face, playing the role of Joffrey’s betrothed every day. Showing any honest emotion is punished by verbal and physical beatings. Her entire life becomes a performance she must put on to keep the monsters at bay. Everything about her world is meant to be stifling; from the physical restrictions to the emotional ones, it all makes her retreat deeper and deeper within herself.

But the real magic of this book is the moments where she finds a way to push back or escape her bounds . . .

Captive

In more ways than one, Sansa is a captive in King’s Landing.

The first kind of abuse she’s subjected to is physical. Beatings are a part of her everyday life. Because Robb was crowned king, or because she was happy Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall, or because Joffrey decided to be especially cruel one day. Sometimes for no reason at all.

She has to take care to dress carefully to hide the bruises:

The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well.

This should go without saying, but domestic abuse is not rational; nothing Sansa does could stop Joffrey from abusing her – no clever words or tricks she could do to keep him happy. Half the time he has her beaten, it’s because of something Robb did.

Because she could be beaten at any moment, Sansa always keeps one eye on Joffrey, terrified that his mood could turn:

So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was relieved.

. . .

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

Not only is she afraid of being hit, she’s genuinely afraid he could kill her:

When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat.

Sansa knows her life balances on an incredibly delicate string. Jaime being Robb’s prisoner gives the Lannisters a reason to keep her alive, but Joffrey had reasons to keep Ned alive, too. If anything were to set him off, he would kill Sansa without hesitation. That’s why Sansa feels safer with Cersei around to watch her son, because she’s the only thing that remains to keep Joffrey in check. And Sansa knows that if Robb were to do anything to Jaime, her life would be over:

Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

The beating she endures after Robb wins the battle at Oxcross is so bad that she can barely walk afterward; and as I already mention above, she has to be careful to wear dresses to hide her bruises.

And not only does she have to endure the abuse, she also has to carry on the farce for the rest of the court. Everyone knows she’s a prisoner, and everyone knows that Joffrey is having the Kingsguard beat her, but she’s not allowed to show it; all of her pain has to be kept hidden, pushed deep down inside herself.

Which leads me to the other kind of abuse Sansa experiences in King’s Landing. Everything about her time there is meant to emotionally destroy her. Joffrey intentionally tries to taunt her with threats to murder her family:

“It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him.

. . .

“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance toward Sansa.

. . .

“I’ll deal with your brother after I’m done with my traitor uncle. I’ll gut him with Hearteater, you’ll see.”

He loves to play mind games with her, like when he promised to show Ned mercy and then cut off his head and said that was mercy. The constant way that he twists reality around messes with her head and leaves her understandably paranoid:

What if it was some cruel jape of Joffrey’s, like the day he had taken her up to the battlements to show her Father’s head? Or perhaps it was some subtle snare to prove she was not loyal. If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she’d come?

The constant cruelty she suffers, and Joffrey and Cersei’s profound betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones, make it hard for her to trust anyone, even when they show kindness:

He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

How is she supposed to trust anyone, when everything around her is false? When everything is a carefully constructed jape at her expense? Especially because she’s surrounded by enemies; anyone making their home in Joffrey’s court is sworn to kill Sansa’s family.

And Cersei intentionally makes her isolation worse, rotating her bedmaids:

Sansa did not know her. The queen had her servants changed every fortnight, to make certain none of them befriended her.

Sansa truly has no one to talk to, not even friendly servants to keep her company. Her loneliness is so profound that she enjoys being watched over by Arys Oakheart because he’s the only person who will actually talk to her.

She realizes that no one in King’s Landing cares if she lives or dies:

She [Cersei] spared Sansa not so much as a glance. She’s forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won’t even think about it.

And before the Battle of the Blackwater started, Tyrion told her this:

“I ought to have sent you off with Tommen now that I think on it.”

Unlike Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion doesn’t wish Sansa any harm; he orders Joffrey’s men to stop hitting her, tries to comfort her afterward, and doesn’t want her to be married to Joffrey. But she is not one of his priorities. It didn’t even occur to him to try and get her safely out of the city.

This is dehumanizing. Sansa has no friends or even anyone to talk to, and the people around her treat her life as an afterthought.

Sansa also suffers from the emotional fallout of Joffrey’s abuse. She blames herself when he has men hit her:

She must learn to hide her feelings better, so as not to anger Joffrey.

The fear of being hit by Joffrey is nearly all-consuming for Sansa. It affects everything down to the smallest details of her life, like how she dresses and does her hair:

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color.

Instead of getting to live as her own person, doing things to make herself happy, Sansa has to live for Joffrey’s satisfaction. Even when she’s being physically beaten, she thinks of him instead of herself:

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Everything about her life is a performance for other people. She wears the gowns and jewels Joffrey likes, dressing to hide the bruises his men leave all over, and says the words they tell her to say:

“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Sansa repeats that phrase over and over throughout the book, always at once. Almost like a reflex. An actor on stage repeating their lines, rehearsed and performed a thousand times.

The worst part of the act is that everyone knows it’s exactly that: an act. Sansa is required, every day, to declare that her family are traitors who deserve to die, and for no reason at all. The way Joffrey abuses her is an open secret:

“He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation.”

There is no way anyone could ever believe Sansa actually loves the boy who killed her father and intentionally humiliates her in front of his court. No matter how well Sansa tells the lie, it will always be see-through; especially because everyone knows that she’s a prisoner, being held until Jaime is freed. Sansa has to repeat the lie of believing her family to be traitors to try and please the Lannisters – if she said anything different she would be beaten or killed – but there’s no way they will ever be happy, because even when Sansa says the lies as convincingly as humanly possible, they know they’re lies because there’s no way they could be anything else. Sansa cannot win.

That’s never clearer than during her conversation with Cersei inside Maegar’s Holdfast, while the Battle of the Blackwater rages on:

“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.

“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”

If Sansa told Cersei the truth in this moment, she would be severely punished. And Cersei knows that, because she would be the one doing the punishing. Yet she verbally berates Sansa anyway.

The same dynamic plays out between Sansa and the Hound. At the end of A Game of Thrones, he gives her this bit of advice:

“Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

And as one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, he knows first hand of the abuse Sansa suffers if she says anything that could even be construed as out of line. Yet when Sansa tries to follow the advice he gave her, he throws it back in her face:

“ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you”

Everyone in King’s Landing is always threatening to kill Sansa if she tells them the truth, and then calling her stupid when she repeats back the lies they want to hear. They’re forcefully dehumanizing her, demanding she remove all of her own thoughts and emotions and replace them with hollow lines they’ve given her, and then getting mad when her words are empty.

This plays on one of Sansa’s greatest insecurities about herself, which is her intelligence. Because of her low self-esteem, she already thinks of herself as being less-than. That’s very clear whenever she does an act of kindness – she steadfastly refuses to give herself credit for anything:

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court?

. . .

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

She never thinks to herself You are doing this because you are a good person. She always punishes herself internally, calling herself stupid and childish for believing in good things. Joffrey and Cersei have destroyed her so much that she can only see herself through their eyes, cruel and mocking.

The fear that she’s stupid is one of her greatest anxieties:

“My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

And she doesn’t like to be watched by Ser Preston Greenfield because he treated her like a lackwit child.

Everyone around her is comfortable calling her stupid and emotionally abusing her, and it’s easy for Sansa to start internalizing those messages. Joffrey and Cersei’s betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones forever changed Sansa; the fear that she could ever be so wrong again, and the fear that she was stupid to believe in them, haunts her. Throughout her time in King’s Landing, her self-worth plummets, and she really starts to believe all the things that Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone is always telling her about herself.

Because she has to endure so much abuse and cruelty every day, it starts to become normal to Sansa. Compared to the way Joffrey treats her, anything would be an improvement; she has a soft spot for Arys Oakheart because he hesitated to hit her once:

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued.

At least he had argued is one of the saddest lines in a series of books that has a lot of sad lines. Sansa expects so little of the people around her, and is subjected to so much cruelty, that the mere act of hesitating before hitting a defenseless child is enough to stand out in her memory as an act of kindness.

And Sansa thinks this when Tyrion asks her if she’s flowered yet:

Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.

This is a perfect moment to show the small ways in which Joffrey is breaking her down emotionally. Tyrion’s question is embarrassing and impolite, but Sansa doesn’t even care because it is so much less embarrassing than the humiliations Joffrey makes her suffer. Joffrey has set the bar for cruelty so high that Sansa is willing to ignore others mistreating her because it isn’t as bad as Joffrey.

The secret friendship she has with Dontos makes this even worse:

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

Dontos is not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any less toxic a message for Sansa to hear: I’m cruel and hit you for your own protection. That’s on display when Joffrey is beating Sansa for Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “Morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.

Sansa is happy that Dontos is the one hitting her, because at least it’s better than Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Dontos volunteering to hit her is an act of kindness for Sansa; which further reinforces the idea that someone hitting her is okay.

All of this works to lower Sansa’s standards and warp her perception of what is and isn’t okay; and in the case of Dontos, it is outright grooming on the part of Littlefinger. He intentionally paid an older man to win Sansa’s trust and get her used to the dynamic of secrecy and pushing boundaries, all so he can swoop in during A Storm of Swords. Sansa’s stuck in an endless cycle of her abuse conditioning her to accept more abuse.

All of the abuse and isolation Sansa suffers also leaves her incredibly depressed throughout A Clash of Kings. When she gets the note telling her to go to the Godswood, she thinks she will kill herself before she’s caught:

If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself.

After the bread riot, Sansa has panic attacks; so much so that she feels suffocated in small rooms:

Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there was no air to breathe.

She likes to go up to the roof of the tower so she can see the entire city laid before her; it’s the only place where she doesn’t feel so claustrophobic and trapped.

That passage is also so fantastically written to show just how depressed Sansa is. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She's too depressed to go riding around the courtyard; she doesn’t see the point in going around in circles. We know from A Game of Thrones that Sansa has plenty of hobbies: playing the high harp, needlepoint, reading, and sharing gossip with her best friend. In A Clash of Kings, she’s too isolated to have anyone to talk to, but we never see her doing any of her other hobbies either. Nothing brings Sansa happiness in this book.

Especially because she’s constantly surrounded by reminders of her trauma. The way Sansa copes with her grief is by pushing it out of her mind and pretending like it doesn’t exist:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears.

Sansa actively tries to forget about the people who mean the most to her because it hurts too much to think of them.

But she can’t forget about Ned when she’s surrounded by reminders of his death. Joffrey and Cersei intentionally throw it in her face, and she has to walk through the same halls his men died in:

Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.

The reminder that hurts the most is the presence of Ilyn Payne, a recurring figure in all of Sansa’s nightmares. Just his presence makes Sansa’s skin crawl:

She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father's greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa's breath caught in her throat.

. . .

She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's close

When Sansa’s afraid she’s going to die, it’s always his blade she fears:

I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

. . .

Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

. . .

If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she'd come?

. . .

If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

Watching Ilyn Payne kill her father is the worst thing that ever happened to Sansa, and she lives in constant fear that the same thing could happen to her.

The only thing that keeps her going is the thought of her family. Sansa is insecure in herself enough to start believing the abuse that Joffrey and Cersei inflict on her; but she loves her family too much to ever believe the lies about them. Even though she’s forced to declare them traitors every single day, her internal monologue is always fighting against it:

Rob will kill you all, she thought, exulting

. . .

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.

She even finds a way to make Joffrey’s words work in her favor:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

One of the only moments where Sansa is even remotely happy in this book comes when she’s talking to Tommen, because he reminds her of Bran:

Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.

Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.

