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abraxos-and-ataraxia · 2 years

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Crown of Ash and Blood

Chapter 5

Pairing: Eris x Original Character

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: none

Summary: Eris is cool, calm, and collected. He’s not known for the fire in his blood, but for his cold manipulation of truth and lies. Until he meets his match. Literally.

A/N: I really wish I could show the IC conversations happening behind the scenes, but you’ll just have to use your imagination because we’re starting on the daneris drama mwahaha

Masterlist

The halls of the Forest House were always empty. It was partly due to Beron’s requirement that all servants remain invisible, and partly due to the fact that few guests stayed longer than absolutely necessary. Eris included.

His father sent word that morning. Eris was required to attend breakfast in the main dining room.

The sound of his boots on the flagstone was overly loud. The others were already waiting, no doubt an intentional move by his father. No one spoke until Eris had taken his seat, just to the left of his father. “Where have you been?” Beron had no use for pleasantries.

“I thought I smelled Night Court spies, so I took my hounds to the Winter border.” Not a lie. He had, in fact, found Azriel near the border last month.

“And?”

“Nothing. If anyone was there at all, they’re long gone.”

Beron gave a huff of disappointment. “The half-breed has been sniffing around too much.” Danger averted, Eris picked up his cutlery at last. Across the table, his mother met his gaze. Her hands were still in her lap.

“It seems the Night Court took our insults to heart,” Dion chuckled, taking a swig from his glass. No doubt filled with wine, despite the hour.

“Eris did the most damage,” Castor intoned. “Why must you insult your former fiancée at every opportunity?”

Beron’s knife clattered against his plate, and everyone fell silent. “Enough,” his father said, leaning back in his chair. “You can continue your squabbles elsewhere.”

“I was under the impression that we were this morning’s entertainment,” Loren said, his smile sharp.

“Father was just talking about how he couldn’t find you last night,” Castor added, leaning forward with a bloodthirsty look in his eyes. “I wonder why.”

“I could have sworn I saw you sneaking around yesterday,” Loren slashed back. Eris shot him a warning glare, but his brother ignored it, as always. “Care to share with the group?”

“Father entrusted me with an assignment. That’s what happens when you can keep your mouth shut around whores,” Castor said, showing too many teeth for a true smile.

“At least I can clean up my own messes. What kind of male needs his father to do his killing for him?”

Castor seethed, but Eris watched his mother, whose face was rapidly paling. He looked over at Beron, whose expression was a little too pleased. Fools. His brothers were giving too much away.

“I can’t speak for Castor, but I was patrolling the border yesterday. Such fine weather, it seemed a waste to spend the day indoors,” Eris said, calmly cutting into his breakfast sausage.

Beron waited until he took a bite. “I sent Castor to find you last night. He was…unsuccessful.”

Eris forced himself to swallow. “Apologies, father. It seems I never trained him well enough in tracking.” He ignored the implications of Beron’s statement. The knowledge that his brother was only hot-tempered when in pain.

“Perhaps I should have sent him with the guardsmen at a younger age,” Beron mused, eyes narrowed on them all.

“Perhaps,” Castor gritted out, sitting ramrod straight.

“But then,” Beron went on. “Not all of my sons are destined for greatness.”

They spent the remainder of the meal in grating silence.

* * * * *

All morning, Eris kept one eye on the shadows, waiting. He knew he didn’t have to wait long. The inner circle had no doubt received news of his dramatic exit last night, so it was only a matter of time before they demanded his presence.

He was more than happy to oblige. The best information came from one’s interrogator, after all.

Eris was combing through paperwork in his private residence when the note came. Setting aside news from the coastal cities, Eris accepted the slim roll of parchment from the stable hand, tossing a coin for his silence.

Sure enough, an immediate summons. He smirked, turning back to his reports. He’d leave, but not until he was finished.

Eris swaggered into the Hewn City ten minutes late. Before the meeting room door had even shut behind him, Rhysand pinned him to the wall with a star-flecked wind. “Boring,” he wheezed, rolling his eyes in spite of the chokehold. “You forgot to preface your torture with a poetic speech.”

Rhysand’s power disappeared so suddenly, Eris stumbled. “Please, sit.”

Adjusting his jacket, Eris selected a chair and settled in before addressing the members of the Night Court’s inner circle. Everyone was there, save the silver-eyed demon. “Well?”

“I am going to ask you a few questions,” Rhysand said, his smile serpentine. “And you are going to answer them.”

“Ah, an interrogation. You forgot to mention that in your letter.”

“My mistake.”

“I always look forward to receiving your little love notes, Rhysand,” Eris said with a smirk. “Next time, send me flowers.” He made eye contact with Morrigan, irritation coiling in his stomach when she looked away.

“Is this how you normally behave while being interrogated,” Feyre asked, lip curled in disgust.

“Hardly. My father does a better job, doesn’t leave much time for flirting.” No one looked particularly surprised by that little gem. Interesting. So Cassian had shared—such a good dog.

The shadowsinger spoke up from the corner. “Neither do I.”

“You look like you’d enjoy a good flirtation, though.”

Cassian snarled, stepping closer like he planned to pin Eris to the wall again. “Where did you take the female?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Eris drawled. “I’ve taken quite a few females, and I haven’t gotten any complaints.”

Rhysand seemed to be the only one capable of containing his temper. “Witnesses saw you take an Illyrian female out of the Hewn City. What did you do with her?”

“Correction, witnesses saw a female holding a fork to my throat, demanding that I winnow her to safety,” Eris said, brow raised. “I have to admit, it wasn’t my finest moment. But I certainly didn’t take her. It’s more accurate to say she forced me to help her.” For a moment, no one spoke. Eris frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Two of you are daemati, surely you’ve already seen this. Why the show of force?”

“Where did you take her?” Rhysand was like a dog with a bone.

“I didn’t take her,” Eris reiterated. “I winnowed her to the Middle and left her there.” Rhysand and his cronies flinched in surprise, and Eris pounced. “My question is this: why was she in the Hewn City to begin with?”

“She disappeared from her room,” Feyre said, mouth pursed like she’d tasted a lemon.

“She ran away,” Eris smirked.

Feyre frowned at him, all the confirmation he needed. “If she accidentally ended up in the Court of Nightmares, it makes sense that she was scared and needed help,” Feyre tried to explain.

“Come now, Feyre,” Eris crooned. “You know she wasn’t afraid of a few Darkbringers. The female was determined to flee the Night Court, not just this mountain.” He watched them fidget, their tentative web of lies falling to pieces. “Since none of you are racing to the Middle to rescue her, I assume you’d prefer her dead. Perhaps that’s why she was so desperate to leave.”

Feyre gasped, “No, we—”

“Did she tell you anything else?” Rhysand’s face was bland, but Eris knew a loaded question when he heard it.

“You aren’t denying it, Rhysand,” Eris commented, his smile growing. “Interesting. And yes, now that you mention it, she did say a few things.”

