#your brother just died and you’re serving married cunt?

[danyseastar]

i am telling all of you right here right now they’re getting married this season trust 🙏🏻

[lubdubsworld]

Dangerously Beautiful. (Seokjin x oc)

Kim Seokjin x OC!!

 Genre : Organized Crime AU ! 

Warnings : AU related violence . Explicit Content. Blood , Gore but not too bad. I’ll see how it goes. Extremely Dubious Consent. Abusive relationships. Unhealthy power dynamics. 

Summary : When you’re caught in a war that has no end, the only goal is to survive. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prologue

“Been a while, huh baby? You’re too fucking tight....” Seokjin grunted, fingers crushing my wrists together with a bruising grip , eyes narrowed as he smirked right into my face as he fucked into me, his hips slamming into mine with a force that made my bones rattle and I had to bite my lips to keep from crying out, tears spilling over my eyes and soaking the fabric of his tie , knotted and stuffed in my mouth. 

“But that’s good...at least it tells me you haven’t been spreading your thighs for anyone else, right baby? Not that you would dare....you know you’re mine, don’t you ? Your sexy little body....all mine, huh darling?” He leaned down and made to kiss me and i panicked. I didn’t want him to kiss me. 

I closed my eyes, turning my face away but he brought one hand up to grip my jaw, yanking my face back to stare at him. He tightened the grip on my chin and I whimpered when his thumb dug into my skin . 

“Open your fucking eyes and look at me.” He demanded. “ What are you afraid of huh? Afraid to admit how much you like this? How much you like having my cock in your cunt?”

I glared at him, hoping he could read all the hatred, all the disdain and scorn and fury I felt for him. He merely laughed shaking his head, his movements speeding up. He stared at me like I was the most precious thing in the world and yet he treated me like I was something he wanted to destroy. 

“So you’ve been hanging out with Jihoon again...imagine my surprise doll... Me .... one of the most powerful in the country, “ He punctuated each pause with a thrust that left me wincing in pain, “one of the most feared men in the country and yet....my beautiful wife...out flaunting a relationship with another man.... Don’t make me put a bullet in my own brother’s head, Renae....” He growled, thumb slipping into my mouth, alongside the tie. I closed my eyes, , exhausted as my body went limp to fight the pain.

 I hated him. Hated him . Hated him.  

“Gonna fuck you all night. Gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be sore for days.....Heard you made plans with him? Let’s see how you run around the city with my brother if you can’t fucking walk tomorrow.” he snarled and I choked on my tears.

The knock on the door made him pause and he swore. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He roared and I held my breath. 

 Please... Please leave... Just, Please.

“Wang’s here, hyung.” Jungkook’s voice carried through the thick mahogany door. “ He’s got the Lee kid. “ 

Seokjin groaned . 

He glared at the door for a second , taking deep breaths to calm himself down and I could see the anger swelling inside him. i held my breath because I did not want to be the outlet for all that rage. I stared , watching his eyes shift to mine, cold and unfeeling. 

I winced when he brought his clenched fist down on the sheet with enough force to rattle the whole bed. I exhaled shakily as his fingers came up to brush the sweat slicked bangs off my face, thumb pressing into my lips with force.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to reschedule, princess.” he grunted pulling out, and relief flooded my body so hard, i sagged. He made to move away but stopped when I shuddered.

“What? “ He snapped and I froze. 

His fingers reached for the knot at the back of my head and he yanked on it till the tie came undone. I gasped when he pulled the fabric out of my mouth , swallowing to sooth by bruised throat. 

“You look entirely too glad that I’m leaving.” He tilted his head thoughtfully and my gaze snapped to his. 

“I.. I..” My voice broke, rusty from disuse. 

“On your hands and knees.” 

I sobbed in disbelief, shaking my head and trying to move away but he gripped my waist, turning me over and lifting my hips till I was on all fours.

“Grab the fucking headboard.” He whispered , sounding unnaturally calm and I felt a chill spread all over my skin. 

With Seokjin, the calmer he was, the more reason you had to be afraid. 

“I’m gonna fuck you till I cum and then I’m supposed to go kill Lee Jae Hwan’s son. If you stay quiet , let me do my thing... I may consider letting him live. What say, princess? He’s only twenty three years old....  “ He smiled eerily, the sheer beauty of his face a complete contrast to the things he did. 

I closed my eyes. 

It wasn’t really a fucking choice was it? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t come to the cafe.” Jihoon’s voice came from the shadows , just as I left the library on the east wing. I felt my heart race, eyes darting up and down the length of the corridor, anxiety spiking as I tried to listen for footsteps or voices. It was mid afternoon and the sun spilled into the open hallways through the open windows, and there was no one in sight. 

 No one visited the East wing that often especially in the middle of the day but you could never be too careful. The servants , guards and the housekeeper were all loyal to Seokjin. And last night... Seokjin had made it clear that he was watching. I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t put handsome, kind Jihoon’s life in danger for my own selfish desires. 

I ignored him, walking a bit faster to get away but he moved faster, stopping in front of me and holding both hands up to stop me. 

“Renae....what’s wrong?” He asked softly , eyes warm and worried and brimming with concern and i wanted to sob.

“We shouldn’t be doing this , “ i whispered, shaking my head. “ I can’t convince Seokjin to let me go if he thinks it is  you  I’m leaving with. Right now I hold no value to him but if you keep following me around..acting like a fool....he will keep me chained to his side.!!!” 

Jihoon growled , eyes flashing with frustration and anger.

“He doesn’t deserve you!”

“I know.” I whispered, glancing back up and down the corridor. I was so terrified in my own home and it was so unfair. “ I know but you must remember.... he did not force me into anything. I came here of my own volition. I let him court me and marry me and I am his wife now. He owns me. Unless he lets me go, I cannot escape.” 

“Its been five years. How much longer? How much longer must I wait for you to-”

“I never asked you to wait. Your waiting is your own doing. Don’t pin that on my head, Master Kim.” I said coldly. 

He flushed at that. 

“I just.. i love you. I care for you deeply and I want to give you the life you deserve...does that count for nothing?” He asked, desperately and I looked away, laughing at his naivety. 

At twenty five, Jihoon was as naive as they came. He had been raised, sheltered. Away from the family business. He did not know how ruthless his brother was. 

How little Seokjin valued  human life? How fiercely possessive he was of the things he owned. 

How little he cared about what anyone else wanted? 

“No..matter what any of us wants,  because only the king gets to have what he wants “ I said sharply, “ and Kim Seokjin is the King. This is his empire. You and I , we are pawn in his court, only here to serve him as he asks us to....to give him what he wants...... And as long as he wants me , in his house and in his bed, I am bound to him. You’re risking your life , for something that may not even be real” 

“Don’t say that... Don’t you dare say that.. What we have is real... it  is  real.” He said softly. 

I stared at him, shaking my head. 

“After four years with your brother I no longer know what is real and what isn’t. “  

He stared at his feet.

“You love him. “ I said softly.

He didn’t deny it. 

“I love you more.” He said hoarsely.

I laughed a little.

“I’m sure you believe that. But the truth is he  will  kill you. He told me as much. I can’t have that on my head, Jihoon.” 

I turned away, clutching my book to my chest , as I walked away from the only person who had ever shown me any kindness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“She is in love with Jihoon.” Seokjin said casually, taking a sip of his whiskey, eyes trained on the sunset, lavishly beautiful from their position up on one the tallest towers in the estate. 

Yoongi hummed thoughtfully.

“not surprising considering you treat her like dirt.”

Seokjin grimaced.

“I don’t have time to indulge all her fairytale fantasies. She is my wife , she is honor bound to serve me and me alone.” He growled. 

Yoongi laughed.

“This isn’t the dark ages. You married her. You didn’t buy her love....” 

“then why am I still fucking paying for it. “ He snapped. “ Why am I still here, four years later, chained to her but nowhere closer to being what she wants. Why am I here, contemplating killing my own brother....? “

Yoongi shook his head. 

“Because you wasted the years when you should’ve been there for her. You left her alone in a sprawling mansion with no one to lean on and it was your brother who offered her the companionship she craved...” 

“My father had died!” Seokjin shouted, fists clenched in frustration. “ He died and he left me a crumbling, burning mess of an organization filled with traitors and opportunists. None of them were loyal to me , I had an attempt on my life every day of the fucking week...so forgive me if I couldn’t take time off to play house with a nineteen year old girl .......” 

“Its not too late.” Yoongi said softly. 

Seokjin sighed. 

“Yoongi...”

“ You’re not that man anymore, Seokjin.... You’ve done your part. You’ve built an empire even the Romans would envy and you are the one in control. She isn’t nineteen anymore either..... She’s twenty four. She knows the kind of life you lead, She will be more understanding. She hasn’t left yet so there’s no reason you shouldn’t try-” 

“She has been looking for divorce lawyers.” Seokjin whispered. “ She wants me to let her go.”

Yoongi stayed quiet.

Seokjin continued, voice laced with frustration. 

“I can’t do that. I... I don’t know what love is but I feel...something for her. Something that makes it impossible for me to contemplate a life without her.  So I can’t let her go but if I keep her life this, if I chain her to my side , she is only going farther away from me. i don’t.. i don’t know what to do.” he said helplessly. 

Yoongi nodded.

“I think its time to let Jungkook take over as the head of operations.” He said softly.

Seokjin’s eyes snapped to him. 

“What?! He’s not ready -”

“And he’ll never be ready if you don’t give him the chance to prove himself. He is intelligent , sharp and ruthless. He knows the in and out of this business like you do and he has stayed by your side since he was sixteen years old. He loves you like a brother and he is loyal to you in a way that I’ve never witnessed in my life. “

Seokjin sighed running a hand over his face. 

“So, what? I just hand things over to him and go sit in an armchair fiddling my thumbs?”

Yoongi laughed.

“No... you take a step back... see over everything and offer us your advice when we’re stuck. The way bosses all over the world function. The next time there’s an issue that needs to be dealt with, you trust  us  to deal with it, instead of turning up at an abandoned warehouse at two in the morning to break some poor college kid’s arm.” 

Seokjin nodded, taking another sip of his drink.

“And... Renae?”

“You tell her you want to build a relationship with her. Beg her for a chance if you have to and then you fix things  If you want her love, you earn it. “ 

“Is that how you earned your wife’s love?” Seokjin smirked. 

Yoongi grimaced.

“Let’s not talk about that ...’“ He grunted. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I walked into the dining room that evening, the last thing I expected was my husband, dressed to the nines and leaning against the fireplace, staring off into space. 

He straightened when he saw me and i froze in place, fear choking my insides. 

“Hi.” He said softly.

I blinked, confused.

“I was hoping to have dinner with you.”

He what?

I merely stared at him, completely thrown. 

“Unless you have other plans.” 