That’s a short passage, but it so beautifully captures a small piece of what Sansa is truly like, outside of the abuse and the fearing for her life and the never being able to express her emotions. She loves her family so much and wants nothing more than to be with Bran again. And while Joffrey mocks Tommen for his knightly dreams, Sansa is so nice to him, building up his confidence before he competes. She’s old enough to have grown passed the childishness of Tommen facing the quintain, but because she knows how important it is to Tommen, she gladly plays along with him. We never got to see any scenes in A Game of Thrones of Sansa interacting with Bran and getting to act like a big sister, but this scene does such a good job of showing us that Sansa was a great sister to him.

Sansa also feels a much stronger connection to the Godswood, the ancestral home of her father’s gods:

The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood, even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

And even though Lady’s long dead, Sansa still has a strong connection to her wolf. When she believes she’s going to die during the Blackwater, Lady is the first thing she thinks of:

“Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

The more abuse Sansa suffers and the more pressure is put on her to denounce her family as traitors and give up on ever going home, the more Sansa falls back on her family. That’s the only form of comfort she has in King’s Landing; the memory of Winterfell, and the belief that Robb is coming to save her.

The Lannisters have Sansa held captive physically and emotionally in King’s Landing; she has to suffer through beatings and repeat their words to stay alive. But as long as Sansa has her family - has Winterfell - to hold onto, there is a part of her that the Lannisters can never have. Even if it’s only within the walls of her own mind, Sansa has fought herself a small piece of freedom.

Courtesy is a Lady’s Armor

Trapped within the political machinations of King’s Landing, Sansa starts to learn how to play the game in earnest.

Even before she consciously starts to do it, though, Sansa is already in many ways an adept political actor. There’s a reason that all highborn children are taught from a young age how to conduct themselves; Westeros is a society built on the cornerstone of tradition, and knowing how to perform courtly behavior is important. Because Sansa took all of Septa Mordane’s training seriously, she already knows how to walk the dangerous tightrope of courtly speak:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”

This is the same skill we saw in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, when she was proud of herself for telling the Hound that no one could withstand Gregor during the tourney – she managed to say something courteous without telling a lie. Just as she did then, Sansa manages to say an apology to Tyrion that’s true.

It also shows just how good Sansa is at keeping a level head, because just moments before she was thinking this:

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.

Faced with the men responsible for killing her father, she manages to think on her feet and fulfill the role of a Lady.

She also learns how to use that same skill to benefit herself. Whereas at first she was just trying to perform the functions of a Lady, she starts to use her courtesy to talk the people around her into helping her in such a way that they don’t even realize it’s happening:

“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”

Part of why Sansa’s so naturally gifted at this kind of political double speak is because she understands people so well; she’s an empathetic and emotional character, and is extremely aware of the emotions of everyone around her. To affectively influence others, you need to understand what they want and be able to give it to them. Because Sansa is so aware of the people around her, she intuitively knows what they want; and all she wants to do is give it to them, because she doesn’t want to be hurt again.

The whole conversation she has with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand does an excellent job showing how intelligent she is:

“I . . .” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?”

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

Again, she shows an unparalleled ability to lie without actually lying. And she’s clever enough to tell Tyrion what he wants to hear without saying anything that’s actually false, that way it can’t come back to bite her later. She learned her lesson in A Game of Thrones not to trust someone just because they’re kind, and is careful not to show her cards to Tyrion. But in case he’s being honest in trying to help her, Sansa does not reaffirm her love for Joffrey. That’s why her answer of I only want to be loyal is so smart; whether Tyrion is playing her false or no, Sansa has given him the answer he wants to hear. She’s kept all of her doors open without creating additional risk for herself.

Having to survive Joffrey every day also teaches Sansa how to get what she wants without actually having to say it. When she saves Dontos’ life, she plays to Joffrey’s ego:

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

All Sansa wants is to save Dontos’ life, and in the moment she comes up with a spectacular lie. Of course Joffrey would think it humiliating to make Dontos into a fool, so Sansa convinces him that would be an even greater punishment than death. She manipulates Joffrey into doing what she wants him to, and he doesn’t even know it’s happened.

Learning how to slyly insult Joffrey is one of the few ways Sansa can actually express herself as a prisoner, and she gets incredibly good at it. She starts by passive-aggressively getting one over on him:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

But as she gets better at politics she goes even further, actively tempting Joffrey into getting himself killed:

“They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest,” she said recklessly. “Though he’s older than Your Grace, to be sure. A man grown.”

Joffrey’s biggest insecurity is that he can’t rule in his own right; Cersei won’t let him do certain things, and Tyrion is in charge of him as the Hand of the King because he hasn’t come of age yet. While Joffrey’s anger is normally aimed destructively at Sansa, here she figures out a way to make it work for her; using his own emotions against him to do something reckless.

As well as learning the art of political double-speak, Sansa starts to understand the broader political machinations at work. Because she was a diligent student of Catelyn and Septa Mordane, she has almost every sigil in Westeros memorized; at Joffrey’s name-day tourney, she recognizes every competitor by their House. This may seem unimportant at first glance, but it’s actually very important; twice in Arya’s chapters in A Clash of Kings she wishes she knew Houses and Sigils as well as Sansa, because than she would know who she was dealing with.

Since Sansa knows who everyone is, she has head start in understanding where everyone’s loyalties lie. On top of that, she’s also incredibly observant; she’s constantly taking in everything around her, stopping to pay attention to every little detail and interaction between people. Even though Cersei and Joffrey are trying to keep it hidden, Sansa notices that Joffrey’s tourney is held inside the Keep because he would be mobbed if they went out into the city. And she knows the Redwyne twins are hostages just as much as she is:

The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests, even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.

That’s not something anyone would have told Sansa. For one, no one is even allowed to talk to her per Cersei’s orders. For two, Cersei doesn’t let anyone acknowledge that she has hostages – in the same way Sansa has to pretend she is a guest of Joffrey’s court, the Redwynes have to pretend they’re willing guests. That means that Sansa, with no help from anyone, has of her own accord put all the pieces together and realized the Redwynes are political pawns just like her. Very impressive for a twelve-year-old.

Sansa’s attention to detail is clear when she meets Shae, and immediately notices something is not right with her:

Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to show her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes.

And when she’s entering Maegar’s Holdfast at the start of the Blackwater, and notices the guards:

The two guards at the door wore the lin-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair – a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his knees – but he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Westerosi Houses and her attention to detail combine to give her a really good head for political machinations. She sees how the Lannisters use empty titles to flatter their lesser servants while saving the best prizes for their family:

Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister.

She manages to keep pace with Littlefinger and Tywin’s games:

She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

I cannot emphasize enough that Sansa, following the tiny thread of Littlefinger looks happy to be Lord of Harrenhal, manages to predict the Red Wedding a whole book before it happens. That’s pretty incredible. Right now, Sansa has no power to start pulling meaningful strings of her own, but it’s clear that she fundamentally understands the complexity of geopolitics and would be well-prepared to make decisions of her own when the time comes.

Another way Sansa continues to learn about the realities of ruling is through people around her trying to teach her lessons. Because Sansa’s a hostage and isn’t allowed to say anything she feels, she basically becomes a blank slate for people to project whatever they want onto. Cersei, Dontos, and the Hound all try to “teach” her something as they project all of their own fears, insecurities, and trauma onto her.

Dontos tells her to play the fool:

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?”

Of course, Sansa already knows this. All the way back in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, Sansa thinks to herself that Moon Boy is smarter than he looks and is only pretending to be a fool so he can go wherever he likes; and Dontos confirms her suspicions when he reveals Moon Boy is a spy for Lord Varys.

It’s a consistent pattern that everyone around Sansa is constantly underestimating her; partly because of their own biases, and partly because Sansa is an almost entirely internal character, rarely letting people hear her honest thoughts. People assume she’s as hollow as the words they force her to say, but in reality she’s an introvert and a hostage.

The Hound also feels the need to impart some “lessons” onto Sansa:

Sandor Clegane snorted. “Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you.”

Again, he’s assuming Sansa’s much dumber than she actually is. Sansa already knows that everyone in King’s Landing is a liar, and has sworn to herself never to trust them again.

The most valuable lessons Sansa gets are from Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”

In this moment, even though she’s not doing a particularly good job actually doing it, Cersei articulates what’s really important about politics: optics. Her true motives for protecting the Ladies don’t matter as long as the Ladies believe that Cersei is doing it for the right reasons. That’s what monarchies are built upon. They’re a fragile house of cards constructed out of people’s belief.

That’s a lesson Sansa learns again when Joffrey sets her aside and takes Margaery as his bride. Sansa knows it’s going to happen, and is coached by Cersei how to react:

I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her, no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”

But in front of the court, Joffrey carries on the charade, pretending Garlan’s offer of his sister’s hand is brand new information. Sansa watches from the sidelines and sees how people react; chanting and cheering to the theatre of it all. She gets to learn in real time how important it is to be performing your duties for the people. Other characters – most notably Jon Snow and Daenerys – can never quite figure that part of ruling out, and it has grave consequences.

I don’t mean performing in the negative sense. Of course, it can be used like that, like when the Tyrell’s intentionally starve King’s Landing so they can swoop in and make a big show of providing food. But it can also be used for good; it is an absolutely necessary aspect of ruling to let your people know what you’re doing for them. Jon in particular gets in trouble at the Wall because he doesn’t explain why he does things; he just does them and hopes people will trust him. Part of the courtly aspect of ruling is doing the work of showing your people how you’re helping them. That way you build trust with them, and they know you care for them. That’s what Sansa’s learning how to do.

Sansa’s also very good at the literal courtly aspect of politics; the time actually spent in court, sitting for hours and hours as the tedious day-to-day of ruling takes place. After the Battle of the Blackwater is over, Sansa has to sit in court for an entire day as soldiers are given their reward. She manages to stay focused the whole time, giving incredibly detailed accounts of each prize that’s awarded and each act of valor that caused it. She handles herself better than the grown men in the hall:

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave.

Actual adults can’t even tolerate it, but Sansa manages just fine. This talent of hers is taken for granted by readers, but really stands out when you compare it to other characters. Sansa has the benefit of being raised to be a Lady, unlike a character like Daenerys who never had to sit through the training. Dany can’t make it through one day holding court in Meereen, and calls a lid early because she’s so bored – then stops holding court all together. Actually being a Queen is horribly bureaucratic, and that’s a skill that takes some practice to be able to perform.

Sansa’s ability to hold her own as a leader also really shines during the Battle of the Blackwater, when all hope seems lost and Cersei abandons the women in Maegar’s Holdfast:

“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”

“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”

“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”

Sansa has no reason to do this. Cersei has given Ser Ilyn orders to kill her if the castle falls, and all the women in the holdfast are older than she is. She’s the last person who should be capable of standing up to take charge, considering her age and her impending death by execution.

She knows she’s faced with a choice: try and save her own life, or stay and comfort the women in the holdfast. And she decides to stay.

True Knights

This book sees Sansa’s worldview start to deepen. She’s only a child when the series starts, and like most kids has a very simple understanding of the world; there’s good and bad people, and good and bad things that happen. Songs were the way Sansa gave that worldview structure. They taught her that the good things happened to the good people, and the bad things happened to the bad people. Westeros is fair, and only the good people could be put in charge to do good things. Kings, queens, and knights were all avatars of the inherent goodness of the world; people put in place specifically to protect others.

This worldview became unsustainable for Sansa after Ned’s death. Every single rule the songs taught her was violated by her father’s execution. In her last chapter of A Game of Thrones, we see Sansa turn to nihilism as a result; her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and the knights sworn to protect her are the ones beating her. She doesn’t believe in anything anymore, so much so that she just wants to die.