“Such as,” Rhysand ground out.

Eris watched them carefully for a reaction to his words, “She said the night court is on the brink of civil war.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cassian twitch. Eris withheld his smirk. “Could her escape have something to do with that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rhysand said smoothly.

Eris shrugged, relaxing into his chair. “In Autumn, when someone tries to instigate rebellion, we kill them.”

“We have no interest in sharing our plans with you,” Morrigan spoke at last. “And we definitely don’t appreciate the implication that we would sink to your level.”

“Are you uncomfortable because I haven’t lied yet, or because you can’t tell if you’re telling the truth anymore?”

Rhysand’s expression was a dark thundercloud. “Where is she?”

Eris shrugged again. “I told you, I left her in the Middle.”

“Won’t be the first time you’ve abandoned a female,” Morrigan muttered.

He pinned her with a firm stare. “Believe it or not, I went back for her later, but she was already gone. Though I know how you like to lay the Night Court’s misdeeds at my feet.” Azriel snarled soundlessly, his scarred hand reaching for the knife at his side. “Leash your pet,” Eris said, watching Morrigan flinch away from the potential conflict. Still unable to face harsh truths, despite her gift. Or perhaps because of it.

Feyre and Rhysand were still as statues, having some private conversation. He decided to keep Danae’s current location a secret for the time being. Better to save that bargaining chip for later. Besides, he didn’t believe in showing his hand all at once.

Eris moved to stand, but Cassian barred the door with his body. “You leave when we tell you to.”

“I don’t heed instructions from bastards above their station,” he mocked. “In case you’ve forgotten, we are allies. I am not your pet. And the second you think to treat me like one, know that I possess enough information to ruin you however I choose.”

Rhysand looked up at last, eyes glittering. Eris could practically see the thoughts churning, wondering what else the female told him. Fortunately, Eris’ reputation managed to do most of the work for him, confirming Rhysand’s fears.

“For now, we are allies,” he said again. “I suggest you learn how to act like it.”

Feyre sat quietly, the plots seemingly beyond her capacity. Eris suspected that Rhysand was feeding her what she needed to understand. He couldn’t help remembering her helpless face during Amarantha’s trials. She’d needed help then, too. Not much had changed.

“Allies,” Rhysand said, voice low. “We promised to help your bid for power in exchange for your silence. Now you want more?”

“I have offered you aid and information whenever asked, and in return, all I have are threats to reveal our alliance to my father,” Eris said, smiling faintly. “I find that I’ve tired of feeling like an accessory to your court. It’s time to return the favor.”

“Our gift wasn’t enough?” Feyre gestured to the Made blade on his belt.

Eris didn’t bother to respond. He’d accomplished what he came for. Rhysand and his cronies had verified Danae’s information, and they’d given him a much better picture of her motivations. Putting this court of dreamers in their place was just an amusement, really. He walked to the door, waiting until Cassian moved aside. Then he paused, fingers resting on the handle, and looked over his shoulder. “And Rhysand,” Eris said, holding that violet stare. “If you ever find yourself embroiled in an internal war, know that I’ll gladly come to help.”

Let them decide which side he would fight for.

* * * * *

After rolling around the creaky bed for several hours, then gorging herself on bread and cheese, Danae finally admitted defeat. She was horribly, terribly bored. Her eyes kept sliding to the closet. The one Eris said had cleaning supplies. With nothing else to keep her occupied, and unable to go outside, manual labor became more and more appealing as the minutes ticked by. She tried not to hate herself for it. For falling so willingly back into her old role.

And the cabin truly did smell.

She scrubbed the floors first, taking breaks when her back cramped up. Then she moved to the kitchen, mopping down the counter and cleaning the meager collection of dishes. She opened the front door, shaking out the blankets and pillows—pointedly keeping her feet inside, so she wasn’t technically breaking Eris’ rule.

By the time the sun touched the horizon, Danae had washed every inch of the cabin within reach. It smelled considerably better, and after devouring a box of pastries, she felt better, too. The effort kept her mind busy, rather than letting her spiral at the thought of a new cage.

Danae flopped on the couch, adjusting her sweater. She’d taken a knife to her new clothes, doing her best to fit things around her wings. The sweater gaped in the back, but the waistband of the pants was high enough to compensate. She supposed there were no Illyrians in Autumn, and she doubted Eris would have been able to find anything to accommodate her wings. Still, she resolved to ask for sewing materials so she could attempt to add buttons. And fix the jagged holes.

She would also ask for books. Anything, really. The only book in the cabin was a dusty fishing tome, and she left it where she found it—holding the bedroom door open. It had a tendency to swing shut, and when cut off from the main room at night, it got so cold she could see her breath.

A knock at the door made her pulse jump. Breathing shallowly, Danae crept to the window, peeking out through the thin curtains.

“While I’m thrilled you had the foresight to check who was knocking,” Eris called through the door. “I can see the curtains moving. If I was an enemy, you’d be dead by now.” The door swung open, revealing Eris’ disapproving face. “And the door was unlocked.”

“Sorry,” she grimaced.

“The door was locked this morning,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Did you leave?”

“I said I wouldn’t,” Danae snapped. “I just wanted to air the place out. And shake the bedding.”

“Anyone could have seen you. Don’t do it again unless I’m here,” Eris said, uncompromising.

“Fine. Did you at least bring more food with you?”

Eris pointed to the table. “Sit. Tell me something about the Night Court and I’ll bring your dinner.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll send me to my room,” Danae rolled her eyes.

“If you don’t, our deal is off, and I’ll hand you back to your High Lord. He’s looking for you,” Eris said, dragging his chair out from under the table. She flinched.

Mastering herself, Danae stalked across the kitchen, leaning over the table to scowl at him. “If you even think about bringing me back there, I’ll kill you.”

“Ah, so you’re a daemati now,” Eris said, voice mocking. “Tell me, what am I thinking now?”

“I hate you,” she hissed.

Eris frowned, “That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

Her blood boiled, and on impulse, she darted for the knife on Eris’ belt. Long, pale fingers wrapped around hers a hair's breadth from the hilt. When she fought, his grip tightened, grinding the bones of her wrist together. Biting back a whine, Danae relaxed her hand, waiting for him to release her.

When he finally did, Danae slumped into a chair, shuffling awkwardly to accommodate her wings. “Let’s not try that again,” Eris said, each word hitting her like a stone. She shook with restrained fury. “Now,” Eris brushed a hand down his jacket sleeve, smoothing the fine fabric. “You were about to share some information. Shall we start with the tension in Illyria?”

Danae focused on her breathing, rather than the pounding of her heart. “Traditions in Illyria have been a source of conflict between the warriors and the High Lord.” Her voice was toneless, purely factual. “Illyrians see him as an outsider because of his High Fae blood. They’re reluctant to follow his new laws.”

“What laws?”

“The most controversial one forbids wing clipping, an old Illyrian tradition. Males like to cripple their females to keep them obedient. The High Lord said it was mutilation, a crime.”