I pinched myself discreetly. Was I having a fever dream? Had I fallen asleep in the library?

“Say something.” He snapped and I got pulled out of my reverie. 

I swallowed.

“No.. I.. no i don’t have any plans.”

“Good. Come, let’s sit.” 

He pulled a chair out for me and i stared at him in confusion, walking over and carefully lowering myself into the seat. 

“Are you going to kill me?” I blurted out when he took the seat opposite to me. 

He stared at me in shock.

“What?! Of course not..why would you think that?” he demanded. 

I swallowed. 

“What are you doing here then.??? ..you don’t do this. Ever.”

“Maybe I’ve changed.” He said casually and I laughed in disbelief.

“I don’t know what sick game you’re trying to play with me but...”

“I’ve been neglecting you.” he said gently. 

I froze.

:” I’ve not been the kind of husband I could’ve been. And I think, I need to remedy that.”

He stared at me. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” I said shakily.

“I want to make this work. “

“This?” i said, slightly hysterical.

“Our marriage. I want to make it work.”

“I.. no. I don’t want that.. I want a-”

“DON’T!!!” He shouted, fists coming down on the table with a force that made me jump. “ Don’t ask me for a divorce. I’m not giving you one. not now, not ever.” 

I stared down at my knees, tears stinging. 

“I am trying to be more ....gentle. I want to mend things between us so you wouldn’t have to look for comfort or companionship from another man. “ 

“Please stop.” I felt sick. 

“You’re my wife Renae. And i want you to enjoy it. “ 

Nausea. Anger. Disbelief. Despair. 

Everything warred inside me and my head pounded. 

“I ....am not hungry anymore.” I choked out, stumbling to my feet and moving away and for the first time, Seokjin let me leave the room when I wanted to . 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note : Well.... Feedback is appreciated as always.  leave a reply here if you wanna be on the taglist. 

[leilabeaux]

In My Sights III

Masterlist | Two

Pairing: Ivar/ Fem Reader

Word Count: 3570

Warning: None? 7 years bad luck?

Summary: A meeting with two brothers from Vestfold takes Ivar off guard.

Author’s Note: Well, this part was a long time coming. That means I will have part four ready next year.

The dining room was sparsely occupied that early afternoon with women who lunch, businessmen on lunch breaks, and their quiet chatter. The Vine had long been considered a historical landmark in Kattegat and was formerly a struggling fine dining restaurant. It had only gained popularity with the upper class once Aslaug Lothbrok, a well-known Götaland socialite who was newly married and new to the city, started to make her presence there. Though it’s popularity faded over the years, it was still preferred by the old money elite. Mostly for the staff’s discretion rather than the food and ambience.

It was for that reason why the Lothbrok sons preferred the establishment for their business lunches. Extra care was also usually taken with a generous tip to the host to ensure no other guests would be seated next to their table but today it was turning out to be a waste of money as the hushed voices from their corner of the room began to grow.

Ivar drummed his fingers against the table as he brought the cup of coffee to his lips, glaring across at his three older brothers. Apparently, the idiots had forgotten the importance of discretion as they were busy bickering over why their associates called for today’s meeting. He hoped the clinking of his cup when he set it down roughly onto the saucer would disrupt their chattering but, to his annoyance, still they continued.

Leaning back in his chair, his left hand mindlessly traced the carved out dragon on his cane, last year’s birthday gift from his dear Uncle Floki, while he scrolled through the day’s news on his phone. One particular article detailed the resignation of a Mercia diplomat after the unexpected death of her eldest son, mentioning that authorities were looking for a red-headed female who was last seen with him for questioning.

Good luck finding her, Ivar thought to himself. He had given up all attempts at trying to find you or any information about you after a year upon your meeting. After coming up empty through hacked databases and facial recognitions, he concluded that you were virtually a ghost or at least knew very powerful people who worked hard to keep you hidden. All he could do was sit and wait until he heard from you again, hoping his right hand and the memories of your last tryst would keep him satisfied till then.

He felt his slacks tighten as he got lost in a memory of you trapped underneath him as he pounded into your sweet cunt. The whines of you begging him to make you come he heard in his head were interrupted when Ubbe pounded his fist on the table, causing the glassware to shake.

“For fuck’s safe, Ivar, get off your fucking phone!” His older brother harshly whispered, checking over his shoulder at the other patrons, finally aware of the scene they were making.

“And why would I do that, dear brother?” Ivar still had his eyes turned down to his phone as he sent you the link of the article and a brief message: You’re on their radar. I wonder what you’re willing to do to make sure I don’t turn you in. Throwing his phone on the table, he raised an eyebrow as he bestowed Ubbe with his undivided attention. “So I can join you fools in biting our fingernails, worrying why they called for a meeting at the last minute?”

“They” were two brothers from Vestfold, owners of a large fishing company based out of their hometown and, most recently, out of Kattegat as well. To the public eye, it was assumed that it was hard work, determination, and a wise investment from Ivar’s father that turned the once struggling business into a multi million dollar success. But the young men currently seated at the table knew that the wise investment was generous compensation throughout the years for hauling more than just fish on their boats. Whether it was guns, stolen art and, for a very brief moment in time, opiates, Halfdan and Harald provided safe transport for anything the Lothbroks were running.

“You're not the least bit worried? What if they’re wanting to pull out of our deal? The Rus are not going to be pleased if we’re not able to deliver their shipment.” Ubbe wrung his hands as he thought of the worst. He was not looking forward to telling the Rus leader of any potential delays. The man wasn’t the most level headed or understanding and honestly, he creeped him out a bit.

Hvitserk nodded his head in agreement. “They might be. Remember, they were wanting a cut of our profits the last time we met with them but Ivar thought it wasn’t a good idea…” He pursed his lips in disapproval before cutting his eyes toward the youngest Lothbrok.

If Ivar had rolled his eyes any harder, he would have given himself a headache. “They’ve been doing the same job for our family for nearly twenty years, nothing more and nothing less, and have been paid fairly for it. Maybe a little too much in my opinion but I will honor our father’s wishes. Still they have no business being greedy. If it wasn’t for the Lothbroks, they would still be hauling fish into a sinking dinghy.”

“There are probably others who are looking for a way to transport their shit and all they need is a smug asshole like Harald to offer his services.” Hvitserk swirled his drink in his glass, taking a sip before continuing. “I think we should give them at least half of what they were wanting.”

Ivar gave an aggravated sigh and was ready to shoot down what he thought was the stupidest thing to come out of his brother’s mouth.

“I don’t know, I think Ivar’s right.” Sigurd chimed in. “They should be grateful for all our father did for them, not bite the hand that feeds them.”

The other men at the table sat in silence as they stared at him in confusion. It was thought that Sigurd would rather eat a bullet than agree with anything Ivar had to say.

“I changed my mind. Give them everything they ask for.” Ivar had joked, he would never admit out loud or to himself that he appreciated his least favorite brother taking his side. Officially done with the conversation, he picked his phone back up. He held back his smile as he read the new message: Anything you want me to do, handsome. But first, you’d have to find me.

Ubbe looked up from behind his nerve-wracked hands toward the lobby and gave a sigh. “Thank gods, they’re finally here...and of course he brought his fucking girlfriend. To our illegal business lunch meeting. Great.”

Hvitserk gave a quick and quiet wolf whistle as his eyes studied the woman on Harald’s arm, from head to toe. “Is that the same one he brought to your birthday party? Didn’t she have different hair and was a bit taller?”

“How can you not tell? I thought you fucked her while cake was being served?” Sigurd questioned.

“All I remember was the back of her head, to be honest.”

Ivar couldn’t hold back the snort at Hvitserk’s comment. Whatever smart ass response that was about to come out died on his tongue as he looked up at the woman that was being led to them. This was definitely a new girlfriend because if you were the one Hvitserk had fucked in the coat check room, he was going to have one less brother.

As always you looked like perfection to him but he knew your presence, or rather your outfit, was causing a bit of a stir in the restaurant especially among the older women who were busy clutching their pearls. From the plunging neckline of the loose dark green silk shirt to the matching miniskirt with a side-slit it was tucked into, your ensemble was far from the acceptable dress code of the Vine but the host knew better than telling Ivar and his brothers that their guest would have to leave, no matter how many complaints he’d get from the other patrons.

“Can you two shut the fuck up before he hears you?” Ubbe scolded Hvitserk and Sigurd before standing up to greet their guests. Shaking Halfdan’s hand before moving onto Harald, “Gentleman, I’m glad you could finally join us.”

Halfdan gave a frustrated sigh as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and plopped himself down on an empty seat. “Believe me, it wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh come on, brother. We didn’t keep you waiting that long.” Harald slapped a hand on his shoulder before parading the young woman on his arm. “Boys, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend Veronica.”

Ivar instantly wished he had ordered something stronger than coffee. He didn’t want to believe for a moment that you would choose to be with someone like Harald but you did warn him before that he hardly knew you.

In his opinion, the Fishmonger wasn’t much to be desired. And if it was money you were after, Ivar’s funds could have kept your excessive shopping addiction quelled more than the mere pennies the other man had. He knew he could satisfy you in that way and others.

Patiently sitting back in his chair, he watched as you politely smiled while you shook hands with each of his brothers. Hvitserk was unaware how close he was to a dinner knife to his thigh after lingering a second too long while kissing the back of your hand. Fortunately, Harald had the good sense to pull you away.

Ivar balanced his weight on his cane as he stood up to introduce himself, taking a risk and gently caressing his thumb against your hand. “Lovely to meet you, Veronica.”

Although you said nothing back, he didn’t miss the small smirk that briefly graced your face letting your alleged boyfriend lead you to your seat.

“I hope you boys don’t mind her being here. I know we try to keep these meetings to ourselves but I’ve been a little busy and this beautiful thing has been missing me.” He kissed the back of your hand, causing you to giggle. “Didn’t even want to take my card and go on a shopping spree.”

“I swear you won’t even hear a peep from me.” You promised, miming zipping your lips closed while you took a seat across from Ivar. “Harry’s shop talk ends up sounding more like gibberish to me anyway!”

Ivar had to focus to not show his confusion when he heard you speak. The words coming out of your mouth sounded as if they were dipped in saccharine and nowhere near the lower sultry tone he was used to. He hoped to himself that you would stay true to your promise and remain silent.

Unfortunately, promises meant nothing to his brothers.

“So what do you do for a living, Veronica?” Sigurd asked while cutting into his beef tenderloin.

You gave him a closed smile, dabbing the corners of your mouth with your napkin as you swallowed your last bite. “Oh my goodness! Nothing as important as what you gents do! I worked in this cute little boutique over in Vestfold before Harry whisked me away!”

“Wow, you must have made a killing in commissions.” Ivar couldn’t resist this opportunity to make you sweat, if that was even possible.

He was sure that hint of confusion on your face seemed authentic to everyone else. “No? Actually, I worked hourly...”