In A Clash of Kings, Sansa starts to grapple with the overwhelming cognitive dissonance. Ned’s death and Joffrey’s cruelty taught her how evil people can be; but she also knows how good they can be, because she grew up in Winterfell. For all of their shortcomings, Ned and Catelyn were loving parents who tried their best to do good, and raised their kids the same.

Sansa still believes in goodness, but sees that everyone around her fails to live up to it:

Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.

Notice how she thinks They are no true knights. Sansa is surrounded by unimaginable cruelty, but she holds on to an undying sense of optimism. She knows that real knights don’t fight for the right, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to believe in those ideals. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, when her belief in good was attached to specific people like Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa’s new worldview isn’t dependent on people to live up to. She believes in doing the right thing no matter what, even if the people around her let her down.

Sansa’s conception of beauty is the same way; in the first book, she assumed that beautiful people must also be good. But in A Clash of Kings, she reverses that order; people become either beautiful or ugly to her based on how good or bad they are. We view Joffrey through many POVs, and it is clear that by any standard that he is objectively attractive; yet Sansa now finds him ugly:

His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

And she thinks this of the Hound:

The scars are not the worst part, not even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.

It’s not his physical appearance that scares her, it’s the anger in his eyes. That’s the part of him that’s ugly to her.

This evolution in Sansa’s understanding is never clearer than in her interactions with Dontos. The parts of his appearance that Sansa finds unattractive are his blotchy skin and broken veins, which are both symptoms of his constant drinking. It’s his drinking that bothers her:

“I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?”

. . .

This is madness, to trust myself to this drunkard

But Sansa manages to look beyond that as soon as Dontos invokes Florian the Fool. As much as Sansa understands that the songs aren’t true, the idea still appeal to her. When Dontos says he wants to make amends and become a true knight, in spirit if not name, Sansa treats him as if he actually were a knight:

“Rise, ser.”

. . .

Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. “My Florian,” she whispered. “The gods heard my prayer.”

Sansa’s growing understanding of the world around her also changes the way she thinks of class. To some extent in A Song of Ice and Fire, every single character is classist because they’re all rich people in an extremely hierarchical society. The entire structure of kings, lord paramounts, lords, knights, and peasants requires you to be classist; if you believe everyone in Westeros is equal, the entire structure of the society crumbles. While some of the POV characters like Jon and Davos make great strides in understanding how bankrupt the Westerosi class structure is, they’re still generally classist; it’s almost impossible not to be when you grow up in the culture they did. Davos grew up poor, but the indoctrination of classism has given him an almost religious fervor to follow Stannis as the “true” king.

Sansa especially had a very rigid understanding of class in A Game of Thrones; Arya making friends with the butcher’s boy was anathema to her. But the more that Sansa sees the people in power as the monsters they really are, the more sympathy she has for the people below her. In the sept praying before the Battle of the Blackwater, she holds hands with a washerwoman:

The old woman’s hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy’s small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to

The more Cersei and Joffrey try to isolate Sansa, the more they try to snuff out any feeling of goodness or loyalty she had, the more Sansa reaches out to connect with people. Everything bad that happens to her makes her feel more connected to the people of King’s Landing. She’s too young and privileged (class-wise) to have a fully functioning understanding of the true evils of hierarchy, but she fundamentally understands something most of the aristocracy do not: that the common people are people and should be treated with respect.

She knows the common people will suffer the most if Stannis breaches the city walls, and prays for theme:

She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike

Sansa gladly positions herself alongside the working people, not offended to be among them the way the Lannisters certainly are.

Sansa’s deepening worldview also gives her an incredibly complex relationship to the songs and stories she used to love. As I’ve already mentioned, she doesn’t disown them entirely; the high ideals of the songs are still very important to Sansa. The concept of a true knight, who would actually defend the defenseless, is the cornerstone of Sansa’s belief system, and she doesn’t need that person to actually be a knight – as long as they fulfill the moral obligation of being good. (Little does she know that very person is later tasked to find her.)

But now she knows that the stories lie. She understands their role as propaganda; when Arys Oakheart tries to say the peasants believe the comet heralds Joffrey’s reign, she doesn’t believe him:

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure.

And she can’t even finish a sentence defending knights without realizing it isn’t true:

“Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.”

“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

The words ring hollow in her ears because Sansa does know what happens when a city is sacked; earlier in a previous chapter, she thinks this:

The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Cersei underestimates Sansa, assuming everything she knows is from a song, but here we see that Sansa knows that the songs don’t tell the whole story. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, she no longer holds them in complete reverence. The Sept used to represent everything beautiful about the songs to her:

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli.

It was the song’s come to life. But after Ned’s death, she hates it:

When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”

She literally wants to set fire to the things that used to represent the songs.

But songs and stories are the foundation of Sansa’s world; even though she doesn’t believe in them the way she used to, they still shape her perception. She doesn’t want to let them go:

There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

She still uses the template of songs and stories to interact with the world, but now with the understanding that the world is so much more complicated. Whereas before, the songs represented a sanitized version of war, Sansa begins to understand it in its entirety:

Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.

It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

Thinking about something through the lens of a song no longer represents a childish fantasy for Sansa. Her conception of them is no longer permanent; her view of the songs has changed to fit with her new reality, but it’s still a comforting way for her to make sense of the world around her.

She even incorporates her love of the songs into her political manipulations:

"You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much."

"I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please . . . not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear for you to have ill luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so . . ."

Her use of the songs nearly saves her life here. Joffrey doesn’t know enough to be sure that she’s lying, so once the Hound corroborates her story, he has to believe it’s true.

Sansa’s attachment to the stories is integral to her character, and GRRM does a tremendous job of making it important to the arc she starts in this book, which is her continued journey from pawn to player in the Game of Thrones. Sansa’s perspective as a political actor is entirely unique from anyone else for many reasons, and one of those is her connection to the ideal version of Westeros that lives in the songs. Even as Sansa realizes the songs are lies and that the world is so much darker than she thought, she never gives up on the hope that it could be good. Her unwavering optimism for the world, in the face of so much trauma, means that she will never stop trying to make the world better.

Flowering

Throughout her time in King’s Landing, Sansa’s experiences with sexuality are inextricably linked to violence. The way Joffrey physically abuses her comes with a nasty undercurrent of sexual violence. The total control he exerts over her means she has to let him do what he wants:

The king settled back in his seat and took Sansa's hand. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made herself sit very still.

The subtext of that scene is drawn to the forefront when Joffrey has Sansa beaten after Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

. . .

“Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.

This is one of Sansa’s first experiences with sexuality, and it is nonconsensual and done specifically to humiliate her.

The relationship between sex and violence is never clearer than at the start of the Blackwater:

"Bless my steel with a kiss." He extended the blade down to her. "Go on, kiss it."

He had never sounded more like a stupid little boy. Sansa touched her lips to the metal, thinking that she would kiss any number of swords sooner than Joffrey

Joffrey is asking Sansa to kiss his sword; the metaphor here is not exactly subtle. To Joffrey, sex and violence are one in the same; having power over someone, hurting someone, turns him on as much as physical attraction. And as his betrothed, Sansa is on the receiving end of his sexually charged violence.

Unlike Joffrey, Sansa’s not turned on by violence, seeing it and sexuality as two separates things. And she would rather suffer through the violence, thinking to herself she would rather kiss the sword than kiss Joffrey. Her experiences with being found attractive to someone have all been so traumatic that actual violence scares her less.

Arguably the most traumatic experience she has is during the bread riot:

Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron's head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.

In the nightmares she has of that day, she dreams of being murdered; a knife cutting through her stomach until she’s left in bloody ribbons. It’s not hard to see the violent sexual imagery in that description. Sansa knows what those men planned on doing to her, and the memory haunts her. It’s no coincidence that she wakes from those nightmares to her first period:

“No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

The way GRRM writes her reaction is so visceral. As tears streams down her cheeks, she tries to wash herself, cuts apart her sheets, burns them, and tries to drag her entire bed into the flames as well. And the whole time she does this, she keeps thinking They’ll know or What will I tell them? or I have to burn them. She’s so completely and utterly terrified that anyone could ever know, she’s hardly even thinking. It’s just sheer, overwhelming panic.

This line in particular stands out:

The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

Down to jewelry she wears and the way she styles her hair, Sansa’s body belongs to Joffrey. Her job in King’s Landing is to look pretty for him in the hopes that it will save her from his wrath. Her body exists solely to please him. She’s literally stripped of her own agency and control.

Flowering is the last straw for Sansa because it means she can be tied forever to Joffrey through marriage, and he’ll be free to rape her and force her to have his children. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to stop it. Her own body has betrayed her by merely existing.

Sansa’s period is again equated to physical violence during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“You look pale, Sansa,” Cersei observed. “Is your red flower still blooming?”

“Yes.”

“How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.”

Then a second time, Cersei compares sex to violence:

“You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it.”

Through Cersei’s eyes, we get the clearest summary of the point GRRM is trying to make. Existing as a woman in Westeros is inherently oppressive to the point of smothering the life out of her. Where the men are given swords, women are given marriage and childbirth; but the latter is no less violent than the former. In Cersei’s words:

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”

“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.

“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”

In many ways, Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is centered around this idea; the violence of femininity in Westeros. Being a child isn’t enough to spare Sansa the horrors. The whole reason she’s trapped in King’s Landing to begin with is because of her body; the Lannisters want to use her like property – a broodmare to sire them sons to inherit Winterfell.

It’s no surprise the climax of Sansa’s chapters in A Clash of Kings pushes this concept to its furthest bounds . . .

Ser Dontos and The Hound

Throughout Sansa’s chapters in King’s Landing, GRRM is deconstructing the trope of the Princess in the Tower. Sansa more than any other character is aware that her life takes place within a story, and she prays to the gods to send her a hero to save from the Red Keep. GRRM had already subverted the idea of a charming Prince with Joffrey in the first book, so A Clash of Kings subverts the trope of a knight coming to save her. That’s why her two protectors in King’s Landing are Dontos and Sandor Clegane – two men who aren’t quite knights.

For most of the book, the narrative treats Dontos and Sandor as foils. The story of why either one is not a knight puts them on two opposite ends of a spectrum. Dontos has his knighthood taken away from him because he’s too soft. He would rather drink and let people laugh at him than fight with a sword, which is why Joffrey makes him a fool. On the other hand, the Hound likes killing too much to be a knight:

“Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

This dichotomy between them is made clearer in the way Sansa has to escape their advances. Around Dontos, she’s dodging kisses:

"Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck." He swayed toward her.

Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep.

But it’s a steel kiss she has to dodge from the Hound:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

The idea of Dontos and Sandor as opposites is driven home further by their different approaches to Sansa’s love of stories; Dontos uses it to win Sansa’s trust:

“I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you . . . your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself." His voice dropped. "The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all . . ."

"Florian," Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her.

"Sweet lady, I would be your Florian," Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her.

The Hound uses it to berate and belittle her:

“There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

But underneath the superficial differences, Dontos and the Hound have the exact same relationship to Sansa. When Joffrey is having her beat after Robb’s victory at Oxcross, both make efforts to help her – Dontos volunteering to hit her with a melon instead of a sword, and the Hound telling Joffrey “enough” – but stop short of doing anything that would put themselves in danger. They both make advances on Sansa against her will – Dontos with kisses and the Hound with knives, but the overt sexual nature of both cannot be denied. They both position themselves to Sansa as a sort of mentor figure, telling her how to act and what to believe, with the implicit (and often explicit) message that she’s not smart enough to think for herself and it would really be in her best interest if she just trusted them instead. Both men position themselves as Sansa’s “protector”, but they never protect her from much of anything; in the few moments they’re actually given the opportunity, like during the Battle of the Blackwater, they both panic and leave her to fend for herself.