Eris’ eyes flicked to her wings, and she pulled them tighter against her back. “Is that why you were running?”

“You asked for information about the Night Court,” she snarled. “Not me.”

“I asked a question, and you’ve already promised to answer.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “You must hate being on the other side of things.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I can’t count how many of my questions you’ve evaded,” Danae said. “Either by giving me half an answer or by ignoring me.”

Eris shook his head. “That wasn’t a part of our deal.”

“It’s hardly fair for you to expect my complete honesty when you can’t offer the same,” Danae scowled at him.

For a moment, she thought Eris would simply walk away. Her gut clenched, wondering if he would uphold his threat and bring her back to Night. Then Eris sighed, “Very well.” The words came slowly, almost painfully, but they were still an agreement.

Danae jumped on the opportunity before he could go back on his word. “Where exactly are we?”

Eris blew out a long breath before responding. “Near the Winter Court border. This is my brother’s old cabin.”

“What if he comes here?”

“He won’t,” Eris said, jaw clenched.

“Why not?”

Eris’ eyes flashed. For once, they burned, instead of glinting like chips of ice. “Because he’s dead.”

Danae sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be. He was a hateful creature,” Eris said. But somehow, she didn’t quite believe him. “Your turn. Truth for truth.”

She nodded. Fair enough. “Yes, I was running from the males of my war camp. I managed to escape before they could get the knife, but they shot me out of the air.” Danae ignored the phantom pain in her wings, flexing them to remind herself she was whole, healing. “How do you know the High Lord is looking for me?”

“We have brunch every week,” Eris said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “In case you didn’t realize, there was an audience during your grand escape. They know I winnowed you out, and they wanted to know where I took you.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth,” he smiled.

Danae saw red. She blinked, and then she was on top of him, his dagger clenched in one fist. The blade gleamed with a cold inner fire, but she ignored it, snarling in his face.

When she met his gaze, Eris stilled, rather than fighting her off. His eyes widened, expression surprisingly unguarded. The shock of seeing an emotion other than scorn made her hand waver, unwilling to slice into him. She trembled slightly.

Then the gates slammed back down, covering whatever she’d seen in his eyes. Eris twisted them to the side, toppling the chair and sending her sprawling across the floor. He moved so fast, she only caught flashes. Eris ripped the knife from her hand and disappeared out the door, slamming it behind him. He didn’t say a word.

Danae gasped, coughing from her collision with the wooden planks. The impact had knocked the fury right out of her, leaving her scrambling. What happened? Staring at the door, still vibrating from the force Eris used to slam it, she wondered if he’d ever answer. Or if he’d even return to the cabin. She wondered when Eris would want to rid himself of a female so inclined to slit his throat.

Perhaps the Night Court was already preparing her cell.

* * * * *

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#eris x oc #eris vanserra x oc #eris vanserra #eris vanserra fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fic

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ragsweas · 3 years

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Hobbit Fic Rec List

Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies AU

Hey you lovely people! The second installment to some amazing Bagginshield fics that everybody should read, let us dive back into the terrains of Middle Earth and enjoy some Fluff, angst and humour!

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Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme by frumpkinisfae

The battle is won, but the story isn't over. The rightful King Under the Mountain still recovers. Dwarves, Men, and Elves are still mending and straining old and new truces. The Erebor and Dale need to be rebuilt. As you can see, there's oh so much to do.And Bilbo? Well, Bilbo is well and truly tired of big folks' nonsense. It's time for reconciliation and moving onward. In fact, when Bilbo thinks about it he may not even be thinking about politics anymore. It's time to gather up his strength and to gather up his dwarves. Not just for himself, but the little surprise he picked up along the way.Well, this is just the start of a few more adventures

WIP, and a pretty good fun ride.

it's all good by vtforpedro

In which Bilbo and Thorin are tasked with finding two lost hobbits on the road to Michel Delving and reminisce about their own journey, which isn’t quite so painful anymore.

A really cute slice of life.

The Bagginses of Bag End by darth_stitch

The Bagginses of Bag End have always had a reputation for oddness, ever since Mr. Bilbo Baggins ran off into the Wild with thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard.

Mr. Bilbo did return to Bag End eventually, though he was much changed.

And later on, three Dwarves, who didn't arrive all at the same time, eventually made their home at Bag End with Mr. Bilbo. And much later on, little Frodo Baggins would complete their family.

They were always an odd little family but life went on peacefully in the Shire, until Gandalf the Grey came and brought trouble as usual.

love is blindness by unpeumacabre

There was a click as Bilbo thrust open his door and glared out on Dwalin’s grave face. “Did Thorin send you?” demanded Bilbo, too incensed to care about propriety. “He wants to see you,” rumbled Dwalin. “He’s sorry.” “I like that!” shouted Bilbo. “Oh, I like that, very much! Well, you can tell the king, he can bloody well come and tell me himself, if he can find the time out of his busy schedule, and if it so pleases him!” and he slammed the door in Dwalin’s face. * Things have changed ever since Thorin's gold-sickness, and Bilbo no longer knows what to think of his relationship with Thorin. When he becomes the object of affections from a new dwarf friend of his, Thorin's seemingly-easy acceptance of their relationship both infuriates and confuses him. or, the one where Bilbo is courted, and Thorin doesn't want to interfere, bc he is NOT a dark fuck prince, and he wants Bilbo to be happy most of all.

Letters to Erebor by serenbach

After the Battle of Five Armies and Bilbo's return to the Shire, many letters are sent to (and from) Erebor.

For the love_bingo prompt 'lots of love.'

Just these two idiots being the two idiots they are...

Stretched Out On Your Grave, I'll Lie Here Forever by celedan

Thorin disappeared after the Battle of the Five Armies, in all likeliness dead. And so, since Bilbo is his husband, he becomes King Under the Mountain. How is he, a simple Hobbit from the Shire who just has his heart broken into a thousand pieces by grief supposed to rule over the grandest Dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth all on his own?!

Something to Start With by MulaSaWala, storyforsomeone

“What is that?” Thorin follows his gaze. “Oh, that. During the fight with Azog he stabbed me through the foot from beneath the ice.” “He did what?!” Bilbo near yelps, and sure enough, now that he looks closer he can see where Azog’s blade must have pierced the top of the boot. Valar above, it had cleaved straight through. “Thorin, why in Eru’s name hasn’t this been looked at?” Thorin stares at him like he had forgotten Bilbo was an idiot. “I expect Óin had more pressing matters to attend to. Like, I suppose, the mortal stab wound in my chest.” _Or, where some things get lost in translation, courting mishaps have the whole kingdom losing their minds, and simple acts of kindness and love can go a long way.

Pining, misunderstanding, bets, humour and cultural differences. Need I say more?