You were cut off by an annoyed groan from Ubbe as he rubbed his face, the food on his plate was barely touched. “Harry...I mean Harald, why did you call this meeting?”

“You couldn’t wait a few more minutes until we were done eating? I’d expect mommy to have taught you some manners.” Harald sighed and tossed his napkin on the table before leaning back in his chair.

Ivar didn’t miss you curling your hand around your knife. The tension surrounding the table definitely wasn’t missed by you.

Before Ubbe could respond, Halfdan had cut into the conversation. “Look, we know the last meeting didn’t go well.”

“Actually, you shot one of our men in the head.” Hvitserk stated, staring at Harald as he made his point.

Halfdan quickly interjected, “One of our captains went rogue. Was convinced by some mysterious buyer to deliver your last load of weapons to them. Don’t worry, we took care of the problem”

The younger Lothbrok brother stayed silent while his brothers voiced out their displeasure. You took a sip from your glass, your eyes cutting back and forth to the men surrounding you.

“Oh, did you?” Ubbe questioned incredulously. “Because there shouldn’t have been a problem in the first place.”

“Yes, we did.” Harald finally broke his silence with an emphasis on every word. “The man liked a good drink...a little too much. It was unfortunately only a matter of time until he drunkenly stumbled off his boat. I’m sure the medical examiner we paid off would attest that it was accidental drowning. As for the guns, they’re on another boat with a crew we know we can trust.”

“The buyer? Do you think it was the Saxons?” Sigurd suggested to the table.

“No, they thrive on letting it be known when they screw us over. I suspect they either are or know someone close. In either our circle or yours. I just hope our actions show that we are loyal and can be trusted.” Harald regarded that last statement to Ivar, knowing his silence throughout the exchange meant he was the one he had to win over.

The young man grinned as he sat back in his seat “You know, before you got here, my brothers were saying they didn’t think you deserved any part of our profits but I personally think a five percent cut of every successful shipment is reasonable.”

A smirk slowly spread against Harald’s face. “I think that sounds very reasonable.”

----

Ivar slowly made his way to the front of the restaurant. The remainder of lunch was uneventful other than the mindless chatter of Hvitserk and Sigurd asking you 20 questions. Ubbe promptly left after taking care of the bill and with so few words.

He rolled his eyes in disgust as he watched Harald wrap his arms around you, not even trying to be modest as his hands grabbed your ass. He had to fight the urge to not cut the man’s hands off for touching something that belonged to him.

You squealed and playfully swatted his chest. You gave a quick glance at Ivar as he slowly approached. “Baby, I’ll meet you outside. I just need to touch up my lipstick real quick.”

“Okay, lovely. Don’t be too long, we have a plane waiting on us.” He pressed a quick kiss on your lips before letting you go. He walked out of the restaurant, not even noticing that Ivar was close by.

Your heels clicked on the marble floor and you peeked over your shoulder toward Ivar, giving him a small grin before you made a quick turn into the washroom.

Ivar looked around to make sure there were no eyes on him as he made his way in the same direction as you. He didn’t expect his brothers to worry too much about him. He would’ve been surprised if one of them had waited for him especially since he took his own personal town car to the restaurant.

Before he could even walk through the door, you yanked him in by his tie then pushed him against the adjacent wall. He barely had time to react when he felt your lips against his own. He wrapped his arm around your waist and groaned when your hand tugged down on his locks.

Usually you enjoyed taking your time kissing him, teasing with a soft touch of your hand at the back of his neck, savoring every small whine he made when you nipped on his bottom lip. But today was different as you rushed to deepen the kiss. Both of you knew that if you were gone too long, Harald would come hunting for you.

When you broke away from him, you looked into his eyes, stifling a soft giggle. “Hi there, handsome.” You teased, your voice finally back to normal.

“Gods, that voice you were putting on was annoying.”

“I don’t know. Harald seems okay with it.” You pushed yourself away from him, walking over to the sink and pulled out a tube of lipstick from your clutch.

Ivar stayed put against the wall, watching as you leaned over the sink to look yourself in the mirror.

He repeatedly tapped his cane on the tile, “Is he why you said no?”

“Said no to what?” You stayed focused on reapplying the red color on your lips. You couldn’t help but laugh when you looked up and saw the annoyed look Ivar was giving you.

You smooth a finger around your lips, cleaning up any smudges. “I’m not his girlfriend, Ivar. He thinks I’m the very expensive call girl he hired to keep him company over the weekend. Just your basic girlfriend experience.” You dropped the lipstick back into your clutch before closing it with a snap.

“Your client wants him taken care of?” He walked over and propped his hip against the counter next to you. “That would save me some money in the long run. One less brother to pay.”

“No…” You looked down at the porcelain instead of looking him in the eyes. “I’m just collecting information on him by any means necessary.”

“Any means necessary?” While Ivar usually admired your dedication to committing to your undercover work, he found himself not liking the idea of you following through on this one. “Y/N, please tell me there’s a target on his head.”

You quickly glanced up at him through the mirror before turning to lean against the counter. You crossed your arms in front of your chest. “At the moment, no.”

“Goddammit, Y/N” Ivar pinched the bridge of his nose. Though the thought of someone else hands over your body aggravated him, the idea of another man inside of you incited him. “Are you going to fuck him? Have you fucked him?”

“Ivar…you and your brothers were waiting for a reason. It would have been suspicious if the hooker refused to fuck him.” You stated as if that was a reasonable explanation.

“How much is your client paying you? I’ll double it—fuck it, I’ll triple it if you just walk away now.”

“No one is paying me. I’m on my boss’s orders.”

“And who do you work for again?”

“Tsk, tsk. You already know that if I told you, I’d have to kill you and I don’t want to have to mess up that pretty face. Again.” Pressing up against him, you gently brushed your thumb over the faint scar that went across his cheek. A sweet parting gift from one of your earlier encounters with him.

“Tell me what information you need and I’ll get it for you.” He leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “Just...just don’t go with him.”

You cradled his face in your hands. For a brief moment, there was a look that Ivar had seen on your face before, a mixture of pity and sadness. You shook your head then pressed a gentle kiss on his lips before you walked away from him.

“Please don’t hate me, handsome.” Through the wall length mirror ahead of him, he saw you turn to face him after pausing at the closed door. “You can be mad and you can curse at me until we’re old and grey. Shit, you could even throw another knife at me but I think it would hurt me more if you hated me.”

You waited a moment for him to say or do anything, but when all you got was silence, you walked out of the door.

Ivar took a deep inhale to try to calm the anger that was beginning to flow through his body. He turned toward the mirror, his knuckles going white as he grabbed onto the edge of the sink. No care when his cane falls to the ground with a resounding smack.

When he was younger, he had got into some trouble after he hit a classmate with a rock. The therapist his Uncle Floki took him to after the incident told him to try counting to ten whenever he saw red.

He closed his eyes, letting out an exhale at every count in his head.

On five, he could see you.

Six, Harald slowly walking up behind you.

Seven, him taking you into his arms.

Eight, his tongue sliding up your neck.

Nine, his hand trailing down to your center.

Ten, you softly moaning out Harald’s name.

Ivar screamed out in rage and punched the mirror. He didn’t even notice the pain in his fist until his breathing evened out. He straightened out his tie the best he could with the distorted reflection in front of him. Flexing his injured hand, he reached over and grabbed one of the towels laid out on the counter, wrapping his hand in it.

If Harald didn’t have a target on his head before, he fucking did now.

——

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[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 11

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

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-

“What are you doing?” 

You freeze in place with the  blade to your throat, turning to find Sam staring in simmering anger. After his initial shock, he closes in on you, grabbing the knife and twisting it from your hands. 

“You were going to slit your own throat?” He’s fuming, fury seeping from his pores as his nostrils flare. When you don’t respond, his face sets, jaw locking. “Answer me now!” 

“Yes,” you admit, tears falling as you begin to sob. “Let me, please, give the knife back to me. I beg you. Let me leave this world!”

“What’s wrong with you!” he yells again, stepping back. His hands clench into fists at his sides. For a moment you’re sure he’s going to hit you, but instead, he runs a hand over his face and turns away toward the fire. He’s fighting to regain control of himself. Sam takes a moment, his back rising and falling with the intensity of his breath. Turning back to you he places a hand on each of your shoulders, moving backward, forcing you to sit in the chair as you cry harder, shoulders jerking while you sputter and choke. “Stop crying,” he barks. 

You both know it’s a ridiculous command. You’re in no state of mind to follow orders or control these sorts of emotions. Your hands shake at the thought of the repercussions for further disobedience as you look up at him with wide, wet eyes. “I-I c-can’t.”

With hands on his hips, he waits, watches you heave and cough and then slowly collect yourself. It takes a while but you do find a way to calm down. You wipe your cheeks with the sleeves of your dress.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest,  waiting until you’re staring at the floor, seemingly matched in a silent standoff. 

“Tell me why you had a knife at your throat.”

“I told you. I want to die,” you whisper, unable to look at him. Your voice shakes, tremors of fear shooting from head to toe. “Please don’t be mad at me. I tried to stop crying, I couldn’t-”

“I don’t care about that.” He crouches down, placing a hand on your thigh. You nearly jump out of your skin. “Why do you want to die?”

You sniffle, wringing your hands together in fear and anxiety. “I’m afraid to tell you.”

“You don’t have a choice. Tell me.” Sam’s Alpha leaves no option to remain silent. 

“What sort of life will I have?” Your eyes flutter up, sneaking a glance. “Before all this, my life was nothing special but I was a person. A human being. I was allowed thoughts and emotions and opinions. Here I am nothing more than what’s between my legs.”

“You would rather take your life than be an Omega?” His eyebrows shoot up as if he’s realizing for the first time just how desperate you truly are. “You’d rather end your life than lie in my bed?”

“It is what comes after you that I’m more frightened of,” you admit. 

His head tilts to the side, interest piqued. “What comes after me?”

“Other men, other Alphas. Your brother told me about the plans. When you’re done with me Dean will take his turn and then I’ll become a prize for the Alphas, likely at your father’s discretion. I would rather die than subject myself to that.”

Sam is quiet, sighing deeply and getting up to take a seat in the chair across the table from you. He thinks for a spell, studying his palms before responding. 

“My brother told you these things?”

“Yes. And I know what happens with the other Omegas. What their lives are like. Tilda has soured, I can hardly stand the smell of her, she’s rancid. When we’re mistreated we...rot. I don’t think I would survive it. I wouldn’t want to.” 

“I see.” He pours himself wine, before sitting back to watch the fire. “And what if there was no after me?”

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“My brother spoke out of turn. I know I’ve made a comment when I wanted to keep you in line, but the truth is I have no plans to give you to anyone else. You’re mine and I intend to keep you.”