What really connects the two men is how they use Sansa. To them, she’s the paragon of youth and innocence; the way she believes in the stories reminds them both of what they used to be like before the world beat them down. Sandor was a boy who played with toy knights before Gregor burned his face, and Dontos was saved as a child by the knight of knights Barristan Selmy. While they’ve both grown jaded, Sansa brings out the parts of them that still believe in the stories. That’s clear from the way Dontos reacts to the Lannisters winning the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

And even though the Hound claims to hate the stories, it’s a song he wants from Sansa:

“Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids.”

Sansa as the princess in a tower appeals to the fantasy of both men to be her hero.

But this is a subversion of that trope, not a straight retelling. Particularly in regards to Sandor, GRRM really deconstructs the destructive nature of this male fantasy. Before Sandor asks Sansa to sing him a song, he comments on her body:

“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost . . .”

Sandor wanting to play the knight with Sansa is always tied to his sexual attraction to her; in every single instance, GRRM always ties them together. There is never one without the other. It should go without saying that this is not good; Sansa is barely twelve, and hasn’t even had her first period when Sandor’s sexual advances start. She is a child. In Maegar’s Holdfast, she’s shocked that men would view her sexually:

“Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.”

“Me?”

“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember?”

This passage also very clearly draws the connection between Sandor’s relationship to Sansa and violence. Cersei explains to Sansa the way battle makes men into monsters around women, and then the next chapter Sandor appears in Sansa’s bedroom with a knife. This is not meant to be a romantic scene, or else GRRM would not have framed it with threats of rape and violence.

This is further re-enforced by the song Sansa sings to Sandor. When he holds the knife to her neck, he demands she sing the song of Florian and Jonquil:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

But Sansa can’t remember the words, and instead sings the Mother’s Mercy hymn:

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

It is incredibly symbolic that the Hound demands Sansa sing him a song of romance, but she physically can’t; the only song she can remember the words to is one of forgiveness.

So much of Sansa’s narrative in A Clash of Kings is people demanding things that she can’t give them. Joffrey wants her loyalty, Cersei wants her words, Tyrion wants her trust, and Dontos and Sandor want her love. Everyone is pulling her in different directions, and her entire personality starts to crumble under the pressure; there’s no way she can give all of these people everything they want. Something has to give.

And when Sansa can no longer play her role, when the fear of dying is too visceral for her to wear her courtesy like an armor, the one thing Sansa can still give Sandor is her mercy. . .

Radical Empathy

The running thread that connects all of the themes in Sansa’s chapters is her being trapped. Physically through Joffrey’s abuse, emotionally through Joffrey, Cersei, Dontos, and Sandor, and even by herself mentally as she begins to internalize the abuse. Everything about the Red Keep is meant to turn Sansa cruel and self-interested, just like everybody else; even if they aren’t intentionally cruel like Joffrey, they’re okay with Sansa being hurt because that’s just how life is, like Cersei. Or Dontos and the Hound, who don’t intend to hurt Sansa but do because they’re too caught up in their own narrative to acknowledge her humanity. Even Arys Oakheart, who really doesn’t want to hurt her, but is too afraid to say no and defy the class structure of Westeros.

That makes Sansa’s defiance through empathy stand out in such radical contrast. The kindness Sansa shows everyone, even those who hurt her, is how GRRM brings the songs to life. Sansa doesn’t love those stories because she’s silly and naïve; she loves them because they justify her belief in the inherent goodness of being kind.

Empathy and kindness are Sansa’s defining character traits, and that’s why her arc in A Clash of Kings opens with her saving Dontos’ life:

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.

Even though just moments earlier she had noted Joffrey’s mood was turning dark:

The way Sansa stands up for Dontos is particularly notable because he had the chance to do the same for her in A Game of Thrones, but chose not to:

Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

- Sansa V

Dontos wouldn’t even risk treating Sansa with basic courtesy, yet she risked her live to save his.

And that’s not the only time Sansa stands up to Joffrey to save someone:

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.

- Tyrion IX

The only other character we ever see move to actually stand up to Joffrey is Tyrion, who is also the only person in court who doesn’t have to be afraid of Joffrey’s retaliation. Everyone else sits by day after day and watches as Joffrey abuses Sansa and says nothing; or worse, they actively participate. But whenever Sansa sees Joffrey hurting someone, she risks herself to make him stop.

Sansa also uses her kindness to give herself courage:

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

She’s too afraid to speak back at Joffrey when he’s abusing her, but as soon as she sees him mistreat Tommen, she finds the courage to stand up for others.

Kindness is almost an involuntary reflex for Sansa:

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

Lancel Lannister, who stood by and egged the crowd on as Sansa was stripped and beaten after the Battle at Oxcross. She has every reason not to help him; she knows if she stays in that room, with the battle all but lost, Ser Ilyn is going to kill her solely because of the Lannisters’ spite. She has no reason to stay and help Lancel. But she can’t stop herself.

The moment where Sansa’s kindness stands out the most, though, is when the Hound comes to her room during Blackwater:

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.

I think reading this passage out of context is what allows certain fans to paint this scene in a romantic light. The softness of Sansa reaching out to touch Sandor is an indelible moment. But it does the moment a disservice to read it that way. This scene is so well written because of what comes before it:

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” he heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

Afraid for her life, Sansa closes her eyes. But Sandor is too bitter, jaded, and wrapped up in his own self to realize that’s why she closes her eyes; he thinks it’s because she still can’t look at the burned ruin of his face. He came to her room with kindness the furthest thing from his mind; the flames dancing on the Blackwater Rush made him scared like a wild animal, and he’s come here to get something from Sansa – whether she wants to give it or no.

(And while certain people are interested in carrying a lot of water to redeem this character, GRRM has really left no ambiguity in Sandor’s intentions. The passage He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed, taken in tandem with his confession to Arya, I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf, make it very clear that Sandor intended to rape Sansa. That is not up for debate.)

Sansa singing the Mother’s Mercy hymn is the last thing Sandor expected. The idea that in this moment, as Sandor becomes all of the worst things he’s ever believed about himself, about to do one of the most monstrous acts a person can do – that in that moment, Sansa could still show him mercy, is enough to stop him. He can no longer pretend that all the songs are lies and that everyone is only pretending to be good, because in this moment Sansa is still somehow capable of showing him kindness.

Sansa’s ability to have empathy for seemingly irredeemable characters is not limited to Sandor (though certain shippers would like to pretend that’s some unique characteristic of their relationship, it most certainly is not). The dynamic between Sansa and Cersei is so rich because of Sansa’s inability to hate her, even though Cersei is responsible for pretty much every bad thing in Sansa’s life.

The Sansa and Cersei dynamic is one of the narrative’s most dynamic and complex, as Cersei represents a dark mirror of Sansa. Both were in love with the idea of becoming Queen as children, but arrived in King’s Landing to find their Prince is not who they thought he would be – Cersei both literally and figuratively, as she realizes she’s not to marry Rhaegar Targaryen but instead Robert Baratheon. They’re both subjected to emotional and physical abuse by the King for things that aren’t their fault – Robert hates Cersei because she isn’t Lyanna, and Joffrey hates Sansa because of his fight with Arya on the Trident.

But Cersei’s Lannister upbringing and life have made her cruel in all the ways Sansa is kind. She can see the parallels between herself and Sansa, but instead of reacting with empathy, she uses it to justify her cruelty:

“You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did.”

Being afraid of the men in her life has taught Cersei that’s the correct way to wield power:

“Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

But Sansa reacts the opposite way:

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

This line has become the definitive statement of Sansa’s character because it so wholly embodies her ethos. Cruelty is not in her nature, and her instinct is always to show kindness. It also ties a direct connection to her own personal experiences shaping how she wants to be as Queen:

“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”

Sansa knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she never wants anyone else to ever feel like that. Where the cruelty Cersei suffered taught her it was normal and good to rule that way, Sansa learns what it feels like to be at someone else’s mercy. If she ever has control over someone, which she will in books to come, she’s learned to always be kind because she knows what it feels like when someone isn’t.

All of her chapters in A Clash of Kings are full of moments that show how much Sansa values kindness. While I’ve already highlighted the life or death examples, she also shines in the small moments, like when she encourages Tommen before he faces the quintain at Joffrey’s name day tourney. And she comforts him when Myrcella leaves for Dorne:

Prince Tommen sobbed. "You mew like a suckling babe," his brother hissed at him. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon," Sansa Stark said, "and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

- Tyrion IX

She tries to comfort Lollys Stokeworth across the bridge to Maegar’s Holdfast:

She greeted them courteously. “May I be of help?”

Lady Tanda flushed with shame. “No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well.”

“I don’t want to.” Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. “Please, please, I don’t want to.”

Sansa spoke to her gently. “We’ll all be thrice protected inside, and there’s to be food and drink and song as well.”

Her prayer in the Sept before the battle starts shows just how much she cares for everyone:

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

There’s only one person in the whole of Westeros Sansa won’t extend her empathy to:

But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

This line feels especially important. A lesson that’s drilled into Sansa time and time again by Cersei and Sandor is that her kindness makes her weak. It was used against her in A Game of Thrones, where her trust in Cersei and Joffrey left her completely vulnerable to Ned’s death. But this passage shows that it is not weakness that makes Sansa kind - it’s strength. For a character as kind as she is, and subjected to so much abuse, it would be easy to see her narrative as someone repeatedly letting herself be run over. By including this line, showing that Sansa’s empathy is a choice she makes – and making it clear that she chooses not to have it for Joffrey – it shows that Sansa still has control over herself, and will set boundaries.

Instead of using her experiences in a negative way like Cersei, Sansa learns to carefully apply the lessons of her life; she won’t let abuse stop her from being kind, but she knows when to stop herself from trusting someone again.

Because Sansa’s kindness and optimism are the most important aspects of her character, her arc in A Clash of Kings ends there. Joffrey setting her aside in favor of Margaery is an emotional rollercoaster for Sansa:

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”

He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”

Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, the narrative is constantly testing Sansa’s commitment to her ideals. Everything she knows is constantly turned on its head, going from a dream to a nightmare. The momentary joy she feels knowing she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey is only allowed for a second, until it collides with Dontos’ harsh reality.

But instead of ending there, the narrative takes a page out of Sansa’s book and leaves on a vision of hope for the future:

It was a hair net of fine spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”

“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”

“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”

#Sansa Stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #just over 15000 words #which is a new personal record #sansa meta

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years ago

Text

The Last Cigarette (Spencer Reid x Reader) Smut

Summary: Mr Scratch was an unsub with undoubtedly the greatest impact on the team. Even in death, he pushes Spencer beyond the preconception of his limits.

AN: This was part of a fic swap on @imagining-in-the-margins‘ server! This Unsub!Spencer!AU is for the outstanding @cardigayn <3 I hope you like it!

Content warning: Character death, abuse of power, physical assault, murder, Unsub!Spencer, mentions of rape and attempted murder, mentions of knife wounds, unhealthy coping mechanisms

Smut content warning: AFAB!Reader, they/them pronouns, facesitting, hair pulling, overstimulation, light choking, riding, biting, praise kink, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a hint of breeding

Gif credit: @imagining-in-the-margins // Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

No one on the team spoke about what Luke did to Scratch – or rather, what he didn’t do. The BAU were far beyond tired of that man’s torments. His impact upon each member was the greatest of any unsub they had ever encountered and now it was finally time to close the book on his crimes. That included turning their gaze away from the abuse of power that Luke had taken by letting Scratch fall from that building. Not the first time the team had banded together to mask a member’s tracks.