A Passion For Mushrooms by Chrononautical

There are many trials for a hobbit attempting to make a life among dwarves. A hobbit wants a garden. A hobbit wants to eat regular meals. A hobbit wants friends, good books, and comfortable chairs. Bilbo does his best to carve out a little hobbit life for himself in the mountain. If only there were not one final obstacle. For a hobbit heart wants love, and among dwarves that is a sticky subject.

An Unexpected Addition by karategal

All of the dwarves survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but Bilbo must return to the Shire to sort out his old life and make way for a new one in Erebor. Over one year later, Bilbo comes back to the Lonely Mountain with a recently orphaned Frodo. King Thorin isn't quite sure what to make of this new, tiny addition to his Company.

i wouldn't have danced like that with any but you by Percyjacksonfan3

Thorin has survived the Battle of the Five Armies but his relationship with Bilbo is uncertain and precarious, especially in the newly reclaimed kingdom of Erebor. With Kíli set to marry Tauriel, and the Dwarves of Erebor still holding prejudice against outside races, Thorin must choose between his nephew's happiness or his own.

Though he believes sending Bilbo back to the Shire is for the good of everyone, he and the rest of Erebor are thrown into turmoil when 5 years later his nephews secretly plot to bring Bilbo back. Coming face-to-face with Bilbo again makes it impossible for Thorin to stay apart from him any longer- but is Bilbo still willing to be with Thorin once more after he broke both of their hearts?

Look, if you like angst and pining as much as I do, you have to read this story. it’s freaking awesome!!

For Cook and Cutlery by CoffioCake for Cephalopodqueen

When Bilbo mentions missing his family’s collection of spoons, Thorin decides to fabricate a new set himself, even though he's already busy rebuilding his kingdom: welcoming his people, placating former enemies, and keeping his advisors from marrying him off to the next-most politically advantageous partner…

Life would be infinitely simpler if Thorin could just focus on convincing Bilbo to stay. Meanwhile, Bilbo might actually get over his attraction to Thorin if he could just return to the Shire…

Every cloud has an inky lining by Kytanna for birdkeeperklink (speculating)

"I don't know why I let you convince me to do this!" Bilbo wailed at Dwalin as the dwarrowdam above him stabbed his skin over and over again, carefully dripping the needle on the ink in between a few stabbings.

“Cause ye love Thorin, maybe? Also, I’ll have ye know my ideas are the best. Wasn’t it for it you would be still freeting about gifts and whatnots. Yer just a little wimpy...” Dwalin mumbled the last part as he grimaced, trying to counteract Bilbo’s accusations but he wasn’t fooled, as from where he was lying, the fool of a dwarf was more than a little sweaty trying to pry his white hand from Bilbo’s bruising grip.

Or, Bilbo gets a tattoo for Thorin on the advice of Dwalin, despite his better judgment and extreme dislike of tattoos.

Roses of Iron by Porphyrios

Two years after Bilbo returned from his adventures, he's made his peace with being back in the Shire. He still wonders what might have happened if things were different, but figures all that is behind him now. A mysterious visitor turns out to be someone he never thought he'd see again, and he's shocked by the news he hears.

Not what you would expect yet everything perfect. Just...perfect.

Growing Dwarves (And Kingdoms) by Lumeleo

Sometimes, Bilbo finds, not everything goes according to plan.

First an injury and the coming winter delay his leaving Erebor, then word from the Shire leaves him mourning his beloved Bag End. And because getting added to Thorin's council isn't trouble enough, Kili is in love with an elf, Fili may or may not have his eyes on a certain little scribe, everyone seems to think he is a lady hobbit, and Thorin needs to find someone to marry.

Okay. So the last part might not be trouble, exactly, except for the part where it makes Bilbo's rather hopeless attachment even more painful. Or it wouldn't if he hadn't possibly accidentally promised to provide Thorin with an heir... and Dáin just might still be scheming something.

Fortunately, if there's one thing hobbits are good at, it's growing things. And Thorin did promise him a garden.

One of the best stories out there!!! I love it so so bloody much!!!

Marriage of Necessity by Agent_Snark

In a desperate attempt to make sure someone he trusts rules over Erebor, Thorin marries Bilbo on what will probably be his deathbed, as well as that of his heirs. When all three Durins survive, Thorin's marriage to Bilbo comes under scrutiny. Not everyone is happy with it.

Can We Get The Dragon Back? by harrypanther, vala411

AU: After BOTFA, the three Durins have survived but a far more dangerous fate awaits them. Thorin’s sister, Dis, is arriving and the King needs to explain to her what exactly has happened to her sons on the Quest…

Unpleasant Arrangements byChrononautical

The King Under the Mountain requires a consort. Bilbo is happy to help him find one. So. Very. Happy.

Something Blue by Lapin

Thorin marries Bilbo after the Battle of Five Armies, a marriage of convenience, not love. Slowly, they must come to make the best of it, Bilbo resolves. After all, he's a Hobbit. They make the best of things.

The Road goes ever on and on by paranoid_fridge

Years after the battle, Thorin and Bilbo live in Erebor, though Thorin has left the crown to Fili. In that prosperous time, they are invited to the wedding of Dorwinion's crown prince; and once on the road, Bilbo and Thorin find that they wouldn't mind seeing a little more of the world.

What was supposed to be a diplomatic mission to Rhûn brings them to distant lands, lets them walk over a sea of stars, cross the Eastern Desert, and gaze at the shores at the end of the world. Far from home they make new friends, and find that the world is wider than they thought - there are hobbits living in the east, and dwarves from Erebor that found a home there after the dragon came.

And eventually that same road also leads them home.

A travel story you did not even know you needed. Brilliantly done and just leaves you in wonder.

What To Expect by alkjira

The tags pretty much says it all, but this is the cracky story about Bilbo and Thorin and their kids. And other stuff. Like hamsters.

The most hilarious take on Mpreg and everything dwarven...Must Read!!

Planting a Hobbit by northerntrash

Bilbo liked Erebor, he really did. Even if everyone seemed convinced he was going to leave.

In which soil causes international incidents, Thorin is over-dramatic, and dwarves are rubbish at keeping secrets. Oh, and they build a garden. Eventually.

Dwarves being adorable Dwarves...

.......*.......

Have fun reading!!

#hobbit #the hobbit #fanfiction #fanfic recommendation #Hobbit fanfic rec #bilbo baggins #Thorin Oakenshield #bagginshield #thilbo #let's have fun!!!

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fictionescapism · 2 years

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Fanfic Rec #132 Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield (The Hobbit) part 5

The Riven Crown by BeautifulFiction ‘We may have won the battle, but I fear the war with winter is just beginning.’ The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place. Then there is the matter of the gold... Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?

Something to Start With by MulaSaWala & storyforsomeone “What is that?” Thorin follows his gaze. “Oh, that. During the fight with Azog he stabbed me through the foot from beneath the ice.” “He did what?!” Bilbo near yelps, and sure enough, now that he looks closer he can see where Azog’s blade must have pierced the top of the boot. Valar above, it had cleaved straight through. “Thorin, why in Eru’s name hasn’t this been looked at?” Thorin stares at him like he had forgotten Bilbo was an idiot. “I expect Óin had more pressing matters to attend to. Like, I suppose, the mortal stab wound in my chest.” _Or, where some things get lost in translation, courting mishaps have the whole kingdom losing their minds, and simple acts of kindness and love can go a long way.