Barely able to wrap your mind around this new revelation, you stare at him. Sam Winchester, a sworn enemy of your family, a man who vowed to slaughter every member of your family, wants you for himself. 

“You want me?” you ask again. Perhaps you’re delusional.

“I do,” he explains calmly. “You’re a perfect Omega. Your scent, your body. You obey orders, keep your mouth shut. No one else will have you as long as I'm alive. If you are loyal to me then I will return that loyalty.” 

“Will you claim me?”

“One day,” he nods in confirmation. “I’ll marry when my parents find a suitable match. Once that happens, I’ll claim you. It’s part of the Gilead wedding ceremony. No Beta will be able to do what you can. You’ll take my knot, give me children. It will be the best life of any Omega in Gilead. It might not be your old life of milking cows and making bread that you seem to miss so much, but you’ll have a place. Your rightful place. I’ll let you decide what you want.” He gets up, laying the knife on the table in front of you. “Slit your throat, or take your clothes off and come to bed.” 

And with that, he strips down and readies himself for the night. You listen while he washes himself, the water in the basin sloshing over the sides. You could do it, end it all right here and now. But that would mean giving up on hope, the hope Sam has just offered. Life could be bearable and perhaps someday down the road you might be presented with a chance to escape. To find your way back to freedom. 

And then there’s Sam, as much as you hate to admit it you've grown accustomed to him. His scent, the feel of his hands, the heat of his skin rubbing against yours. While given the option to go back home or stay, you would certainly choose your home. But right now he’s your best option. 

The decision is seemingly already made. 

Pulling your dress off over your head, you walk naked to his bed. Sam is on his side, watching you in curiosity as he pulls back the blankets to allow you to slide in beside him. 

“Let me see your neck.” He props himself up, finger trailing over the thin line left by the blade. It broke the skin but barely. It’s little more than a cat scratch. “You could have done irreparable damage.”

His finger carefully moves over the clammy skin, pressing down gently around the edge of the mark. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” you whisper in the fading light. Your body takes over, excitement fluttering fast as his skin brushes over yours.  

“Take care it doesn’t get infected.” 

“I will,” you confirm, gazing up at him. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

From time to time you forget who he is and where you are. Tonight for instance, you nearly reach up to caress his jaw. It would be such a comfort to be able to give and receive easy touches, gentler affection than he seems capable of.  

“You’re no good to me broken,” he grunts. His fingers splay out, wrapping around your neck but not squeezing. “If I catch you trying to hurt yourself again, you’ll be punished. It will be painful, do you understand?”

“Yes,” you confirm. 

“I’m glad we’re clear.” His eyes dart to your breasts before relinquishing his hold and rolling onto his back. He yanks the blanket away from his cock. He’s hard, standing at attention as he strokes himself. “Come here and sit on my cock.”

You do as you’re told. The night's events have drained you of every last vestige of energy. But it’s important, now more than ever, to ensure he’s happy with you. If taking his knot once a night is the price of your life, it’s one you can pay.

Climbing on top you stroke his cock a few times before guiding the leaking head of his manhood into your cunt. You sink down slowly, letting your body stretch for him. Sam’s eyes flutter, big hands and strong fingers curling into your hips. You try to ride him but he holds you down.

“Stay like this,” he instructs and brings his thumbs to your clit. 

“Alpha,” you breathe, eyes closing as you concentrate on his touch.

For what seems like a lifetime you sit straddling him as he rubs you soft and slow, building pleasure from a quivering foundation into bursting sparks that threaten to take you over the edge. 

He’s quiet, watching and touching, grunting softly at each moan and whimper that falls from your lips. Just when you're getting close to your peak, his hand falls away and you feel him shift, sitting up with you still his lap. 

You open your eyes to find his face unnervingly close, his breath warm on your cheek as he reaches around to hold your backside. 

“My great-grandfather married an Omega, back when it was still acceptable. She died before I was born but he talked about her all the time. He told Dean and I how special she was. That there was no one that could compare to her in any way. I remember him explaining the bond between them, he had to make sure she was satisfied, that they were connected in order for her to flourish. She didn’t belong to him as much as she was an extension of him.”

You look at each other and he carefully lifts you up only a few inches before letting you slide back down his length. You draw in a breath and his hand curls back around your throat. 

“I’ve never met an Omega like you, little bird. Most are nothing more than bitches in heat. But I could see from the moment my brother dragged you into the tent that you were different. I can’t have you souring like old Tilda. If we need to bond to keep you healthy, then that’s what we’ll do.”

He lifts you up and down again. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his cheek while his cock splits you open. He moves faster and you can barely handle the sensation, gripping his shoulders tightly. 

“Alpha,” you moan. Your eyes flutter, head lolling back as the pleasure builds. At this moment there is no fear or pain or worry, there's only your body and the Alpha who’s making you feel this way. 

“I’ll ever be able to give you the kind of bond you desire. I’m missing that piece of myself. But we can have this...physical closeness. It should be enough.” 

Your body hums with pleasure as you look into his eyes. What sort of man walks around without a soul? Is it possible to have any sort of moral compass when he’s hollow inside? Will this be enough?

You don’t have the answers to any of these questions. 

“Do you like the way this feels?” he asks, scraping his teeth along your throat. 

“Yes,” you hiss long and low. Your clit is throbbing, aching as his hand wedges between your bellies, rubbing up and down over the swollen bud. 

“Open your eyes and look at me.” Snapping to attention, you find him right there, so close you can feel his breath on your mouth. “Now ride me, up and down, nice and slow.”

You lift yourself up slightly and lower back down feeling the drag of his cock. Breasts crushed against his chest as he holds your hips, keeping you close. 

Eyes crinkling around the edge, he breathes in hard through his nose. Two hands slide under your backside again, helping to lift you up and down on his dick. 

“Alpha,” you whine loudly. Ultimate pleasure is coming like a rush, you’re teetering on the edge. This is a wholly new experience, wrapping up in his scent and skin and pleasure. For these moments the outside world fades away and you’re safe in the arms of a man who should do nothing but terrify you. 

You cum the instant his knot pops. It's the coming together of two bodies in perfect timing. You shudder against him, trembling while your cunt is still squeezing around his cock. One hand holds tight to the back of his neck, the other wrapping around his shoulders, not willing to let go of him or the moment. It’s hard to imagine that amidst all this sorrow and desperation you’re able to feel such intense pleasure. 

“Will you hold me for a moment longer?” you ask as your lips brush over his ear. 

Sam doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t let go. He sits with you in his lap until you’re the one to pull back and away. And when you lay down he curls around you from behind. You fall asleep surrounded by a man’s animal heat and the fragile idea that this space is a safe one. 

[ladywolfmd]

First, we'll live.

Summary: The North's King no more and the Queen who should've been are inside her chamber which he guards. He can't hear everything clearly, but the fool's white wolf beside him could. It wasn't that long ago that he stood guard over another queen's chamber and did nothing when he should've. He won't fail again.

Also on AO3.

“You’re hurting me,” they had heard Rhaella cry through the oaken door.

“We are sworn to protect her as well,” Jaime had finally been driven to say.

“We are,” Darry allowed, “But not from him.”

- Feast for Crows, Jaime

Jaime stood closer to the door he was guarding most nights than not.

Once again, he was a sworn knight to another.

Once more, he laid down his sword, his, life, and more vows.

Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard.

Shield to the Mad King Aerys Targaryen, who died by his sword.

Sword to the Usurper King Robert Baratheon, who died by his family's scheming.

Protector to King Joffrey Baratheon, who died by the Tyrell's protection for Queen Margaery.

Counsel to King Tommen Baratheon, who died by his own hand.

Partner and now traitor to Queen Cersei Lannister, who killed their love.

He laughed bitterly. Maybe Joff had the right of it when he read the Book of the Brothers that recounted half a page dedicated to his illustrious career as a kingsguard, ending with him being called Kingslayer which, now that he thought about it, was apt, since he'd outlived all kings he pledged to serve.

And also why he had to turn away from Cersei. As much as it pains him, he wouldn't want to be branded a Queenslayer too should it come down to it.

She'd let the realm bleed so long as she got what she wanted.

Burn them all.

As if fire was the answer to everything even after seeing what the bigger threat was. As much as he still loved Cersei, he didn't want to be witness to her self-destruction. He did not want to hold any part to her demise. He tried everything, tried every reason, and tactic, yet she was too consumed with grief and ambition.

I'm grieving too.

Yet here he was, right back where he started. Pledging to yet another cause, even after so many broken vows.

The clinking of armor and heavy footsteps broke his reverie and he was faced with the Hound. Another disgraced knight such as himself, and like him, pledged to the same person.

"Hound."

"Kingslayer."

Jaime pressed a finger to his lips. "Shhh. They must not be disturbed."

Sandor Clegane's expression turned even grimmer than when he walked in, knowing exactly what Jaime meant.

Jaime almost chuckled but bid Sandor to step back a little more in the hallway to talk quietly. "Brings back memories?"

Sandor just grumbled, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, obviously not pleased.

Oh.

Jaime realized then and almost threw his head back in laughter knowing exactly what Sandor felt.

"Do you remember the vows?"

"What fucking vows?"

Jaime straightened and puffed his chest mockingly. "The true knight's vows."

The Hound snorted and grinned crookedly. "Fuck the vows. There are no true knights."

Jaime chuckled and nodded. "True. But there are vows anyway. What was the first one?" He pretended to think. "Oh, I remember now. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."

He examined Sandor then. "You were brave until you saw the fire."

"Were you fucking brave when you let the Brienne of fucking Tarth, fuck your ass?" He shot back.

Jaime just shrugged. "Well we're brave enough to be here, choosing guard. Now what's the next one... "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."

At that both of them burst out laughing.

But then suddenly, Jaime swallowed before saying the next vow. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

Sandor pursed his lips then. But whatever for? Jaime recalled. He knew that among the Kingsguard, he was the only one who treated Sansa with kindness. And he protected Arya as well as he could too.

"Lastly, in the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women," he ended bitterly when he found out that Sansa Stark, the king's own betrothed, was being ordered stripped and beaten by the Kingsguards, by order of his son the king. He would never have allowed it if he was there.

Would he?

Both of them looked at the door they were both guarding tonight.

It belonged to Catelyn Stark's daughter - the redhaired one, Sansa Stark.

The Queen in the North in all but the name, reduced to being merely the Lady of Winterfell, he thought with indignation.

No matter what they said, Sansa Stark was his chosen queen.

If he was being completely honest, Sansa Stark would probably be the only person he would accept to call, the queen the whole fucking Westeros lost out on but it was just as well because the people don't deserve her as their queen.

While his...sister was blowing septs and the dragon queen was burning men and crops, while the fool of a King in the North was trying to gain both queen's favor, the Lady regent of the North that he left was busy preparing her people to survive the winter and keep the men loyal and in high morale.