Spencer glanced up from his paperwork. Everyone else in the bullpen was focused on their tasks, as if nothing had happened. Even Emily was at her desk and typing away at her desktop when she had been an inch away from death not two weeks ago.

Spencer’s pen tapped against the desk twice before it was placed down adjacent to his pencil pot. He remembered the details of their cover-up. That wasn’t what paused his paperwork.

His mind was straying to another timeline, in accordance to the multi-verse theory. Luke had made a choice in this universe to not pull Scratch up. In another universe, he decided to save the unsub. What happened next?

After experiencing prison first hand, Spencer could somewhat pinpoint how long Scratch would have lasted in a place like Millburn. The respect for serial killers on the inside, especially those who had tormented law enforcement, would keep him alive.

There was the chance that there was another universe where Scratch would have gotten off scot free. And another timeline where Scratch, without a gun, overpowered Luke or Matt, taking either or both of them down. Kristy had no husband. Jake, David, Chloe, and Lily had no father. Roxy had no owner.

Maybe it was better that Luke didn’t help Scratch off that ledge, that Matt had just stayed back.

Spencer could not decide what he would have done in that situation, and he didn’t have to. But that didn’t mean another version of him didn’t. To be jealous of a version of himself that did not exist in his world was a bad idea. It was out of his hands and in his head – the roof, the unsub, the choice.

--->--->--->--->--->

“Anyone want a coffee?”

A series of murmurs rose from the team, all negative, and Luke tucked his chair back under his desk before he walked off to the SAPD break room. Spencer watched his reflection in the conference room’s window. There was an itch in his brain that spread through a nerve to his knee – bouncing it just beneath the table.

Suddenly that nerve propelled him to follow Luke. Spencer’s feet weaved him in between officers until he found his teammate switching on the station’s coffee pot.

“Change your mind?” Luke raised an unsuspicious eyebrow.

“Yes,” Spencer lied, and he collected a mug to wash up. Suds flooded in the sink, rolling out the mug and around the plughole. Spencer fixated on them, a menial hope that he could focus on something else rather than the temptation of asking Luke for details.

He had to be closer of being clean of this whole thing than he thought. Scratch was dead, the case was closed. A few more years, this would be a memory that haunted him every few weeks instead of every day.

Dilaudid was craved by a tiny section of his brain, but he knew that it would not help him at all. He needed something else to help ease the cravings. If only he had inherited his mother’s affinity for cigarettes.

“Can I ask you something?”

Luke shrugged in return, “Sure.” He had opened his palm by his side but did not reach out to Spencer’s clean mug. Spencer appreciated that. A glance at the bullpen, visible through the open door, told him that no one else had followed them. It wasn’t too late. He could come up with a question about the case, about Roxy, about anything.

“What did he look like before he fell?”

Luke’s expression sobered and soured. He too checked the proximity of the police officers outside their bubble. Clearing his throat twice, he poured the coffee into his mug and spun the handle once it was down to fit Spencer’s need.

His voice was low as he said, “He looked desperate.”

Spencer nodded while he poured into his own cup. Perhaps more caffeine would aid him, for he had scratched the itch and it had spread elsewhere. Stirring in some sugar, he took a burning sip before it had dissolved and cringed at the granules in his mouth.

It was when he’d finally swallowed them, instead of spitting out like he wanted to, that Spencer gave into the itch: “Did he say anything to you?”

“He asked me to help him.” Luke blew on his coffee before taking a sip. Even then, he still struggled to swallow it. “He begged.”

“That can’t have been easy. Thanks for telling me.”

But Luke didn’t seem like he concurred. In fact, he looked as though he wanted to make right the claim and say that letting Scratch die was the easiest decision in the world.

Spencer blinked. Luke was gone, already back in the conference room. Perhaps he’d imagined something like that. His attention shifted to Scratch’s face, morphing it until it was a stereotypical expression of fear. Spencer had heard too much of that man’s voice, but it was good for one thing: recreating the words Luke had told him.

“Help me. Please!”

Matt was back with Emily.

And suddenly so was Luke. Spencer had gone it alone after Scratch. It was just the two of them on the roof, and soon it would be one.

Scratch’s clothes were whipped up by the wind, his begging too. It was almost as though he reached up for Spencer. One last cry for help. Then he fell, silent and ragdoll-esque.

Just before the body hit the ground, Scratch was clinging to the building’s side again. When he fell this time, he screamed hysterically. It echoed across the roof until Spencer couldn’t discern it from the wind. A swell of relief spread through his body. He took a sip from his coffee.

“Reid?” Just as he had done a minute prior, Luke was lingering in the doorway. “We should get back to the conference room.”

“Right,” Spencer dropped the teaspoon onto the side. It clattered about the side, then went quiet, then hit the floor. Spencer didn’t turn to see where it landed.

--->--->--->--->--->

What an absolute smarty pants who could just about learn to use Teams by himself. Spencer leant to the right in his office chair as his partner Y/N showed him the ropes of his new application. How lucky he was to still have them after all they had been through – together and apart.

“And… ta-dah!” Y/N made jazz hands at the monitor.

“Thank you. You’re so good to me,” Spencer straightened up, smiling at the screen, “Can I get you a reward?”

Y/N seemed to ponder on this offer, an act Spencer had seen many times and never grew tired of. Then Y/N tapped their cheek twice and bent forward. With butterflies in his stomach, Spencer tilted his chin up and pressed a lingering kiss there. There was a bashful smile across their face when they drew away. Even after all this time, Spencer was proud he could still affect them so.

The door to his office shut behind them and Spencer looked over his desktop’s background. His students’ homework was hovering in the background, already being printed off. The printer stuttering out each page had long since been tuned out

He glanced away from it to his left and saw Y/N again. Their arms were wrapped around themselves, their body close and facing Spencer with a clear expression drawing bravery upon them. Spencer’s head then turned to see if Scratch was still dangling by the tips of his fingers. He was.

“What do I do?” Spencer asked, his voice almost torn away by the wind he couldn’t feel against his cheek.

Y/N hardly spared Scratch a glance. They had never seen him before, and they made this one time they did as short as possible. Their hand moved Spencer’s head so that Scratch was in his blind spot. They held his face and looked on him sweetly, even in the darkness around them.

They gave Spencer their answer: “Leave him.”

Scratch’s body trembled as his head rigidly shook, “Please!”

But Y/N took Spencer’s hand in their free one and they held it even as Scratch’s grip failed him. Only then did they look at the unsub and watch unflinchingly together as their tormenter fell to his death. A second later, the pair heard the body hit the ground. Spencer began to move towards the ledge, Y/N tugging him back towards the door of the roof.

“I have to see,” Spencer insisted, “I have to know he’s really gone.”

There was no pity, just empathy, as Y/N nodded their head, “Ok.” Their hands tensed together while they approached the roof’s end.

There he was, his body broken, his head smashed against the dirt. Lifeless. Gone.

Then Scratch was falling again, the last seconds of existence, and Y/N was hiding their face in Spencer’s shoulder. He was holding them tight, so that if they changed their mind about watching, they wouldn’t be able to. But he was watching everything in slow motion.

Every fraction of change in Scratch’s terror was drawn out until it was a pantomime of itself.

“Are you ok?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Closing his eyes, Spencer kissed Y/N’s head. He basked in his comfort before he opened his eyes again and drew a deep breath from the comfort of his desk chair. Then he collected the printed essays of his students, grabbing a pen to prepare for marking.

--->--->--->--->--->

This time Hotch was there, Jack’s face hidden in his father’s chest. Derek too, holding little Hank with all the tenderness a father could.

Spencer waved his hand towards the door, “Get them out of here. I don’t want them to see this.” He waited dutifully for them to leave, both of them sending a nod Spencer’s way.

Once the door bounced against its frame to close, he stood at the edge. He couldn’t feel the cold rushing past him, coaxing him to fall with Scratch, but he could picture hearing it. Almost deafening him to Scratch’s pleas, he turned those words up loud so that he could hear the moment the words stopped, the moment that Spencer pulled out his Smith & Wesson and shot Scratch in the head. His grip faltered instantly and his lifeless body tumbled down.

“No.”

Spencer screwed his eyes shut before looking back at the geographic profile.

“No what?”

He started. He didn’t realise that Tara was still in the room with him.

His words tumbled out quickly, “Just testing a theory, but it’s not right, it doesn’t fit.”

Nodding, Tara made her way beside him and observed the evidence collected so far, “We’ll get there. Just keep that brain going.”

Spencer planned to do just that. This daydream wasn’t as satisfying, like Nicorette mists or chewing gum. Just shooting him in the head? That was more than mercy for Scratch. No, he’d have to come up with something else to use. For the daydream of course.

He was glad that Tara was treating him normally. Not like JJ, who had checked in on him for Dilaudid before take-off. She was hovering around him like a gnat and it was starting to piss him off. Where was this energy when he was actually contemplating the drug’s pros and cons? He was determined to keep it together for the team to function and solve this case, but JJ in his peripherals was making it hard to focus. On work. Not the daydreaming. He loved her to bits, but he just wished she’d leave him to his own devices unless it concerned the case. That was the priority now.

The broken fingers of the victims sat like warped roots of a tree on the board, each knuckle shattered with a hammer. This unsub – a man in his 20s, not 30s – had such an odd post-mortem signature. Like when Ronald Weems did on the prostitutes. The ones Nathan Harris was obsessed with, wrote about, then killed himself before he could re-enact such a crime.

But it was fine. This was different. Spencer wasn’t writing these down. He didn’t need to. That, and he wasn’t about to recreate his daydreams.

“Excuse me.”

“Off for a smoke?” Luke joked half-heartedly.

Shortly after shaking off that effort at a joke, Spencer’s hand froze against the metal pole of the wheelchair access to the police station. His lungs took a deep breath of the cool Christmas air, a worthless hit. He hoped that Derek and Hotch were being the fathers they always wanted to be - that Gideon could have been.

--->--->--->--->--->

Adrenaline was what enabled him to haul Scratch up. Still, Spencer strained with his weight. He was gasping with the unsub when they were both allowed back onto the roof, Scratch’s knees digging into the floor for security and his hands still clasping the edge of the building - from the other side now.

Spencer watched, blood roaring in his ears with each panting breath. He took one deeper and let out a yell as he kicked his foot up into Scratch’s nose. Scratch rolled onto his back with a ragged rasp, blood spouting from his nose to stain everything it made contact with, and his head lolled off the edge of the building. Spencer’s chest burned with unsatisfaction so he kicked again. This time, his foot came down on Scratch’s groin. Ineffective in stopping him from standing, this was personal deliverance of pain.

He was out of breath but completely fine. He had the energy to drag Scratch back with one hand at his ankle, so now his head was beneath a solid enough surface to stomp on three times. Each one sent Scratch’s eyes rolling back further into his head.

Spencer began to use his hands. Getting close into Scratch’s space, he lay punch after punch, no pain on his hands, no. He put it all into Mr Scratch for every second he stole from him and his team until finally he stood up.

Scratch barely had enough energy to cough behind the blood pooling in his mouth. But Spencer could make out the one word he was wheezing in his agony.

“Spencer.”

Then, and only then, did Spencer draw his gun once more and shoot Mr Scratch in the neck.

The jet jolted as its wheels touched the runway. Spencer leant back in his chair, dragged as the jet slowed to a stop. He grunted, his head still catching up to that sudden jolt.