All The Rivers Sound In My Body by pibroch (littleblackdog) As much as he might like to cut a natty figure in a proper waistcoat and trousers with a reasonable inseam, Bilbo knew there were many more important things to bother with at the moment. Rebuilding an entire dwarven kingdom, for one. And airing out the stink of dragon would be nice as well.

Sweet is the Sound of Falling Rain by Chrononautical Shortly after midnight, Bilbo Baggins crept through the halls of Erebor like the burglar he was. If most burglars tended to wear a little more than a dressing gown, it was only because most burglars were out to steal more than a few minutes alone. Bilbo sneaks into the baths at night, hoping for a chance to wash up privately. Fortunately, his plans go awry when he sees Thorin already bathing alone. After watching the king for a while, he overcomes his hesitation and joins his friend.

The Good Earth by The Feels Whale (miscellea) Bilbo Baggins arrived home late one afternoon in the middle of the week and the entire west Farthing is still talking about it. Poor Mister Baggins. He was doomed to be a nine-days wonder no matter what and is it any wonder after a year-long adventure? Even the Tooks haven’t the influence to hush that up, but Mad Baggins seems to have managed to silence every tongue in the Shire on that subject which would be awe-inspiring ...if not for the way he decided to go about it. OR: That one where Middle Earth seems to be unclear about where baby Hobbits come from.

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istumpysk · 3 years

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Jon VI (Chapter 48)

Jon, it’s you! Strange seeing you next, right after Ned re-lived the Tower of Joy.

Lord Commander Mormont resplendent in a black wool doublet with silvered bearclaw fastenings.

Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastards' names, or no names at all. It makes no matter. All that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.

Do as I say, not as I do?

+.+

A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house, neither for gold nor glory nor a woman's love, but for the realm, and all the people in it. A man of the Night's Watch takes no wife and fathers no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. And you are the only sons we shall ever know.

I don’t know about that.

+.+

"Are there any among you who wish to leave our company? If so, go now, and no one shall think the less of you."

They were sentenced to the Night’s Watch? They’re all prisoners? This is like Daenerys “freeing” the Unsullied.

The appearance of choice.

+.+

The stewards! For a moment Jon could not believe what he had heard. Mormont must have read it wrong. He started to rise, to open his mouth, to tell them there had been a mistake … and then he saw Ser Alliser studying him, eyes shiny as two flakes of obsidian, and he knew.

Unreliable narrator Jon Snow. You know nothing (ha!), Alliser is not responsible.

(Obsidian!)

+.+

Only Sam and Dareon remained on the benches; a fat boy, a singer … and him.

Now, now.

+.+

"Samwell, you will assist Maester Aemon in the rookery and library. Chett is going to the kennels, to help with the hounds. You shall have his cell, so as to be close to the maester night and day.

I’m sure Chett will take that well.

+.+

Marsh turned his smile on Jon. "Lord Commander Mormont has requested you for his personal steward, Jon. You'll sleep in a cell beneath his chambers, in the Lord Commander's tower."

"And what will my duties be?" Jon asked sharply. "Will I serve the Lord Commander's meals, help him fasten his clothes, fetch hot water for his bath?"

Jon is a clever young lad, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely clear of the blockhead Stark gene.

Personally requested you, Jon.

+.+

"Do you take me for a servant?"

(...)

Was he supposed to churn butter and sew doublets like a girl for the rest of his days?

Now, now.

+.+

Outside, Jon looked up at the Wall shining in the sun, the melting ice creeping down its side in a hundred thin fingers.

Hundreds of icy fingers creeping down the Wall.

+.+

"I'm a better swordsman and a better rider than any of you," Jon blazed back. "It's not fair."

"Fair?" Dareon sneered. "The girl was waiting for me, naked as the day she was born. She pulled me through the window, and you talk to me of fair?" He walked off.

I kind of believe him, given he goes through the trouble of marrying a prostitute to bed her.

Hopefully nobody seeking their own justice takes matters into their own hands, and kills him.

+.+

"When I was little, my father used to insist that I attend him in the audience chamber whenever he held court. When he rode to Highgarden to bend his knee to Lord Tyrell, he made me come. Later, though, he started to take Dickon and leave me at home, and he no longer cared whether I sat through his audiences, so long as Dickon was there. He wanted his heir at his side, don't you see? To watch and listen and learn from all he did. I'll wager that's why Lord Mormont requested you, Jon. What else could it be? He wants to groom you for command!"

Samwell Tarly, the brains of the operation.

+.+

"I never asked for this," he said stubbornly.

You’re literally the only one who volunteered to be there. Lol

+.+

And suddenly Jon Snow was ashamed.

Craven or not, Samwell Tarly had found the courage to accept his fate like a man. On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns, Benjen Stark had said the last night Jon had seen him alive. You're no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you. He'd heard it said that bastards grow up faster than other children; on the Wall, you grew up or you died.

Jon let out a deep sigh. "You have the right of it. I was acting the boy."

You’re forgiven. It’s okay to act the boy sometimes, Jon.

+.+

When the wind set the leaves to rustling, it was like a chilly finger tracing a path up Jon's spine.

Death!

+.+

a small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle.

Do we know the significance of nine? I don’t.

+.+

The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath.

(...)

The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as ruby.

Fallen... Targaryens? Ruby?

Not sure what conclusion to draw from this, but I know Targaryen imagery when I see it.

Edit: Bloodraven. I’m useless, okay! Thank you @aegor-bamfsteel ❤️

+.+

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

It shall not end until my death.

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

I shall wear no crowns.

I am the sword in the darkness.

I am the fire that burns against the cold.

The light that brings the dawn.

The shield that guards the realms of men.

Almost like the author wrote that with only Jon in mind.

+.+

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

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

"To me, Ghost." Jon knelt. "Bring it here."

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

"Gods be good," Dywen muttered. "That's a hand."

Lots of bloody hands in this chapter!

...Ned?

...you have the next chapter, don’t you?

Final thoughts:

Guys, I’m not joking, I only just now realized his name is Alliser and not Allister. Bwah!

Whatever, I’m still smarter than a BNF.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #agot #jon vi

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theusurpersdog · 3 years

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A Bird in a Cage

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

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

Captive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And before the Battle of the Blackwater started, Tyrion told her this:

“I ought to have sent you off with Tommen now that I think on it.”

Unlike Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion doesn’t wish Sansa any harm; he orders Joffrey’s men to stop hitting her, tries to comfort her afterward, and doesn’t want her to be married to Joffrey. But she is not one of his priorities. It didn’t even occur to him to try and get her safely out of the city.