Quite a difficult task for any person, but as he's come to observe since he rode to Winterfell, Sansa Stark has been managing quite well.

In fact, incredibly well that not a day comes to pass that a number of the Northern as well as Vale lords try to seek her favor and convince her to take the crown and usurp her dolt of a brother. And as expected, after Jaime helped her uncle, Edmure Tully, round up what was left of the Riverlands, they've pledged to her. Something the dragon queen did not take to well but had to tolerate as she'd tolerated the Vale who also granted Sansa regency until the Lord Paramount of the East, her cousin, Robin Aryn comes of age.

It took a joint effort of Tyrion and Varys to convince the queen not to get in the way since both kingdoms were tied by Tully blood to Sansa Stark, saying that it wouldn't do to insult her since the North already clearly preferred her over the bastard they crowned. Saying that by right of blood alone, Sansa practically held three kingdoms. Four if you counted what's left of the Reach since, while Samwell Tarly the now heir to the Reach, did not take too kindly of the dragon queen burning his brother. If the cards were really rolling, Jaime would bet the Iron born turncloak, Theon Greyjoy, would pledge their fleet to her as well. So no, it wouldn't do her any favors, only bring her more ashes and corpses, if she insults Sansa Stark. Better to gamble on Sansa Stark's unwavering loyalty to her brother to keep the peace. Better to let the people follow her for so long as Sansa Stark refuses the crown, choosing instead to continue following the fucking dolt the North has crowned instead of her in the first place. Jaime's heard all the reports of what happened when they've reclaimed Winterfell.

She could be queen.

She should've been crowned queen in the north from the beginning since they retook Winterfell.

But they couldn't get past the accusation of her being a suspected Kingslayer, and being married to two of her family's traitors. How hypocritical. Jaime thought as the insults felt like ashes in his mouth and filled his chest with fury and sympathy for the young woman he now swore to protect - for life he added.

Sansa Stark should've been crowned as the queen of the fucking North.

But she wasn't.

And the reason she wasn't, was inside her chambers with her.

Jon Snow.

The King in the North no more.

The second king who knelt.

Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

He didn't understand at all why Sansa refused the crown before. It  made the most sense for her to take it as it was clear in the Dragonpit meeting that even Daenerys Targaryen, who already affirmed a truce until the threat in the North was eliminated, did not expect Jon Snow to publicly announce his fealty to her. Maybe even not demanding anymore that he bend the knee after seeing the threat. Daenerys Targaryen was going to North anyway to maybe avenge her fallen dragon (In this, Cersei was right to suspect), to act the benevolent savior, or maybe it was more of her acting on her longing looks towards the northern fool. No, Jon Snow did not need to bend the knee.

From that betrayal alone and add the memory of Robb Stark's demise, Sansa had every right to be the queen. She's the one whose doing all the work for many moons already and has the head and heart for it. Her people not only respect her, they loved her.

But, to his vexation, Sansa loved Jon Snow more.

Jon Snow.

The only source of pain Jaime could not shield his chosen Queen from.

It only took one shared look between them when Jon arrived with the Dragon Queen's retinue.

One look was enough for him to understand where the main fault of both the Lady of Winterfell and the Lord of Winterfell stemmed.

It was a look he and Cersei shared not that long ago. The only difference was, these two never acted on those feelings.

Duty over love as was insufferably the Stark way.  

"Has the cunt been there for long?" Sandor's gruff voice spat out.

Jaime smirked at him. "Not that long. You just missed him by oh say, a yard's walk?"

"I trust you made it hard for that shite to enter."

"I only let him pass because she ordered me too."

Just then, the blasted white beast crept over and stood sigil in front of the door as well, dropping its large head on its paws while its red eyes were watching them carefully.

Sandor gave a frustrated snort before kicking himself away from the wall. "S'too fucking crowded. Call me if you can't kill him."

Ghost, he recalled he was called. Ghost growled quietly while looking at Sandor who just smirked. "You're not fooling me, wolf. We all know who you're actually loyal too. I'm not a threat to her."

Ghost merely dropped his head back on its paws making Jaime chuckle, not even bothering to watch Sandor walk away, knowing he'll be back later.

Jaime walked back to the door and stood beside Ghost who was, by now, accustomed to him.

Carefully, he removed his glove, using his teeth to find purchase, before scratching behind the wolf's ears. "I'm so glad a direwolf likes me. I remember being on the other end of that far too vividly. Oh yes, your brother was quite ferocious. Almost shit myself to be honest."

The wolf didn't make a sound or move but Jaime knew that it tolerated him well enough. "You belong to her now, don't you?"

Ghost looked up at him then and Jaime smirked. "We all belong to her now." He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

Ghost blinked then closed his eyes.

"Traitor. You were supposed to be first watch!"

The wolf was snoring already and Jaime shook his head, straightening as he stood to take his position by the door again.

He couldn't hear what they were saying...or doing clearly. The two of them were more cautious than that and they knew he was here on guard.

But he had an idea on what it was about.

Jon would ride for war in the morning.

But his other war would end tonight.

After Jon talked with Bran, Bran called for his sisters while Jon left in a snow storm of emotions to wherever he went to brood.

Afterwards, when he was walking Sansa to her chambers, he saw her control slipping more and more, her eyes, blinking more than usual while her hands wrenched against each other, and she was unusually quiet.

That's why instead of closing the door behind her, he went inside and closed the door after him and gave her a look.

"What is it?"

Sansa sat down then and held her hands in her lap and said nothing but the way she held herself so tightly, fighting tears alarmed him.

She was starting to feel better!

Jaime knelt in front of her then and used the tip of his finger to raise her chin up to him and was startled from the way her eyes looked even more achingly haunting with tears.

"What is it? Sansa, you can tell me. I swear I won't say a word," he promised.

Sansa swallowed and debated before finally leaning her head against his chest. Jaime didn't move closer as he would've wanted, but he needed Sansa to trust him. So he settled for placing his hand on the back of her head and kept still, waiting, thinking what this could possibly be about this time.

"J-Jaime," she muttered.

"Yes, Sansa?"

"He's not - he's not," she cried some more and trembled.

He started stroking her hair then. "Take your time."

He felt Sansa grip his jerkin then but kept her face down. "Jon is not my brother."

She finally said.

It took some time before the full implication and effect of the words hit him.

The fucking bastard, was going to get everything he wanted. Was his initial thought and brought a bad taste in his mouth. And then he realized that Sansa was still crying. Why?

Shouldn't she feel relieved?

Jaime was.

He was happy that Sansa wasn't...ill in thought and feelings. The more that he thought about it, the more he was happy for her sake.

Not that he immediately thought this meant Sansa and the dolt could now be.

It was more because now she wouldn't torture herself with feeling so dirty and wrong with her feelings.

"Darling girl, why the tears? Seems I'm the only one with the affliction after all," he tried.

Sansa looked up at him then. "I am relieved but this is more than that. This is more than us..."

And then she told him everything.

And just so, his initial thought was still there. Bastard was going to get everything.

And sadly he thought, now where would this leave me?

But before he could ask, a knock at the door interrupted them. And just so, with Sansa's permission, Jaime stood guard outside, as Jon Snow and Sansa Stark were going to talk in his lady's chambers.

He could hear muffled voices, sometimes raised, sometimes, even legible from where he was standing.

"You don't understand!"

"What does

----mean?"

"Mean for what?"

"----them?"

"us...?"

Jaime was then reminded of memories he didn't particularly like to dwell on. One of him guarding the Queen's chambers as well while the King took his pleasure... at the cost of the queen's pain.

Pain he couldn't protect her from.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen would always be his one greatest failure as a knight.

A guilt he carried that was the only reason he was giving her daughter, Daenerys Targaryen some benefit of a doubt. But he's killed a Mad Targaryen before, a failure to his vows as they called him Kingslayer but it was an act he would never regret.

And now his chosen queen was with the king she chose - a king who repeatedly hurt her, not physically, but there were other things that could cut sharper than swords. He pressed closer then, his sword at the ready.

He doesn't care what this would cost him.

Sansa Stark was his last chance for honor, and was the only bright and sensible thing in the fucked up world. He tried his best to shield her from these feelings lest they ruin her as they ruined him and Cersei by proving as a friend, or at the least, a distraction.

The world needed someone like Sansa Stark to bring order to chaos. He would do all to keep her alive.

And just like all of her people, he'd come to love his queen too, though he doesn't know how to fully label that love. Admiration? Paternal? Platonic?

More?

Sansa Stark was ridiculously easy to admire. The rest follows just as easily. Her smiles were few but they were victories. And he so delighted to drive Jon Snow mad with jealousy while he brought his affections to the young Lady of Winterfell in full view of the Dolt in the North.

Rejoicing in making her laugh even at his expense, just so it could distract her from her own carefully concealed jealousy of the Dragon Queen's presence.

So he'd listen. He'd wait. At the sign of any line crossing, he'd run his sword through the King who Knelt.

He hated not knowing what was going on. Sansa was vulnerable.

Jon was vulnerable.

Was this really the best time for this?

He looked down at the wolf who was sleeping soundly. This wolf was more sensitive to his mistress. At least he'll be able to tell...

Still he pressed his ear against the door, closed his eyes, and strained to listen.

"What...going to do -Jon?"

"What d... you think....do?"

"...Sansa?"

...

"Please?"

"Now? Now you're asking me now?"

"Yes."

A frustrated breath.

"I am lost," some rustling is heard, a weight dropped against the floor.

Sobbing.

Another rustle of garments - her heavy skirts probably, and the clink of chains.

"No one has to know."

A pained cry and a sucked in breath.

"But what about-

Jaime shut his eyes tight and concentrated now.

"But what? But nothing Jon--

"Sansa--you know what."

A sigh.

"It's not wise." Jaime could just imagine her shaking her head sadly but firmly.

"Jon, it's not wise," she said more firmly. He heard her walking heavily away a few paces.

"I'm tired of everything!" Jon shouted in frustration.

"Everything?"

...

"Yes."

"You have to be more specific."

"The games...fighting....but most of all, I'm tired of pretending."

...

Silence. Jaime couldn't hear anything. No movement, no voices. He assume they were staring at each other at this point until he heard Sansa's voice.

"Pretending? Pretending to be what? Your queen's lover?"

A growl and a gasp was heard and stomping approach that Jaime held the pommel, his elbow ready to shove the door open.

"Pretending I don't have feelings for you."

A muffled sound almost strangled almost made Jaime kick the door down.

No men can just take from her what they will. Jaime gritted his teeth.

But a shove and a slap was what he heard then that made him pause.

Followed by an apology.

"I'm sorry I -

"Don't be sorry, Sansa. I deserved that."

More silence.

"Jon, we can't..."

"What do you mean we can't? The only good this revelation revealed is this!"

A sigh.

"I meant now...not yet. Now is not the right time."