“I want you all to just go home, alright?” Prentiss was already stood at the end of the plane’s gangway, “Get some rest.”

The rest of the trip home was a blur for Spencer; it was committed to his memory but not with any intrigue. Only when he dropped his keys in the front door’s bowl did he start paying attention to his surroundings again. Y/N was powerwalking over to him, instinctively reaching out long before they made it to him.

“Hey baby!” They greeted, and Spencer enfolded them into a tight embrace, “You must be knackered.”

They swayed a little on the spot as Spencer answered, “I was.”

“Was?”

“Not after seeing you.”

His chin brushed over Y/N’s shoulder before he kissed that spot, smiling against the cloth of their shirt. His support rocked as Y/N giggled. Their grip on him tightened for a moment before they ran a hand over his tummy, the little “pouch” as they had affectionately named it. A thought ran past his eyes: that it wouldn’t hurt to start working out if he was going to do more than just shoot Scratch.

“Cheeky,” Y/N touched one of his curls as they pulled away, “Come on, let’s go to bed. Not like that.” They tapped his nose at the raise of his eyebrows.”

“I missed you,” Spencer said, not immediately after that, but when they were both in bed together, “I always do.”

“Me too.”

Y/N was unable to look Spencer in the eye. Spencer loved that they were so overwhelmed with love that they had to seek refuge elsewhere. They were just like him in that sense.

--->--->--->--->--->

Gun drawn, Spencer took deliberate steps stalking through the darkened apartment complex. The entire area was due for demolishing the following morning, so there were plenty hiding spaces for this unsub to jump out of. Every deep breath stilled his hands as he moved swiftly around each corner. Matt mumbled something in his earpiece about going down to the poolside.

He made his way to the third floor and followed the glowing green signs towards the fire escape.

Martin Harvey had just turned around to see Spencer. He instantly dropped the pipe he was wielding and thrust his hands into the air.

“Ok, ok, ok, you got me. Don’t shoot.”

His legs crumbled and he fell to his knees. A coward, just like the profile had said. This was too easy. No, it wasn’t actually. Interviewing those parents and friends of the victims, gritting teeth while working through red tape set up by the small town talk and the prejudices constructed long before this case occurred, none of that and none of what came prior was easy.

“Get up there.”

Harvey frowned, his eyes unsteady between Spencer’s face and Spencer’s gun, “What?”

Spencer tilted the barrel of his gun to the fire escape stairs for a second, immediately returning it onto Harvey, “You heard me.”

Shaking, Harvey took the steps as they came. His hands were still on his head. His boots made hollow clanks against the rusting metal, echoing Spencer’s lighter taps, until they came into contact with the concrete of the roof. The wind felt more brutal today. It was colder than Spencer imagined. The February chills shouldn’t dissuade him much though.

The second Harvey made a move to spin around, Spencer smacked his head with the butt of his gun. Harvey tripped forwards but remained upright. So Spencer holstered his weapon, grabbed Harvey’s shoulder, and punched across his nose. Both men let out a cry. Spencer flexed his fingers to subside the pain, but it continued to shoot up and down his bones. Another attempt, he grappled with the scruff of Harvey’s shirt then shoved him off his balance to the ground. The unsub wobbled and cried out as he fell backwards. Spencer kicked again, not as strong as the last time, but he felt the surge of power in him. Adrenaline, real and flooding his every movement. This was beyond what his fantasies had ever brought him, and he was living for it. He didn’t have to hold back anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” Harvey sobbed, trying to hide in his hands. Pathetic. The man who had raped and attempted murder on five different women couldn’t take it when a man stood up to him.

He hit Harvey once more but drew back from the opportunity for a third. Instead, he rolled the body over the edge with just enough tact to allow Harvey to make a grab for the edge.

Once more, Harvey begged for Spencer to stop.

Spencer looked down on this low life, this scum that dared to interfere with innocent lives for fun. The heel of his shoe came down hard on Harvey’s hand. He howled in pain. Spencer stomped down again; this time there was a series of collective crunches. Harvey let go with that hand, but the other was still clinging dearly to the roof.

As he stared into those panicked eyes, Spencer squatted down beside Harvey’s hands. Broken fingers flailed nearby, Harvey not strong enough to pull himself up and reach for Spencer. His thumb slid off the edge, and the pinkie finger too.

The begging faded into the background. The fear in his face, it had to be at least somewhat the same as Scratch’s. The proximity to danger was beyond comfort.

People he lost:

Derek.

Hotch.

Emily, nearly.

People he loved:

Tara.

Matt.

Penelope.

Luke.

JJ.

Him.

Mom.

Y/N.

Spencer brought down the butt off his gun onto the last three fingers holding on. His eyelids forced him to watch as Harvey fell fast to the ground, a crunch of bones reaching his ears when the ground met with him

A delicious shiver ran up Spencer’s spine. He shook his shoulders and breathed it out. There was not the extreme of happy. Felt in his heart was content in the gentle breeze, in the dull pain.

“Prentiss. He’s dead. I’m on the roof.”

“We’re on our way, Reid.”

--->--->--->--->--->

Paramedics had pressed the sterilised cotton against his cuts while his eyes were on the bag that was wheeled away towards the other ambulance. Spencer’s thousand-yard stare ended shortly after that; Emily walked into his view and touched his shoulder. Her embrace was welcomed greatly, as was the nap he took on the flight back.

His bag was not as heavy as he remembered it being as he drew up to his apartment. Once his keys were out the door, he dropped everything and was on his way to the bedroom for an early night when he bumped into Y/N – who was all bundled in their pyjamas.

“You’re back! In time for Valentine’s Day!” Y/N’s smile was quick to disappear, “What happened?”

“I found the unsub. He fought back, resisted. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh Spencer.” They hovered an inch over his face before they settled their hands on him.

A quick kiss on his lips, then they took him into the kitchen and set about making a tea for him. But Spencer didn’t really need, or want, one. He slipped up behind them, mumbling into their ear, “I’m meant to be the one taking care of you today.”

“We take care of each other, Spencer, you know that.” Y/N patted his arms that were now around their waist. Spencer kissed the spot below their ear, smirking into\ them as he felt the stutter in their movements. His lips found the side of their neck and kissed again.

“We do,” He agreed.

“You know, I won’t be able to take care of you if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, you will,” Spencer nuzzled his cheek against them, “Just not by making me tea.” To make extra sure his point was getting across, Spencer moved them around and kissed them with two fingers lightly pinching their chin.

“Your hand-”

“Doesn’t hurt. And I have two.”

Already Spencer was unbuttoning Y/N’s shirt, his thin fingers parting it open to place his cool touch against their bare skin. It shuddered beneath him, sending waves to help him map the rest of their body again in his mind. A tingle sat in between his shoulder blades as Y/N tugged at the curls in the nape of his neck.

How they got into bed doesn’t really matter. It was when Spencer’s hands pressed into the mattress that he winced away from Y/N’s lips.

“You are hurting,” They pushed to sit up.

“I’m fine.”

“You need to rest.”

“What I need is for you to sit on my face and not stand up until I say so.”

Spencer heard Y/N’s teeth knock together as they closed their once-agape mouth. “Can you help me with that?”

Y/N nodded, dumbstruck at Spencer’s words and the thumb he was dragging across their bottom lip in an attempt to distract from his injuries.

“Y/N, I’m ok. Really. It’s just a little sting. Let me love you.”

“I’m not stopping you. I’m just worried.”

Throb of each cut on his hand as his fingers fanned across their skin Grasping tight on their thighs

He only had to let go for a moment while Y/N stripped clean of their clothes Seeking refuge, he felt completely content with those thick thighs wrapped around his head. Not a single time did his mind stray to Scratch or any other unsub now that Y/N was safe from them. Calm seeped over him, fuelling his biting and lavishing his tongue upon their inner thighs

His pace enjoyed such a leisurely stroll around their cunt, the tip of his tongue gliding through each of their folds. Eyes still closed, he had the image of it soaking wet with his spit and their juices. He licked his lips once before he pursed them around the clit. His hands, now stiff and sore from stroking their hips, reached up to touch their chest. He fondled at their sensitive nipples with delight at Y/N fisting at his hair. All this, and he licked at Y/N’s clit like it was an ice lolly on a summer’s day.

When Y/N came first, they let out short bursts of breath coupled with their moans. The second time, they had to hold onto the bedframe as their body slumped forward and their clit rubbed up against Spencer’s nose. On the third, they fell off his chin, rolled to their side of the bed. Giggles fell from their satisfied smile as they curled up. Smearing the back of his hand across his mouth, Spencer pushed onto his side so he could reach them for another kiss. Y/N could barely respond and they were still laughing as Spencer pulled them into his lap. His fingers looked so pretty around their neck; he kept them there until silence filled the room again. When they reached that moment, he squeezed lightly and let out a gentle “hmm” at Y/N’s moan.

“You good, darling?” He whispered.

“Just what the doctor ordered.”

Though their lips were together, they parted in pants and smiles.

“You got one more for me?”

“Of course,” Y/N clumsily patted a hand down his cheek, “You haven’t even had one yet.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You must be the only guy to say that and mean it.”

Swallowing the statistic on how many men had said they wanted to orgasm during sex, Spencer watched Y/N struggle to sit on his cock. Their legs were shaking uncontrollably; they didn’t settle, not even in his firm hold.

His hands dragged them down onto him and over their moans he whispered, “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one.”

“I wanna give you what you want.”

As Y/N rocked into him, Spencer shared the last of their tangy taste that lingered on his tongue. Then he found peace in resting his chin on their shoulder, rising and falling as they did.

“You wanna cum for me?”

Their words hit his ears, “Please, help me.”

A spike of pleasure ripped through his body. In an instant, Spencer flipped them over and drove his hips hard into them. His teeth sunk into the skin of their shoulder before releasing his load into them. His entire being trembled into Y/N, their ankles locked in his lower back lazily as he milked every last drop of exhilaration he could from them.

His cock stayed inside them, keeping his cum safe inside. Y/N barely lifted their head but luckily for them, Spencer’s shoulder was within their reach. They bit him in the same spot he had bitten them, not releasing him until their marks matched.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” They mumbled against him.

Spencer tipped himself back an inch or two, “I’m happy you’re safe too.” He didn’t mind the ache on his skin any more than the others. It was a nice collection he had gathered today.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

--->--->--->--->--->

This was it, the last cigarette. He didn’t have to worry about Scratch anymore after this.

A low whistle lead Spencer to pull at his collar sheepishly, and Tara leant against his desk. At first, he ignored her, signing off the last of his paperwork. His mandatory session with the team’s therapist set fresh on his lungs without a single symptom of guilt.

“Well, well, well,” Tara teased, indicating to her neck with two fingers tapping, “Something about a life or death situation that gets you in the mood?”

“Actually, research into the terror management theory has shown that people respond to mortality reminders by bolstering their own cultural view, derogating opposing views, and shoring up their self-esteem. By this account, the effect of death on libido will depend on the meaning that sex has for a person.”

“And what does it mean for you?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“You don’t have to,” Tara grinned, “I would hazard a guess that Y/N’s looking the same.”

Spencer shook his head playfully, “We said we wouldn’t profile each other.”

The ribbing came to a close as Penelope brushed past and announced to the bullpen, “We have a new case, in the conference room.”

Spencer dropped his finished case file into Emily’s empty office on the way to the conference room, his hand only complaining an itch at the motions of holding a pen and a form. It didn’t end as he flicked over the file’s papers while Penelope went over the details of their latest case – gruesome photos of open knife wounds the television screens.