This is dehumanizing. Sansa has no friends or even anyone to talk to, and the people around her treat her life as an afterthought.

Sansa also suffers from the emotional fallout of Joffrey’s abuse. She blames herself when he has men hit her:

She must learn to hide her feelings better, so as not to anger Joffrey.

The fear of being hit by Joffrey is nearly all-consuming for Sansa. It affects everything down to the smallest details of her life, like how she dresses and does her hair:

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color.

Instead of getting to live as her own person, doing things to make herself happy, Sansa has to live for Joffrey’s satisfaction. Even when she’s being physically beaten, she thinks of him instead of herself:

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Everything about her life is a performance for other people. She wears the gowns and jewels Joffrey likes, dressing to hide the bruises his men leave all over, and says the words they tell her to say:

“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Sansa repeats that phrase over and over throughout the book, always at once. Almost like a reflex. An actor on stage repeating their lines, rehearsed and performed a thousand times.

The worst part of the act is that everyone knows it’s exactly that: an act. Sansa is required, every day, to declare that her family are traitors who deserve to die, and for no reason at all. The way Joffrey abuses her is an open secret:

“He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation.”

There is no way anyone could ever believe Sansa actually loves the boy who killed her father and intentionally humiliates her in front of his court. No matter how well Sansa tells the lie, it will always be see-through; especially because everyone knows that she’s a prisoner, being held until Jaime is freed. Sansa has to repeat the lie of believing her family to be traitors to try and please the Lannisters – if she said anything different she would be beaten or killed – but there’s no way they will ever be happy, because even when Sansa says the lies as convincingly as humanly possible, they know they’re lies because there’s no way they could be anything else. Sansa cannot win.

That’s never clearer than during her conversation with Cersei inside Maegar’s Holdfast, while the Battle of the Blackwater rages on:

“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.

“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”

If Sansa told Cersei the truth in this moment, she would be severely punished. And Cersei knows that, because she would be the one doing the punishing. Yet she verbally berates Sansa anyway.

The same dynamic plays out between Sansa and the Hound. At the end of A Game of Thrones, he gives her this bit of advice:

“Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

And as one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, he knows first hand of the abuse Sansa suffers if she says anything that could even be construed as out of line. Yet when Sansa tries to follow the advice he gave her, he throws it back in her face:

“ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you”

Everyone in King’s Landing is always threatening to kill Sansa if she tells them the truth, and then calling her stupid when she repeats back the lies they want to hear. They’re forcefully dehumanizing her, demanding she remove all of her own thoughts and emotions and replace them with hollow lines they’ve given her, and then getting mad when her words are empty.

This plays on one of Sansa’s greatest insecurities about herself, which is her intelligence. Because of her low self-esteem, she already thinks of herself as being less-than. That’s very clear whenever she does an act of kindness – she steadfastly refuses to give herself credit for anything:

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court?

. . .

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

She never thinks to herself You are doing this because you are a good person. She always punishes herself internally, calling herself stupid and childish for believing in good things. Joffrey and Cersei have destroyed her so much that she can only see herself through their eyes, cruel and mocking.

The fear that she’s stupid is one of her greatest anxieties:

“My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

And she doesn’t like to be watched by Ser Preston Greenfield because he treated her like a lackwit child.

Everyone around her is comfortable calling her stupid and emotionally abusing her, and it’s easy for Sansa to start internalizing those messages. Joffrey and Cersei’s betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones forever changed Sansa; the fear that she could ever be so wrong again, and the fear that she was stupid to believe in them, haunts her. Throughout her time in King’s Landing, her self-worth plummets, and she really starts to believe all the things that Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone is always telling her about herself.

Because she has to endure so much abuse and cruelty every day, it starts to become normal to Sansa. Compared to the way Joffrey treats her, anything would be an improvement; she has a soft spot for Arys Oakheart because he hesitated to hit her once:

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued.

At least he had argued is one of the saddest lines in a series of books that has a lot of sad lines. Sansa expects so little of the people around her, and is subjected to so much cruelty, that the mere act of hesitating before hitting a defenseless child is enough to stand out in her memory as an act of kindness.

And Sansa thinks this when Tyrion asks her if she’s flowered yet:

Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.

This is a perfect moment to show the small ways in which Joffrey is breaking her down emotionally. Tyrion’s question is embarrassing and impolite, but Sansa doesn’t even care because it is so much less embarrassing than the humiliations Joffrey makes her suffer. Joffrey has set the bar for cruelty so high that Sansa is willing to ignore others mistreating her because it isn’t as bad as Joffrey.

The secret friendship she has with Dontos makes this even worse:

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

Dontos is not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any less toxic a message for Sansa to hear: I’m cruel and hit you for your own protection. That’s on display when Joffrey is beating Sansa for Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “Morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.

Sansa is happy that Dontos is the one hitting her, because at least it’s better than Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Dontos volunteering to hit her is an act of kindness for Sansa; which further reinforces the idea that someone hitting her is okay.

All of this works to lower Sansa’s standards and warp her perception of what is and isn’t okay; and in the case of Dontos, it is outright grooming on the part of Littlefinger. He intentionally paid an older man to win Sansa’s trust and get her used to the dynamic of secrecy and pushing boundaries, all so he can swoop in during A Storm of Swords. Sansa’s stuck in an endless cycle of her abuse conditioning her to accept more abuse.

All of the abuse and isolation Sansa suffers also leaves her incredibly depressed throughout A Clash of Kings. When she gets the note telling her to go to the Godswood, she thinks she will kill herself before she’s caught:

If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself.

After the bread riot, Sansa has panic attacks; so much so that she feels suffocated in small rooms:

Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there was no air to breathe.

She likes to go up to the roof of the tower so she can see the entire city laid before her; it’s the only place where she doesn’t feel so claustrophobic and trapped.

That passage is also so fantastically written to show just how depressed Sansa is. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She's too depressed to go riding around the courtyard; she doesn’t see the point in going around in circles. We know from A Game of Thrones that Sansa has plenty of hobbies: playing the high harp, needlepoint, reading, and sharing gossip with her best friend. In A Clash of Kings, she’s too isolated to have anyone to talk to, but we never see her doing any of her other hobbies either. Nothing brings Sansa happiness in this book.

Especially because she’s constantly surrounded by reminders of her trauma. The way Sansa copes with her grief is by pushing it out of her mind and pretending like it doesn’t exist:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears.

Sansa actively tries to forget about the people who mean the most to her because it hurts too much to think of them.

But she can’t forget about Ned when she’s surrounded by reminders of his death. Joffrey and Cersei intentionally throw it in her face, and she has to walk through the same halls his men died in:

Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.

The reminder that hurts the most is the presence of Ilyn Payne, a recurring figure in all of Sansa’s nightmares. Just his presence makes Sansa’s skin crawl:

She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father's greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa's breath caught in her throat.

. . .

She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's close

When Sansa’s afraid she’s going to die, it’s always his blade she fears:

I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

. . .

Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

. . .

If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she'd come?

. . .

If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

Watching Ilyn Payne kill her father is the worst thing that ever happened to Sansa, and she lives in constant fear that the same thing could happen to her.

The only thing that keeps her going is the thought of her family. Sansa is insecure in herself enough to start believing the abuse that Joffrey and Cersei inflict on her; but she loves her family too much to ever believe the lies about them. Even though she’s forced to declare them traitors every single day, her internal monologue is always fighting against it:

Rob will kill you all, she thought, exulting

. . .

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.

She even finds a way to make Joffrey’s words work in her favor:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

One of the only moments where Sansa is even remotely happy in this book comes when she’s talking to Tommen, because he reminds her of Bran:

Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.

Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.

That’s a short passage, but it so beautifully captures a small piece of what Sansa is truly like, outside of the abuse and the fearing for her life and the never being able to express her emotions. She loves her family so much and wants nothing more than to be with Bran again. And while Joffrey mocks Tommen for his knightly dreams, Sansa is so nice to him, building up his confidence before he competes. She’s old enough to have grown passed the childishness of Tommen facing the quintain, but because she knows how important it is to Tommen, she gladly plays along with him. We never got to see any scenes in A Game of Thrones of Sansa interacting with Bran and getting to act like a big sister, but this scene does such a good job of showing us that Sansa was a great sister to him.

Sansa also feels a much stronger connection to the Godswood, the ancestral home of her father’s gods:

The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood, even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

And even though Lady’s long dead, Sansa still has a strong connection to her wolf. When she believes she’s going to die during the Blackwater, Lady is the first thing she thinks of:

“Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

The more abuse Sansa suffers and the more pressure is put on her to denounce her family as traitors and give up on ever going home, the more Sansa falls back on her family. That’s the only form of comfort she has in King’s Landing; the memory of Winterfell, and the belief that Robb is coming to save her.

The Lannisters have Sansa held captive physically and emotionally in King’s Landing; she has to suffer through beatings and repeat their words to stay alive. But as long as Sansa has her family - has Winterfell - to hold onto, there is a part of her that the Lannisters can never have. Even if it’s only within the walls of her own mind, Sansa has fought herself a small piece of freedom.

Courtesy is a Lady’s Armor

Trapped within the political machinations of King’s Landing, Sansa starts to learn how to play the game in earnest.

Even before she consciously starts to do it, though, Sansa is already in many ways an adept political actor. There’s a reason that all highborn children are taught from a young age how to conduct themselves; Westeros is a society built on the cornerstone of tradition, and knowing how to perform courtly behavior is important. Because Sansa took all of Septa Mordane’s training seriously, she already knows how to walk the dangerous tightrope of courtly speak:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”

This is the same skill we saw in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, when she was proud of herself for telling the Hound that no one could withstand Gregor during the tourney – she managed to say something courteous without telling a lie. Just as she did then, Sansa manages to say an apology to Tyrion that’s true.

It also shows just how good Sansa is at keeping a level head, because just moments before she was thinking this:

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.

Faced with the men responsible for killing her father, she manages to think on her feet and fulfill the role of a Lady.

She also learns how to use that same skill to benefit herself. Whereas at first she was just trying to perform the functions of a Lady, she starts to use her courtesy to talk the people around her into helping her in such a way that they don’t even realize it’s happening:

“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”

Part of why Sansa’s so naturally gifted at this kind of political double speak is because she understands people so well; she’s an empathetic and emotional character, and is extremely aware of the emotions of everyone around her. To affectively influence others, you need to understand what they want and be able to give it to them. Because Sansa is so aware of the people around her, she intuitively knows what they want; and all she wants to do is give it to them, because she doesn’t want to be hurt again.

The whole conversation she has with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand does an excellent job showing how intelligent she is:

“I . . .” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?”

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

Again, she shows an unparalleled ability to lie without actually lying. And she’s clever enough to tell Tyrion what he wants to hear without saying anything that’s actually false, that way it can’t come back to bite her later. She learned her lesson in A Game of Thrones not to trust someone just because they’re kind, and is careful not to show her cards to Tyrion. But in case he’s being honest in trying to help her, Sansa does not reaffirm her love for Joffrey. That’s why her answer of I only want to be loyal is so smart; whether Tyrion is playing her false or no, Sansa has given him the answer he wants to hear. She’s kept all of her doors open without creating additional risk for herself.

Having to survive Joffrey every day also teaches Sansa how to get what she wants without actually having to say it. When she saves Dontos’ life, she plays to Joffrey’s ego:

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

All Sansa wants is to save Dontos’ life, and in the moment she comes up with a spectacular lie. Of course Joffrey would think it humiliating to make Dontos into a fool, so Sansa convinces him that would be an even greater punishment than death. She manipulates Joffrey into doing what she wants him to, and he doesn’t even know it’s happened.

Learning how to slyly insult Joffrey is one of the few ways Sansa can actually express herself as a prisoner, and she gets incredibly good at it. She starts by passive-aggressively getting one over on him:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

But as she gets better at politics she goes even further, actively tempting Joffrey into getting himself killed:

“They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest,” she said recklessly. “Though he’s older than Your Grace, to be sure. A man grown.”

Joffrey’s biggest insecurity is that he can’t rule in his own right; Cersei won’t let him do certain things, and Tyrion is in charge of him as the Hand of the King because he hasn’t come of age yet. While Joffrey’s anger is normally aimed destructively at Sansa, here she figures out a way to make it work for her; using his own emotions against him to do something reckless.

As well as learning the art of political double-speak, Sansa starts to understand the broader political machinations at work. Because she was a diligent student of Catelyn and Septa Mordane, she has almost every sigil in Westeros memorized; at Joffrey’s name-day tourney, she recognizes every competitor by their House. This may seem unimportant at first glance, but it’s actually very important; twice in Arya’s chapters in A Clash of Kings she wishes she knew Houses and Sigils as well as Sansa, because than she would know who she was dealing with.

Since Sansa knows who everyone is, she has head start in understanding where everyone’s loyalties lie. On top of that, she’s also incredibly observant; she’s constantly taking in everything around her, stopping to pay attention to every little detail and interaction between people. Even though Cersei and Joffrey are trying to keep it hidden, Sansa notices that Joffrey’s tourney is held inside the Keep because he would be mobbed if they went out into the city. And she knows the Redwyne twins are hostages just as much as she is:

The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests, even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.

That’s not something anyone would have told Sansa. For one, no one is even allowed to talk to her per Cersei’s orders. For two, Cersei doesn’t let anyone acknowledge that she has hostages – in the same way Sansa has to pretend she is a guest of Joffrey’s court, the Redwynes have to pretend they’re willing guests. That means that Sansa, with no help from anyone, has of her own accord put all the pieces together and realized the Redwynes are political pawns just like her. Very impressive for a twelve-year-old.

Sansa’s attention to detail is clear when she meets Shae, and immediately notices something is not right with her:

Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to show her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes.