"But this could secure -

"Oh so it's back to duty then Jon? Use duty as an excuse again? Another political marriage, Jon?"

"I didn't mean--I didn't think--

"No, you didn't think."

Another tired sigh. "You think I haven't thought of that possibility? Jon, I want it more that you can know, it's true. I do. I do want it. Not... because of duty. But there's no time. You leave tomorrow. You battle tomorrow. Bringing this out now would only cause more unrest among the unified armies we fought so hard to unite."

"And Jon?"

"Sansa?"

"...think of your queen."

...

A groan. "You're right. You're always right."

"Thank you."

Laughter.

Jaime relaxed a little then. Sansa was right. If they reveal it now at the eve of battle, it would cause an outrage over the northmen, and another bigger one from the Targaryen side now that there was another claimant to the throne.

"I love you. It's always been you. Everything I did, it was for you. I thought you should know that."

A sigh. "I do know that Jon. At least, I do now."

"Do you love me?"

"Oh Jon, if you have to ask..."

A muffled moan and Jaime knew their mouths have met again.

Jaime wanted to sigh, feeling a bit bittersweet. He hated this but he also wanted for Sansa to get everything she wanted. And if she wanted this stupid bastard, he won't stand in her way.

Unless he absolutely needed to that is, he smiled wryly.

We should all take what happiness is thrown our way in this miserable world.

"I love you Jon."

"Ah that feels so nice to hear."

"Jon?"

"Yes, my love?"

"We still can't...at least not now."

A drawn out sigh. "Then I just have to come back."

"Why do you say it that way as if you've planned on not coming back?"

"I thought...forget it."

"What? Jon?"

"Don't get me wrong. I would do my damnedest to make sure you are all safe. I'll gladly give my life if need be but not before making sure you are out of harm's way."

"You mean to die in the battle field and abandon me again in your ridiculous notion of protecting me. I told you to stop trying!"

"That was before I thought I had nothing waiting for me back here!"

A sucked in breath.

"You are going to be the best ruler Winterfell has ever had. And you have enough support to keep it. Men have been pledging left and right to you. You will not lack of people wanting to protect you - besides - " he paused.

"Besides what?"

"Nothing."

"Besides what, Jon?"

"You have your sworn shield."

"You mean, oh, Jon. You mean Ser Jaime?" she said in a lower voice probably remembering that he was out there.

Jaime stiffened then both wanting and not wanting to hear further.

"He loves you."

"Wha-

"Sansa, come on. That man is in love with you. So is the Hound. And Lord Tyrion is fond of you. I don't blame them. Who wouldn't love you?"

"Jon this is-

"Ridiculous? Sansa. Even if I am gone, you will not lack love."

"But its your love despite giving me the most agony, what I want."

"Sansa--"

"I hate you because I can't hate you. I loathe you because with you there's always nothing to forgive even though I'm smarter than - than this. Even though I know better. But you can't choose who you love, can you? And the gods have cursed me to love you, you stupid fool."

"You...tear...me...apart... it's true," she whispered that Jaime barely heard it. "But your love is the only thing that can make me whole."

"You - you shouldn't love me that much. I don't deserve -

"No, you don't deserve me. You never listen to me. You never consult me. You do foolish things you claim out of love for me. But I love you anyway - Jon I--

She stopped and Jaime knew she was in Jon's arms.

"I'm so so sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you but I'll say it again, everything I've done - I was always thinking about you. And I won't be sorry for that.  I won't be sorry for putting your safety first. I don't care if you don't forgive me. Or even hate me."

Sansa scoffed. "You're not listening again. I told you...there's nothing to forgive."

"Sansa."

"Jon."

"I will come back to you. I swear it. And I will make this right. And I' won't go back to pretending anymore. I'd take the damn chair if it comes to that. I will come back to you."

"Don't promise."

"I have to."

"Jon."

"Sansa."

"Fine."

"But should I fall, which won't happen, Sansa, I won't be the only man who can put you back together. You don't even need a man to do that. You are capable of doing that yourself. And Sansa?"

"Yes Jon?"

"Lots of things tear me apart. But only you make everything worth it. Only you."

"Jon...Just...just do your best to come back."

"I will. And after this war is over...?" he trailed in question.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Jon."

...

"What do we do now?"

"What do you want to do?

"What was it that you told me your wildling lover used to say to you? We can all die tomorrow."

"But first we'll live."

"Then let's live."

...

"Sans - are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

At this point, Jaime stepped away from the door, his mouth a straight line as he heard the new sounds that were coming from inside.

Jaime sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his mind having a war of its own.

"Well bugger you, they're going to fuck, aren't they?"

Jaime smirked at the Hound and raised a brow.

"Yes, yes, I think they will."

The Hound looked disgusted. "She let him off too easy."

Jaime just sighed and shrugged before crossing his arms against his chest. "It's what she wants."

The Hound leant against the wall opposite him and grumbled. "Aye, that's what the little bird wants."

"He said he doesn't deserve her."

"Har! No one deserves her," Sandor scoffed.

"He also said you were in love with her."

Sandor grinned wickedly at him. "I bet the fucker told her Jaime fucking Lannister is in love with her too."

Jaime chuckled. "He did."

"Do you?"

Jaime shrugged. "Maybe?" Jaime was honestly not sure. There was something there, he can acknowledge potential, because there really was. But he didn't ride for Winterfell to fall in love and live happily ever after.

"Well, at  least there's one more cunt to wish the bastard shit himself tomorrow."

Jaime's shoulders shook as he laughed quietly. "Perhaps."

Ghost stirred and eyed them both.

Jaime crouched down and petted his head."Don't worry boy, I don't believe your master will die. Only your mistress is allowed to kill him."

The Hound cackled while Ghost shut his eyes again after opening its mouth to yawn and lick at his teeth.

Jaime had a vow to uphold, an honor to restore. Guarding Sansa and ensuring her happiness would be enough to make him die a happy man. He's seen too much of this world than nurse another heart ache. There were many other kinds of love that he could give her. After all, he was deprived of other kinds of love as well, like being a father or being a woman's friend, a subject who loves his liege.

But for now, a loving Queensguard would do.

So he stood up straight, got back to position, and guarded a Queen that was finally worth guarding.

He could still remember finding her after her sister, Arya pointed out that she didn't need a shield, pushing him towards her sister in the Godswood, where he knelt in front of her and made another vow.

"Lady Sansa, allow me to fulfill my vow to your mother and allow me to make a new vow to you too. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

She could've had him executed on site - her sister was watching, or banished. But Sansa Stark, who kept counsel with the right people, trusted Brienne at her word and accepted him without question and without falter.

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise, Ser Jaime."

[readbookywooks]