The shrinking juxtaposition between body discoveries indicated a devolving unsub with a disintegrating cooling off period. Basically, it was an unsub not worthy of his daydreams or of his injuries.

Except that’s not what it was at all. This was an unsub to be arrested and face punishment, before more people could be hurt. Spencer didn’t need a cooling off period because he wasn’t going to do that again. He could recall his played-out fantasy in complete and utter detail, never forgetting a thing he saw.

And anyway, this unsub was definitely an impotent and disorganised man lashing out. Couldn’t hold a candle to Scratch. So why waste his time on that? Why would he have another cigarette when he didn’t need one right now?

--->--->--->--->

AN: I do not condone the actions displayed in this fic. I find unsub!AUs of the show interesting developments and the intended recipient of this fic is aware of that. I will not write a part two for this, because I do not have the motivation or idea besides Spencer getting caught and subsequently arrested.

Thank you for reading!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #smut #my writing #wc: 5k+

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yandere-sins · 3 years ago

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The Fox Wedding - RUN [Bad End]

Summary: You are to marry the fox spirit Kita Shinsuke after you accidentally agreed to become his wife by signing the deed to your new home. A contract is a contract, he says, but is there more to this marriage than you know? Will you be whisked away by one of the foxy twins instead, or have to marry Kita after all? Can you be with a creature that only seems tender on the surface, or will you try to run even if it might cost you your life? Choose your route carefully, you never know what these foxes are up to!

Characters: Kitsune!Kita Shinsuke, Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings for this chapter: Major Character Death, Blood mention, Death mention, Animal attack, Gore, Yandere, Kidnapping, Forced/Unhealthy Relationships

What makes a human life worthwhile?

Was it the prospect of forming a family? The continual circle of birth, life, and death? Was it the growing as a person that gave each individual worth? Learning how to laugh and love? Long, thoughtful nights and the achievement of creating something? Relationships, conversations, experiences, are those the things that made it worth to live?

Or was it pain, fear, and fight? Would your worth rise if you had to clench your teeth and run until your lungs threatened you to give up if you didn’t stop and rest? Could your life only gain worth from being so scared that your body trembled, but your senses heightened in an attempt to be warier of your surroundings? Every inch of your body was feelable, every muscle straining to get your attention. The perfect coordination of orders to follow was only achieved by panic and fear of falling into the hands of the people you had to get away from.

Or their paws.

Or their teeth.

These and so many other unimportant questions plagued your mind as you stumbled over roots and against trees as if you were in a haze. Was the brain capable of enduring as much fear as you were feeling, or was the reason for your questions that it was unable to continue feeling this way? Going numb would have been a preferable action, as well as a deadly one. As such, it kept you occupied, one way or another.

A loud bang resounded from behind you. It was still far away but too close at the same time. The loud crashing of a tree in the distance was only spurring you on, spreading panic as you questioned what kind of creature could break down a whole tree. You weren’t clever. You didn’t actually know an answer to that.

You didn’t want to know.

Thicket scratched at your skin, broke it, and drew blood as if it were a hundred deadly arms reaching for you, their nails scratching as they tried to grab you. Nothing in this forest wanted to let you go. Not the trees, not the bushes, not him.

Of course, you had regrets now that you chose to run. You regretted being an idiot and doing this to yourself even though there had been so many warnings. Not one of the fox people had advised you to run - at least at your own. But you couldn’t wait for a prince in shining armor. Or fur. You could wait for nobody to save you from this fate. Breaking out when you found some loose stones around the window of your cell, without proper clothing or a sense of direction, is nothing anyone would suggest you do, but then again: what else could you do?

However, most of all, you deeply regretted that you weren’t running faster.

It was almost as if it was taunting you, the heavy footsteps galloping after you. They weren’t created by feet, but you could recognize them as something very different. Perhaps watching these nature documentaries had been a waste of time, but at least they made you remember the sound of bears running through forests, their big bodies producing a hollow, echoing sound.

Not one inch of your brain wanted to acknowledge what was after you, but you were sure it wasn’t a bear.

Somehow, you wished it was. A creature that wasn’t sentient like a human would be just as deadly, but you imagined that it would be less awful than what awaited you. Even if your body still ran and ran some more, way beyond the point of exhaustion, inside of you, you were slowly losing hope.

Maybe hope is what makes life worthwhile, you thought quietly as you kept pushing forward. Only the sounds of your breathing and gasps left your mouth as you tripped over roots on the ground, but never words. Hope could create inspirations and aspirations. It ‘made mountains move’ and saved people from their worst selves if they could stay hopeful. So when had you given up the hope to escape?

Was it when Kita locked you into that cell? When he mentioned the contract? When these two fox brothers visited you but got sent away? Somewhere along the line, you must have lost it, though perhaps, only just recently, when you realized you had been found out. If this hadn’t felt like a hunt rather than a chase, maybe you could have stayed hopeful. But no matter how hard it was to look truth in the eye, you knew you were the prey of a creature you shouldn’t have messed with. All you wanted was to get out. Out of the forest, out of the vicinity of the monster chasing you.

Out of this seemingly endless nightmare.

If you were to die here, could you say your life had been worth something? Did you always do the things you wanted to do or was breaking out from the prison of the foxes your only glorious achievement? Would you leave earth with regrets or regret leaving?

These questions were the last you could think about before the hellish pain of long, sharp fangs puncturing your torso tore you out of it. How nice would it have been to die instantly on impact, unable to feel how the jaw clenched down, your lungs pierced, and your shoulder entirely crushed by force? Hear the bones cracking in the back of your mind and your arms and legs going limb?

You had imagined death differently. Even if you were unsure how you imagined it, you didn’t think it would be this way. There was so much pain that it stopped hurting. Briefly, the feeling of blood pouring out of you and dripping down your body was noticeable before it disappeared, too, as your ability to feel stopped. You realized in your mind that you shouldn’t have been able to turn your head, but pressed by adrenaline and the last, untorn nerves, you did, looking into the gleaming eyes of your monster. With a head as big as your whole body, you could only recognize the shimmering, white fur. The beautiful blue shine was mesmerizing, captivating you in these last moments of your life. Long tails waved in the far corner of your vision, and blue light illuminated this creature, making you wish it wasn’t so darn beautiful to look at, so you could have felt anything but astonishment.

The next thing you knew, the jaw around you loosened, making you drop to the ground, the last parts of your body that still twitched and jerked starting to cease their movements. In awe, you got to see how the beast turned back into the form of a human, your eyesight growing weaker by the second the more blood you lost, but you were still able to recognize the face that stepped closer, crouching down beside you.

In your head, you formed the thoughts to taunt Kita, rub it into his face how you escaped. Had you been able to, you’d have told him you’d never marry him and that he should stop crying like a child. But you were unable to. Gripping the only hand still intact tightly, Kita brought it to his face, nuzzling it. Blood - your blood - was smeared all over his face, and he kept taking deep, pained breaths of anguish. Even now, he seemed dignified, mourning the death of his beloved, and even now, you despised him for it, thinking he had no right.

“No… no…” he lamented, and you thought that it was unfair he got to cry small blue tears about you while you weren’t able to control what was going on with your body.

“I’m so sorry, [Name]! I’m so sorry… I… I couldn’t control it… I was so angry and hurt… I couldn’t…”

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of other creatures approached, and Kita took a deep breath. As if he could hide these emotions he was feeling by simply pushing them deeper inside of him, he bit his lips to keep them locked inside before deciding he’d rather kiss the back of your hand with his mouth. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Please… forgive me.”

What kind of man or creature could sit by the side of the person they claimed they loved, mauled, and then ask for forgiveness? His hand brushed over your head as if to comfort you, and you heard more voices approaching, though they turned quiet as they understood what was going on. Someone said something you didn’t understand, and Kita only muttered, “Not yet,” in return. His eyes never left you, and finally, you realized that this was how you were going to die.

By Kita’s side.

Ah, if only you could have said something to him. Something that would have haunted him for the rest of his life if he truly cared for you as much as he assured you before. Finally, you understood these novels where people sought revenge against others. Though it was probably your body torn apart, but it was as if something was eating you from the inside, this intense desire to at least have an impact on your murderer’s life. Take some of the worth from him just like he had taken from you.

“Do you remember--”

His sentences started to become incomplete. Kita’s mouth moved, but you didn’t hear what he was saying. It was hard to see now, your vision was not blurry, but you couldn’t focus anymore.

“--- fox --- gave me --- we --- never ---”

Then, your name. Again. Your shoulders shaking, but all you could focus on was how hard it was becoming to breathe.

“--- don’t leave --- I love ---”

Taking your last breath felt almost like taking a big gulp of water and breathing out afterwards.

And then it was dark.

It should have been different. Your whole life should have been different. Moving to Japan should have been a new start to an entirely new chapter, but it led to the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps you shouldn’t have run away. Maybe you should have stayed and embraced the marriage. Or you could have waited just a little bit longer for someone who’d keep you safe after all. Even if you had accepted the marriage, something good could have come out of it, and you should have just taken what you could.

But you didn’t. You died in the arms of the creature you wanted to get away from. The person you despised the most for putting you into this situation and killing you. Are you sure this is the path you wanted to take?

Was it worth it to risk your life?

Or will you try again?

➤ Go back to the prologue to change your fate

➤ Stay dead

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amethystpath-writes · 4 years ago

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P2 A Prisoner of Balconies

You guys and @gingerly-writing liked the soldier (from this) who was barely mentioned, right? Pretty sure you did, and you might still. 👀

******

The great hall shouldn’t have been so festive, shouldn’t have been adorned with newly designed banners and recently commissioned paintings. It made Arsyisa’s stomach twist, her throat close, palms sweat, hair fall out. Everything that could go wrong with her body simply was- all because of...well, it couldn’t be summed up so easily, could it be?

There was the fact that Arsy was sat- rather, placed, deliberately next to the general, Hytin. She was stuffed in a dress of his designated colour. Crowded in by dozens of betrayers. Warm in her dress, and overheated by the steam rising off her meal.

On top of that heaping mess, Arsy’s family was dead. Her mother, father, and two younger brothers. They were gone. Nothing could ever change that fact- and actually, the fact could only become worse as Hytin was replacing every tie to the royal family with himself. Well, every tie except for Arsy herself.

Why didn’t he kill her? Why didn’t he-

(Keep reading)

Oh, it didn’t matter. Not when Arsy’s...not when the soldier across from her was still alive. If Hytin ever decided he did want to kill Arsyisa- for whatever demented reason he came up with- the princess couldn’t keep her- the- soldier safe anymore. Was it possible the soldier was the only one who knew about the siege?

That only brought a hot bout of anger in Arsy’s body- her ears, hands, cheeks. Had the soldier known about General Hytin’s plan to kill the royal family? Was that why he’d been so persistent about beginning training?

The thought made Arsy sick. Because if he did know, he should have told her, should have warned her, prepared her- and not in the physical sense that he seemed fond of.

He must have understood the idea of mental stress, or else he wouldn’t have found a way to protect Arsyisa at all. He would have let her die even though he disagreed with Hytin’s pursuit of command. But, Arsy meant something to the soldier, and he knew he couldn’t handle the grief should the general decide to take her life.

So, why did he expect Arsy to be able to handle her entire family’s deaths?

This was torturous. Everything. Everything was falling apart, crumpling onto a teetering floor, which made keeping one’s thoughts together nearly impossible.

A fire landed on the princess’ thigh and she gave a light gasp before sending an apologetic look towards everyone near her at the table. It had only been General Hytin’s hand.

Only. As if it couldn’t be worse. She couldn’t get used to this...this life- not with the general of all people.

“You were asked a question, my dear.” Looking to Hytin now, Arsyisa noticed him glancing at the rest of the table, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. This was a game to him, to the rest of the table. They were all playing with her, expecting responses only because it meant torturing her further. “I would answer for you, but I feel it is not my place to do so.”

I am a respectable man, she could almost hear him saying.

Arsy whispered, looking across the table at...at the soldier. “I apologize,” she said, and glanced at the others- at the betrayers, the misleaders. “I- I was distracted.” But they already knew that. Why were they making her say it?

Hand still warm on Arsy’s thigh, Hytin reiterated for whoever decided to worsen the princess’ misery, “How are you going to feel about moving into the..." The general's eyebrows jumped. "...former king and queen's chambers?"

"I have decided," Arsyisa nearly seethed, "to stay in my own and original quarters."

Fingers pushed into Arsy's leg. "Did you, now?" His voice didn't need to change to one of innocence. This whole table knew Hytin. They knew the general was manipulating her answers.

It wasn't the voice which worked, but again, the person across from Arsy. The soldier. “Change is difficult now, as you can imagine. I do not feel ready to move on quite yet,” She added, knowing what the general’s response would be if she didn’t, “but I will.”

Looking at the table, at all the new faces which she’d either never seen before, or only did briefly in days of her childhood, Arsyisa stood, chair scooting back with a loud screech. “I think- think I need a moment. Just outside the doors. I won’t stray far,” Arsy said. “I only need a...” She searched for a word which wouldn’t upset Hytin, wouldn’t make him retaliate in some way. “A break.” Not a reprieve.

Arsy couldn’t treat her interactions with Hytin like a punishment or else he would truly deliver them. He would take it out on the soldier, the soldier whose name Arsy was too frightened to speak, or even think, because doing either would further the attachment she had to him instead of to the general.

“I can follow,” the soldier across from the princess said, “as guard.” He began to stand, but Arsy shook her head.

“No, I can take someone else. You are here as a guest”- she glanced at Hytin briefly enough that she couldn’t even read his face- “so eat.” In truth, she would have preferred she take him, but...well, it couldn’t work like that. The general would never allow for the only non-conspirator in the room to-

“He may go. I cannot think of a better skilled man to defend the future queen should something happen.”

A flurry of emotions swirled in Arsy’s gut at Hytin’s words. Words like threat, mercy, control flitted at the back of her mind. Aloud, she almost asked the general, ‘Why?’ Because it didn’t make sense, not at all. Why would Hytin allow her time with someone- with someone she loved? And alone, at that.

But how could she argue? If that was how the general wished for it to be, then there was nothing to be said. Of course, she was the next queen of the kingdom, but...but that didn’t mean anything against an entire table’s worth of conspiracy and betrayal and murder.

And anyways, it couldn’t have been so terrible. This might have been the only moment Arsy would ever be given with the soldier. Maybe it truly was mercy that Hytin was offering- not some ploy to play with Arsyisa’s heart, thus tormenting her more than she was being already.

“Very well. I suppose I should make it quick or else your food will go cold.”

“I suppose we should.”

We. Arsy drew in a breath- one of both anticipation of a moment with him, and also in fear of the meaning of that word. Because Arsyisa couldn’t be ‘we’ with the soldier. That word was reserved for General Hytin.

Either way, Arsy began making her way towards the double doors which would lead her to the hall. As she made her way, and the soldier did on his end of the table, the princess watched Hytin, who only held up his glass and gave a mock smile. “Fresh breezes, my love.”

Her lip lifted discreetly as she turned back to the doors, steps meeting the soldier’s just in time. They linked elbows.

“I feel a little offended,” the soldier whispered, lips curled up- not in spite, but in tease, “that you tried to desert me back there.”

The muscles in Arsyisa’s arm tightened as the two approached the doors.

“Oh, how regrettably shameful I feel,” she returned, voice a touch lighter than it had been when she was sat at the table. Arsy didn’t notice the difference in her voice, but anyone else would have seen the girlish fascination in it now.

What the princess did notice...was the levitation she felt at being able to be so near her soldier again. That’s right. Her soldier. In this moment, this present moment, when her arm was wrapped around his, they could embrace one another. Not in a hug, not in a physical sense, but in theory. They belonged with one another in theory.

As the doors opened, the princess stole just one last glance at Hytin. Maybe, she thought, this can be the last time I ever see him. The likelihood of it was small, and she knew that if the general ever caught her trying to escape, then...then her soldier would be...would be hurt, at the very least. Arsy didn’t try thinking about the details of what could happen.

“I would have made you my king,” Arsyisa told as the doors shut behind them.

She listened to her soldier take a deep breath before pushing it out. It sounded like a heavy weight, and yet, there still seemed to be more. “You look beautiful.”

Arsyisa squinted. “You only say that when you have nothing else to say. I thought there would have been-” Arsy shook her head. “There is plenty more to say after...after all that has happened.”

‘You look beautiful.’ How dare he? How dare he volunteer to walk out with Arsy if he had nothing to say; no condolences, or- or apologies. Apologies.

“Did you know?”

Their steps paused as the soldier faced her. “Did I know what?”

Arsy’s voice turned stone-cold. She rose a brow as she pulled away from her soldier. “Medaris.”

His jaw ticked. Medaris swallowed. “I knew, and I”- he licked his lips- “your family was aware of it, as well. I told them...about...about the revolution.”

“You- what do you mean they-”

Medaris reached for her hands, trying to comfort her, trying to be there for her, but Arsy couldn’t handle the nearness right now. She shook her head, stepping back and away from her soldier- her soldier who knew about the attack. “You could have stopped it- could have gotten us out of here. What were you- why didn’t you help!”

Maybe she knew that Medaris couldn’t have stopped the entire attack, but if he knew it was happening, if he knew soldier upon soldier was going to barge into the palace, he could have told Arsy, could have- “You told my family? My mother and father?”

It didn’t matter that they were just outside the dining room’s doors, that there was a high possibility they were heard. Arsy needed to know.

“As soon as I heard about it, I brought it to their attentions. Came back with evidence as I found it.”

“But then why...they let themselves be killed, Daris. They let”- she blinked- “they let my brothers be killed. Why? Why couldn’t we have just run?”

Taking a step towards her again, Medaris told the princess, hands held out to her, “I don’t have an answer from them, but I can give you a reasonable assumption.”

For some reason, Arsy found herself accepting her soldier’s offered hands. Perhaps even she knew she needed someone to be there for her. Hytin certainly would never be, not in this way, not seriously, and certainly not in such the caring way which Arsyisa required.

“You know the general.”

Arsy nodded.

“And you know he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

She nodded again.

“Your family was doomed from the moment Hytin realized he could gain greedy support.” Medaris squeezed his love’s hands gently, drawing a line over the back of her knuckles. “Hytin was intelligent enough to bring several men to the king’s quarters, and seeing as your mother was never trained, well...”

Medaris’ own trained voice wasn’t helping very much. Him holding Arsyisa’s hands was, sure, but the way he spoke so...so strategically only made Arsy’s perception of her own life teeter. It was as if she were reading a book of her own life.

“And my brothers were too young, too- too weak, even with training.” She swallowed and her head shook. “They asked you to train me, didn’t they? My parents?”

With a nod of the head, Medaris stopped his stroking thumb.

Too bad it wasn’t enough. Arsy recalled the moment General Hytin swatted the dagger right out of her hand after coming to her room and balcony just days ago.

“I wanted to train you to begin with; all in fun and game, but...” Medaris shrugged. “It seemed like I would be overstepping my boundaries as a measly soldier. I am no nobleman.”

“My mother likes you,” Arsy said, before realizing the error in her statement. “Liked you,” she corrected quietly. Her hands fell from Medaris’ as the reality set in even further. “We should go back. Before Hytin has me dragged back, you know?”

He nodded again, but still made no move towards the door. “Why do you- um- why do you think he wants to...to keep you?”

As the soldier between the two of them, Medaris should have known the answer himself, should have been able to dive deep into a fellow soldier’s mind and pick it apart. Maybe it was because he knew Arsyisa, and because he knew her, it was impossible to see her from another perspective.

See, Medaris never saw Arsy as a princess. To him, she was just a girl.

A pretty girl with her head held high. One excited to talk to the soldiers about where they came from and if training had been easy or hard for the day. One who wasn’t necessarily ‘one of the boys,’ but was willingly friends with them, making sure they were okay, and rough housing with them as best she could. Arsy was dainty by noble demand, but she broke away from it as much as she could.

“You cannot be a king without a queen,” Arsy explained. Truthfully, she didn’t have an answer to this question until Medaris asked, and it clicked. “Sure, he could command any girl to marry him, but it would have no impact, and it would hardly be believable. I am the princess, thankfully saved, and by the local general. With me, he has the excuse to be evil. With me, he can-”

With her, Hytin could manipulate the situation through her. He already made her announce to the nearby villages that...Arsy swallowed thinking about it.

True, Arsy could reject the orders Hytin gave her, but then...

Hytin forced her to have random citizens executed, only to cover up his own crimes. Executed, not just imprisoned. He had her announce their treatment- their torture.

If anyone would be the bad guy, it would be Arsyisa, but the public would accept it, because it was revenge, and because they believed the royal family deserved vengeance.

Without another word, Arsyisa wrapped her arms above Medaris’ waist, holding him close. “Promise me you will not do anything to get yourself harmed.”

Medaris squinted above the princess’ head. Was that why she’d been so cautious around everyone recently, sending him small glances, and apologizing to him when spacing out instead of the rest of the table? Had Hytin threatened to hurt him if Arsy didn’t do as he demanded?

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘Why?’” Arsyisa scoffed against her soldier lover. “I just want to know that you will be safe, that I will not have to worry about losing someone else that I love.”

“Okay,” Medaris promised. “I won’t allow stupidity to take over my senses.” She began to pull away, but he kept her close. “I want you to promise the same.” Medaris knew his princess wasn’t one for such brutality which she was displaying to the villages. As heartbroken as she was, she wasn’t a killer- even if it were for punishment and revenge.

“We need to go. Hytin will suspect something.”

“Promise me, Arsyisa. Do not allow yourself this change.”

She shook her head. “Medaris,” she whispered brokenly, “I am doing what I must; that is all.”

“You are allowing for your image to change.”

“So what if I am!”

When she pulled away this time, Medaris let her step back. He still wanted her promise, but- well, it seemed as though it was going to be more complicated than saying, ‘I promise.’

“I am doing whatever I need in order to maintain safety.”

“For who?” Medaris questioned. “Because it is certainly not for the villages. That much is evident.” He watched her, her facial features and how they shifted to reveal panic and worry. He wanted to hold her again, make her feel at ease with herself.

“For you,” she admitted, a little coldly. “I am doing this for you, and you are going to let me- because if you do not, I will hate you.” It was the worse threat she could think of. “I will hate you for as long as I live and you do not. He will kill you, Daris. He will if I fail him.”

“Let him try.”

Something glinted on Arsy’s cheek. A tear. “You promised,” she quaked after a silent moment. “You already promised me.”

“Then hate me, Arsyisa- because I will not allow you to live by this fear. I will kill the bastard if it is the only way you, or any of us, will be free of him, you hear me? I will shred him to pieces.”

******

@tears-and-lilies @moose-teeth @sableflynn @all-whumped-out @watercolorfreckles (tagging you guys out of your interest in the first part. I do plan on continuing this as a series so if anyone would like to be added or removed from the tag list, don’t hesitate to let me know! :) )

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