Eddard

I stood last vigil for him myself," Ser Barristan Selmy said as they looked down at the body in the back of the cart. "He had no one else. A mother in the Vale, I am told." In the pale dawn light, the young knight looked as though he were sleeping. He had not been handsome, but death had smoothed his rough-hewn features and the silent sisters had dressed him in his best velvet tunic, with a high collar to cover the ruin the lance had made of his throat. Eddard Stark looked at his face, and wondered if it had been for his sake that the boy had died. Slain by a Lannister bannerman before Ned could speak to him; could that be mere happenstance? He supposed he would never know. "Hugh was Jon Arryn's squire for four years," Selmy went on. "The king knighted him before he rode north, in Jon's memory. The lad wanted it desperately, yet I fear he was not ready." Ned had slept badly last night and he felt tired beyond his years. "None of us is ever ready," he said. "For knighthood?" "For death." Gently Ned covered the boy with his cloak, a bloodstained bit of blue bordered in crescent moons. When his mother asked why her son was dead, he reflected bitterly, they would tell her he had fought to honor the King's Hand, Eddard Stark. "This was needless. War should not be a game." Ned turned to the woman beside the cart, shrouded in grey, face hidden but for her eyes. The silent sisters prepared men for the grave, and it was ill fortune to look on the face of death. "Send his armor home to the Vale. The mother will want to have it." "It is worth a fair piece of silver," Ser Barristan said. "The boy had it forged special for the tourney. Plain work, but good. I do not know if he had finished paying the smith." "He paid yesterday, my lord, and he paid dearly," Ned replied. And to the silent sister he said, "Send the mother the armor. I will deal with this smith." She bowed her head. Afterward Ser Barristan walked with Ned to the king's pavilion. The camp was beginning to stir. Fat sausages sizzled and spit over firepits, spicing the air with the scents of garlic and pepper. Young squires hurried about on errands as their masters woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the day. A serving man with a goose under his arm bent his knee when he caught sight of them. "M'lords," he muttered as the goose honked and pecked at his fingers. The shields displayed outside each tent heralded its occupant: the silver eagle of Seagard, Bryce Caron's field of nightingales, a cluster of grapes for the Redwynes, brindled boar, red ox, burning tree, white ram, triple spiral, purple unicorn, dancing maiden, blackadder, twin towers, horned owl, and last the pure white blazons of the Kingsguard, shining like the dawn. "The king means to fight in the melee today," Ser Barristan said as they were passing Ser Meryn's shield, its paint sullied by a deep gash where Loras Tyrell's lance had scarred the wood as he drove him from his saddle. "Yes," Ned said grimly. Jory had woken him last night to bring him that news. Small wonder he had slept so badly. Ser Barristan's look was troubled. "They say night's beauties fade at dawn, and the children of wine are oft disowned in the morning light." "They say so," Ned agreed, "but not of Robert." Other men might reconsider words spoken in drunken bravado, but Robert Baratheon would remember and, remembering, would never back down. The king's pavilion was close by the water, and the morning mists off the river had wreathed it in wisps of grey. It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, Robert's warhammer was displayed beside an immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Ned had hoped to discover the king still abed in a wine-soaked sleep, but luck was not with him. They found Robert drinking beer from a polished horn and roaring his displeasure at two young squires who were trying to buckle him into his armor. "Your Grace," one was saying, almost in tears, "it's made too small, it won't go." He fumbled, and the gorget he was trying to fit around Robert's thick neck tumbled to the ground. "Seven hells!" Robert swore. "Do I have to do it myself? Piss on the both of you. Pick it up. Don't just stand there gaping, Lancel, pick it up!" The lad jumped, and the king noticed his company. "Look at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squire for me, and they're worse than useless. Can't even put a man's armor on him properly. Squires, they say. I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk." Ned only needed a glance to understand the difficulty. "The boys are not at fault," he told the king. "You're too fat for your armor, Robert." Robert Baratheon took a long swallow of beer, tossed the empty horn onto his sleeping furs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said darkly, "Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your king?" He let go his laughter, sudden as a storm. "Ah, damn you, Ned, why are you always right?" The squires smiled nervously until the king turned on them. "You. Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand. The king is too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Aron Santagar. Tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now! What are you waiting for?" The boys tripped over each other in their haste to be quit of the tent. Robert managed to keep a stern face until they were gone. Then he dropped back into a chair, shaking with laughter. Ser Barristan Selmy chuckled with him. Even Eddard Stark managed a smile. Always, though, the graver thoughts crept in. He could not help taking note of the two squires: handsome boys, fair and well made. One was Sansa's age, with long golden curls; the other perhaps fifteen, sandy-haired, with a wisp of a mustache and the emerald-green eyes of the queen. "Ah, I wish I could be there to see Santagar's face," Robert said. "I hope he'll have the wit to send them to someone else. We ought to keep them running all day!" "Those boys," Ned asked him. "Lannisters?" Robert nodded, wiping tears from his eyes. "Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin's brother. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one, now that I come to think on it. I don't recall. My wife comes from a very large family, Ned." A very ambitious family, Ned thought. He had nothing against the squires, but it troubled him to see Robert surrounded by the queen's kin, waking and sleeping. The Lannister appetite for offices and honors seemed to know no bounds. "The talk is you and the queen had angry words last night." The mirth curdled on Robert's face. "The woman tried to forbid me to fight in the melee. She's sulking in the castle now, damn her. Your sister would never have shamed me like that." "You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert," Ned told him. "You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee." "You too?" The king frowned. "You are a sour man, Stark. Too long in the north, all the juices have frozen inside you. Well, mine are still running." He slapped his chest to prove it. "You are the king," Ned reminded him. "I sit on the damn iron seat when I must. Does that mean I don't have the same hungers as other men? A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feel of a horse between my legs? Seven hells, Ned, I want to hit someone." Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up. "Your Grace," he said, "it is not seemly that the king should ride into the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare strike you?" Robert seemed honestly taken aback. "Why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last man left standing . . . " " . . . will be you," Ned finished. He saw at once that Selmy had hit the mark. The dangers of the melee were only a savor to Robert, but this touched on his pride. "Ser Barristan is right. There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you." The king rose to his feet, his face flushed. "Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?" "For a certainty," Ned said, and Ser Barristan Selmy bowed his head in silent accord. For a moment Robert was so angry he could not speak. He strode across the tent, whirled, strode back, his face dark and angry. He snatched up his breastplate from the ground and threw it at Barristan Selmy in a wordless fury. Selmy dodged. "Get out," the king said then, coldly. "Get out before I kill you." Ser Barristan left quickly. Ned was about to follow when the king called out again. "Not you, Ned." Ned turned back. Robert took up his horn again, filled it with beer from a barrel in the corner, and thrust it at Ned. "Drink," he said brusquely. "I've no thirst—" "Drink. Your king commands it." Ned took the horn and drank. The beer was black and thick, so strong it stung the eyes. 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." "You had the better claim, Your Grace." "I told you to drink, not to argue. You made me king, you could at least have the courtesy to listen when I talk, damn you. Look at me, Ned. Look at what kinging has done to me. Gods, too fat for my armor, how did it ever come to this?" "Robert . . . " "Drink and stay quiet, the king is talking. I swear to you, I was never so alive as when I was winning this throne, or so dead as now that I've won it. And Cersei . . . I have Jon Arryn to thank for her. I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir. Cersei Lannister would be a good match, he told me, she would bind Lord Tywin to me should Viserys Targaryen ever try to win back his father's throne." The king shook his head. "I loved that old man, I swear it, but now I think he was a bigger fool than Moon Boy. Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at, truly, but cold . . . the way she guards her cunt, you'd think she had all the gold of Casterly Rock between her legs. Here, give me that beer if you won't drink it." He took the horn, upended it, belched, wiped his mouth. "I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, I'd stake my soul on it. My son . . . you love your children, don't you?" "With all my heart," Ned said. "Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?" "He's only a boy," Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Robert's voice. "Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?" "It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You don't know him as I do." He sighed and shook his head. "Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king." Robert looked at Ned and scowled at his silence. "You might speak up and agree now, you know." "Your Grace . . . " Ned began, carefully. Robert slapped Ned on the back. "Ah, say that I'm a better king than Aerys and be done with it. You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark. I'm still young, and now that you're here with me, things will be different. We'll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells. I smell bacon. Who do you think our champion will be today? Have you seen Mace Tyrell's boy? The Knight of Flowers, they call him. Now there's a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney, he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cersei's face. I laughed till my sides hurt. Renly says he has this sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn . . . " They broke their fast on black bread and boiled goose eggs and fish fried up with onions and bacon, at a trestle table by the river's edge. The king's melancholy melted away with the morning mist, and before long Robert was eating an orange and waxing fond about a morning at the Eyrie when they had been boys. " . . . had given Jon a barrel of oranges, remember? Only the things had gone rotten, so I flung mine across the table and hit Dacks right in the nose. You remember, Redfort's pock-faced squire? He tossed one back at me, and before Jon could so much as fart, there were oranges flying across the High Hall in every direction." He laughed uproariously, and even Ned smiled, remembering. This was the boy he had grown up with, he thought; this was the Robert Baratheon he'd known and loved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if Lord Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly. That breakfast tasted better than anything Eddard Stark had eaten in a long time, and afterward his smiles came easier and more often, until it was time for the tournament to resume. Ned walked with the king to the jousting field. He had promised to watch the final tilts with Sansa; Septa Mordane was ill today, and his daughter was determined not to miss the end of the jousting. As he saw Robert to his place, he noted that Cersei Lannister had chosen not to appear; the place beside the king was empty. That too gave Ned cause to hope. He shouldered his way to where his daughter was seated and found her as the horns blew for the day's first joust. Sansa was so engrossed she scarcely seemed to notice his arrival. Sandor Clegane was the first rider to appear. He wore an olive- green cloak over his soot-grey armor. That, and his hound's-head helm, were his only concession to ornament. "A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced loudly as Jaime Lannister entered the lists, riding an elegant blood bay destrier. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail, and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles. "Done," Lord Renly shouted back. "The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning." "Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them," Littlefinger called dryly. Sandor Clegane dropped his visor with an audible clang and took up his position. Ser Jaime tossed a kiss to some woman in the commons, gently lowered his visor, and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances. Ned Stark would have loved nothing so well as to see them both lose, but Sansa was watching it all moist-eyed and eager. The hastily erected gallery trembled as the horses broke into a gallop. The Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Clegane's point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, while his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Hound reeled, fighting to keep his seat. Sansa gasped. A ragged cheer went up from the commons. "I wonder how I ought spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Lord Renly. The Hound just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his mount around hard and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a fresh one, jesting with his squire. The Hound spurred forward at a hard gallop. Lannister rode to meet him. This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Sandor Clegane shifted with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented. Sansa said, "I knew the Hound would win." Littlefinger overheard. "If you know who's going to win the second match, speak up now before Lord Renly plucks me clean," he called to her. Ned smiled. "A pity the Imp is not here with us," Lord Renly said. "I should have won twice as much." Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Ned could hear King Robert laughing, louder than anyone. Finally they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling. By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle. Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his own lands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when King's Landing fell, a new-made knight of seventeen years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable ferocity. Some said it had been Gregor who'd dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. These things were not said in Gregor's hearing. Ned Stark could not recall ever speaking to the man, though Gregor had ridden with them during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, one knight among thousands. He watched him with disquiet. Ned seldom put much stock in gossip, but the things said of Ser Gregor were more than ominous. He was soon to be married for the third time, and one heard dark whisperings about the deaths of his first two wives. It was said that his keep was a grim place where servants disappeared unaccountably and even the dogs were afraid to enter the hall. And there had been a sister who had died young under queer circumstances, and the fire that had disfigured his brother, and the hunting accident that had killed their father. Gregor had inherited the keep, the gold, and the family estates. His younger brother Sandor had left the same day to take service with the Lannisters as a sworn sword, and it was said that he had never returned, not even to visit. When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and he heard Sansa's fervent whisper, "Oh, he's so beautiful." Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Ned that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boy's shoulders his cloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape. His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor's huge stallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Sansa clutched at his arm. "Father, don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday. Jory had told him about that as well. "These are tourney lances," he told his daughter. "They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt." Yet he remembered the dead boy in the cart with his cloak of crescent moons, and the words were raw in his throat. Ser Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked at the animal savagely with an armored boot. The horse reared and almost threw him. The Knight of Flowers saluted the king, rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready. Ser Gregor brought his animal to the line, fighting with the reins. And suddenly it began. The Mountain's stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Loras Tyrell was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and in an eye blink the Mountain was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh. Ned heard applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, excited muttering, and over it all the rasping, raucous laughter of the Hound. The Knight of Flowers reined up at the end of the lists. His lance was not even broken. His sapphires winked in the sun as he raised his visor, smiling. The commons went mad for him. In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and his hair fell down into his eyes. "My sword," he shouted to his squire, and the boy ran it out to him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well. Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. "Stop him!" Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying. It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt. But as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned, "Leave him be," and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy. The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a killing arc with all his massive strength behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. Thrice Ned saw Ser Gregor aim savage blows at the hound's-head helmet, yet not once did Sandor send a cut at his brother's unprotected face. It was the king's voice that put an end to it . . . the king's voice and twenty swords. Jon Arryn had told them that a commander needs a good battlefield voice, and Robert had proved the truth of that on the Trident. He used that voice now. "STOP THIS MADNESS," he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregor's blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy. "Let him go," Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over. "Is the Hound the champion now?" Sansa asked Ned. "No," he told her. "There will be one final joust, between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers." But Sansa had the right of it after all. A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field in a simple linen doublet and said to Sandor Clegane, "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser." "I am no ser," the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the champion's purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons. They cheered him as he left the lists to return to his pavilion. As Ned walked with Sansa to the archery field, Littlefinger and Lord Renly and some of the others fell in with them. "Tyrell had to know the mare was in heat," Littlefinger was saying. "I swear the boy planned the whole thing. Gregor has always favored huge, ill-tempered stallions with more spirit than sense." The notion seemed to amuse him. It did not amuse Ser Barristan Selmy. "There is small honor in tricks," the old man said stiffly. "Small honor and twenty thousand golds." Lord Renly smiled. That afternoon a boy named Anguy, an unheralded commoner from the Dornish Marches, won the archery competition, outshooting Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces after all the other bowmen had been eliminated at the shorter distances. Ned sent Alyn to seek him out and offer him a position with the Hand's guard, but the boy was flush with wine and victory and riches undreamed of, and he refused. The melee went on for three hours. Near forty men took part, freeriders and hedge knights and new-made squires in search of a reputation. They fought with blunted weapons in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing. The victor was the red priest, Thoros of Myr, a madman who shaved his head and fought with a flaming sword. He had won melees before; the fire sword frightened the mounts of the other riders, and nothing frightened Thoros. The final tally was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a dozen smashed fingers, two horses that had to be put down, and more cuts, sprains, and bruises than anyone cared to count. Ned was desperately pleased that Robert had not taken part. That night at the feast, Eddard Stark was more hopeful than he had been in a great while. Robert was in high good humor, the Lannisters were nowhere to be seen, and even his daughters were behaving. Jory brought Arya down to join them, and Sansa spoke to her sister pleasantly. "The tournament was magnificent," she sighed. "You should have come. How was your dancing?" "I'm sore all over," Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg. "You must be a terrible dancer," Sansa said doubtfully. Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Ned inspected the bruise himself. "I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said. Arya stood on one leg. She was getting much better at that of late. "Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better." Ned frowned. The man Syrio Forel had come with an excellent reputation, and his flamboyant Braavosi style was well suited to Arya's slender blade, yet still . . . a few days ago, she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spins and back flips. "Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?" She nodded. "Tomorrow we're going to catch cats." "Cats." Ned sighed. "Perhaps it was a mistake to hire this Braavosi. If you like, I will ask Jory to take over your lessons. Or I might have a quiet word with Ser Barristan. He was the finest sword in the Seven Kingdoms in his youth." "I don't want them," Arya said. "I want Syrio." Ned ran his fingers through his hair. Any decent master-at-arms could give Arya the rudiments of slash-and-parry without this nonsense of blindfolds, cartwheels, and hopping about on one leg, but he knew his youngest daughter well enough to know there was no arguing with that stubborn jut of jaw. "As you wish," he said. Surely she would grow tired of this soon. "Try to be careful." "I will," she promised solemnly as she hopped smoothly from her right leg to her left. Much later, after he had taken the girls back through the city and seen them both safe in bed, Sansa with her dreams and Arya with her bruises, Ned ascended to his own chambers atop the Tower of the Hand. The day had been warm and the room was close and stuffy. Ned went to the window and unfastened the heavy shutters to let in the cool night air. Across the Great Yard, he noticed the flickering glow of candlelight from Littlefinger's windows. The hour was well past midnight. Down by the river, the revels were only now beginning to dwindle and die. He took out the dagger and studied it. Littlefinger's blade, won by Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager, sent to slay Bran in his sleep. Why? Why would the dwarf want Bran dead? Why would anyone want Bran dead? The dagger, Bran's fall, all of it was linked somehow to the murder of Jon Arryn, he could feel it in his gut, but the truth of Jon's death remained as clouded to him as when he had started. Lord Stannis had not returned to King's Landing for the tourney. Lysa Arryn held her silence behind the high walls of the Eyrie. The squire was dead, and Jory was still searching the whorehouses. What did he have but Robert's bastard? That the armorer's sullen apprentice was the king's son, Ned had no doubt. The Baratheon look was stamped on his face, in his jaw, his eyes, that black hair. Renly was too young to have fathered a boy of that age, Stannis too cold and proud in his honor. Gendry had to be Robert's. Yet knowing all that, what had he learned? The king had other baseborn children scattered throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He had openly acknowledged one of his bastards, a boy of Bran's age whose mother was highborn. The lad was being fostered by Lord Renly's castellan at Storm's End. Ned remembered Robert's first child as well, a daughter born in the Vale when Robert was scarcely more than a boy himself. A sweet little girl; the young lord of Storm's End had doted on her. He used to make daily visits to play with the babe, long after he had lost interest in the mother. Ned was often dragged along for company, whether he willed it or not. The girl would be seventeen or eighteen now, he realized; older than Robert had been when he fathered her. A strange thought. 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 . . . His musings were ended by a soft rap on his door. "A man to see you, my lord," Harwin called. "He will not give his name." "Send him in," Ned said, wondering. The visitor was a stout man in cracked, mud-caked boots and a heavy brown robe of the coarsest roughspun, his features hidden by a cowl, his hands drawn up into voluminous sleeves. "Who are you?" Ned asked. "A friend," the cowled man said in a strange, low voice. "We must speak alone, Lord Stark." Curiosity was stronger than caution. "Harwin, leave us," he commanded. Not until they were alone behind closed doors did his visitor draw back his cowl. "Lord Varys?" Ned said in astonishment. "Lord Stark," Varys said politely, seating himself. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a drink?" Ned filled two cups with summerwine and handed one to Varys. "I might have passed within a foot of you and never recognized you," he said, incredulous. He had never seen the eunuch dress in anything but silk and velvet and the richest damasks, and this man smelled of sweat instead of lilacs. "That was my dearest hope," Varys said. "It would not do if certain people learned that we had spoken in private. The queen watches you closely. This wine is very choice. Thank you." "How did you get past my other guards?" Ned asked. Porther and Cayn had been posted outside the tower, and Alyn on the stairs. "The Red Keep has ways known only to ghosts and spiders." Varys smiled apologetically. "I will not keep you long, my lord. There are things you must know. You are the King's Hand, and the king is a fool." The eunuch's cloying tones were gone; now his voice was thin and sharp as a whip. "Your friend, I know, yet a fool nonetheless . . . and doomed, unless you save him. Today was a near thing. They had hoped to kill him during the melee." For a moment Ned was speechless with shock. "Who?" Varys sipped his wine. "If I truly need to tell you that, you are a bigger fool than Robert and I am on the wrong side." "The Lannisters," Ned said. "The queen . . . no, I will not believe that, not even of Cersei. She asked him not to fight!" "She forbade him to fight, in front of his brother, his knights, and half the court. Tell me truly, do you know any surer way to force King Robert into the melee? I ask you." Ned had a sick feeling in his gut. The eunuch had hit upon a truth; tell Robert Baratheon he could not, should not, or must not do a thing, and it was as good as done. "Even if he'd fought, who would have dared to strike the king?" Varys shrugged. "There were forty riders in the melee. The Lannisters have many friends. Amidst all that chaos, with horses screaming and bones breaking and Thoros of Myr waving that absurd firesword of his, who could name it murder if some chance blow felled His Grace?" He went to the flagon and refilled his cup. "After the deed was done, the slayer would be beside himself with grief. I can almost hear him weeping. So sad. Yet no doubt the gracious and compassionate widow would take pity, lift the poor unfortunate to his feet, and bless him with a gentle kiss of forgiveness. Good King Joffrey would have no choice but to pardon him." The eunuch stroked his cheek. "Or perhaps Cersei would let Ser Ilyn strike off his head. Less risk for the Lannisters that way, though quite an unpleasant surprise for their little friend." Ned felt his anger rise. "You knew of this plot, and yet you did nothing." "I command whisperers, not warriors." "You might have come to me earlier." "Oh, yes, I confess it. And you would have rushed straight to the king, yes? And when Robert heard of his peril, what would he have done? I wonder." Ned considered that. "He would have damned them all, and fought anyway, to show he did not fear them." Varys spread his hands. "I will make another confession, Lord Eddard. I was curious to see what you would do. Why not come to me? you ask, and I must answer, Why, because I did not trust you, my lord." "You did not trust me?" Ned was frankly astonished. "The Red Keep shelters two sorts of people, Lord Eddard," Varys said. "Those who are loyal to the realm, and those who are loyal only to themselves. Until this morning, I could not say which you might be . . . so I waited to see . . . and now I know, for a certainty." He smiled a plump tight little smile, and for a moment his private face and public mask were one. "I begin to comprehend why the queen fears you so much. Oh, yes I do." "You are the one she ought to fear," Ned said. "No. I am what I am. The king makes use of me, but it shames him. A most puissant warrior is our Robert, and such a manly man has little love for sneaks and spies and eunuchs. If a day should come when Cersei whispers, ‘Kill that man,' Ilyn Payne will snick my head off in a twinkling, and who will mourn poor Varys then? North or south, they sing no songs for spiders." He reached out and touched Ned with a soft hand. "But you, Lord Stark . . . I think . . . no, I know . . . he would not kill you, not even for his queen, and there may lie our salvation." It was all too much. For a moment Eddard Stark wanted nothing so much as to return to Winterfell, to the clean simplicity of the north, where the enemies were winter and the wildlings beyond the Wall. "Surely Robert has other loyal friends," he protested. "His brothers, his—" "—wife?" Varys finished, with a smile that cut. "His brothers hate the Lannisters, true enough, but hating the queen and loving the king are not quite the same thing, are they? Ser Barristan loves his honor, Grand Maester Pycelle loves his office, and Littlefinger loves Littlefinger." "The Kingsguard—" "A paper shield," the eunuch said. "Try not to look so shocked, Lord Stark. Jaime Lannister is himself a Sworn Brother of the White Swords, and we all know what his oath is worth. The days when men like Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight wore the white cloak are gone to dust and song. Of these seven, only Ser Barristan Selmy is made of the true steel, and Selmy is old. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn are the queen's creatures to the bone, and I have deep suspicions of the others. No, my lord, when the swords come out in earnest, you will be the only true friend Robert Baratheon will have." "Robert must be told," Ned said. "If what you say is true, if even a part of it is true, the king must hear it for himself." "And what proof shall we lay before him? My words against theirs? My little birds against the queen and the Kingslayer, against his brothers and his council, against the Wardens of East and West, against all the might of Casterly Rock? Pray, send for Ser Ilyn directly, it will save us all some time. I know where that road ends." "Yet if what you say is true, they will only bide their time and make another attempt." "Indeed they will," said Varys, "and sooner rather than later, I do fear. You are making them most anxious, Lord Eddard. But my little birds will be listening, and together we may be able to forestall them, you and I." He rose and pulled up his cowl so his face was hidden once more. "Thank you for the wine. We will speak again. When you see me next at council, be certain to treat me with your accustomed contempt. You should not find it difficult." He was at the door when Ned called, "Varys." The eunuch turned back. "How did Jon Arryn die?" "I wondered when you would get around to that." "Tell me." "The tears of Lys, they call it. A rare and costly thing, clear and sweet as water, and it leaves no trace. I begged Lord Arryn to use a taster, in this very room I begged him, but he would not hear of it. Only one who was less than a man would even think of such a thing, he told me." Ned had to know the rest. "Who gave him the poison?" "Some dear sweet friend who often shared meat and mead with him, no doubt. Oh, but which one? There were many such. Lord Arryn was a kindly, trusting man." The eunuch sighed. "There was one boy. All he was, he owed Jon Arryn, but when the widow fled to the Eyrie with her household, he stayed in King's Landing and prospered. It always gladdens my heart to see the young rise in the world." The whip was in his voice again, every word a stroke. "He must have cut a gallant figure in the tourney, him in his bright new armor, with those crescent moons on his cloak. A pity he died so untimely, before you could talk to him . . . " Ned felt half-poisoned himself. "The squire," he said. "Ser Hugh." Wheels within wheels within wheels. Ned's head was pounding. "Why? Why now? Jon Arryn had been Hand for fourteen years. What was he doing that they had to kill him?" "Asking questions," Varys said, slipping out the door.