And when she’s entering Maegar’s Holdfast at the start of the Blackwater, and notices the guards:

The two guards at the door wore the lin-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair – a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his knees – but he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Westerosi Houses and her attention to detail combine to give her a really good head for political machinations. She sees how the Lannisters use empty titles to flatter their lesser servants while saving the best prizes for their family:

Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister.

She manages to keep pace with Littlefinger and Tywin’s games:

She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

I cannot emphasize enough that Sansa, following the tiny thread of Littlefinger looks happy to be Lord of Harrenhal, manages to predict the Red Wedding a whole book before it happens. That’s pretty incredible. Right now, Sansa has no power to start pulling meaningful strings of her own, but it’s clear that she fundamentally understands the complexity of geopolitics and would be well-prepared to make decisions of her own when the time comes.

Another way Sansa continues to learn about the realities of ruling is through people around her trying to teach her lessons. Because Sansa’s a hostage and isn’t allowed to say anything she feels, she basically becomes a blank slate for people to project whatever they want onto. Cersei, Dontos, and the Hound all try to “teach” her something as they project all of their own fears, insecurities, and trauma onto her.

Dontos tells her to play the fool:

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?”

Of course, Sansa already knows this. All the way back in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, Sansa thinks to herself that Moon Boy is smarter than he looks and is only pretending to be a fool so he can go wherever he likes; and Dontos confirms her suspicions when he reveals Moon Boy is a spy for Lord Varys.

It’s a consistent pattern that everyone around Sansa is constantly underestimating her; partly because of their own biases, and partly because Sansa is an almost entirely internal character, rarely letting people hear her honest thoughts. People assume she’s as hollow as the words they force her to say, but in reality she’s an introvert and a hostage.

The Hound also feels the need to impart some “lessons” onto Sansa:

Sandor Clegane snorted. “Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you.”

Again, he’s assuming Sansa’s much dumber than she actually is. Sansa already knows that everyone in King’s Landing is a liar, and has sworn to herself never to trust them again.

The most valuable lessons Sansa gets are from Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”

In this moment, even though she’s not doing a particularly good job actually doing it, Cersei articulates what’s really important about politics: optics. Her true motives for protecting the Ladies don’t matter as long as the Ladies believe that Cersei is doing it for the right reasons. That’s what monarchies are built upon. They’re a fragile house of cards constructed out of people’s belief.

That’s a lesson Sansa learns again when Joffrey sets her aside and takes Margaery as his bride. Sansa knows it’s going to happen, and is coached by Cersei how to react:

I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her, no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”

But in front of the court, Joffrey carries on the charade, pretending Garlan’s offer of his sister’s hand is brand new information. Sansa watches from the sidelines and sees how people react; chanting and cheering to the theatre of it all. She gets to learn in real time how important it is to be performing your duties for the people. Other characters – most notably Jon Snow and Daenerys – can never quite figure that part of ruling out, and it has grave consequences.

I don’t mean performing in the negative sense. Of course, it can be used like that, like when the Tyrell’s intentionally starve King’s Landing so they can swoop in and make a big show of providing food. But it can also be used for good; it is an absolutely necessary aspect of ruling to let your people know what you’re doing for them. Jon in particular gets in trouble at the Wall because he doesn’t explain why he does things; he just does them and hopes people will trust him. Part of the courtly aspect of ruling is doing the work of showing your people how you’re helping them. That way you build trust with them, and they know you care for them. That’s what Sansa’s learning how to do.

Sansa’s also very good at the literal courtly aspect of politics; the time actually spent in court, sitting for hours and hours as the tedious day-to-day of ruling takes place. After the Battle of the Blackwater is over, Sansa has to sit in court for an entire day as soldiers are given their reward. She manages to stay focused the whole time, giving incredibly detailed accounts of each prize that’s awarded and each act of valor that caused it. She handles herself better than the grown men in the hall:

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave.

Actual adults can’t even tolerate it, but Sansa manages just fine. This talent of hers is taken for granted by readers, but really stands out when you compare it to other characters. Sansa has the benefit of being raised to be a Lady, unlike a character like Daenerys who never had to sit through the training. Dany can’t make it through one day holding court in Meereen, and calls a lid early because she’s so bored – then stops holding court all together. Actually being a Queen is horribly bureaucratic, and that’s a skill that takes some practice to be able to perform.

Sansa’s ability to hold her own as a leader also really shines during the Battle of the Blackwater, when all hope seems lost and Cersei abandons the women in Maegar’s Holdfast:

“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”

“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”

“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”

Sansa has no reason to do this. Cersei has given Ser Ilyn orders to kill her if the castle falls, and all the women in the holdfast are older than she is. She’s the last person who should be capable of standing up to take charge, considering her age and her impending death by execution.

She knows she’s faced with a choice: try and save her own life, or stay and comfort the women in the holdfast. And she decides to stay.

True Knights

This book sees Sansa’s worldview start to deepen. She’s only a child when the series starts, and like most kids has a very simple understanding of the world; there’s good and bad people, and good and bad things that happen. Songs were the way Sansa gave that worldview structure. They taught her that the good things happened to the good people, and the bad things happened to the bad people. Westeros is fair, and only the good people could be put in charge to do good things. Kings, queens, and knights were all avatars of the inherent goodness of the world; people put in place specifically to protect others.

This worldview became unsustainable for Sansa after Ned’s death. Every single rule the songs taught her was violated by her father’s execution. In her last chapter of A Game of Thrones, we see Sansa turn to nihilism as a result; her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and the knights sworn to protect her are the ones beating her. She doesn’t believe in anything anymore, so much so that she just wants to die.

In A Clash of Kings, Sansa starts to grapple with the overwhelming cognitive dissonance. Ned’s death and Joffrey’s cruelty taught her how evil people can be; but she also knows how good they can be, because she grew up in Winterfell. For all of their shortcomings, Ned and Catelyn were loving parents who tried their best to do good, and raised their kids the same.

Sansa still believes in goodness, but sees that everyone around her fails to live up to it:

Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.

Notice how she thinks They are no true knights. Sansa is surrounded by unimaginable cruelty, but she holds on to an undying sense of optimism. She knows that real knights don’t fight for the right, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to believe in those ideals. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, when her belief in good was attached to specific people like Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa’s new worldview isn’t dependent on people to live up to. She believes in doing the right thing no matter what, even if the people around her let her down.

Sansa’s conception of beauty is the same way; in the first book, she assumed that beautiful people must also be good. But in A Clash of Kings, she reverses that order; people become either beautiful or ugly to her based on how good or bad they are. We view Joffrey through many POVs, and it is clear that by any standard that he is objectively attractive; yet Sansa now finds him ugly:

His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

And she thinks this of the Hound:

The scars are not the worst part, not even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.

It’s not his physical appearance that scares her, it’s the anger in his eyes. That’s the part of him that’s ugly to her.

This evolution in Sansa’s understanding is never clearer than in her interactions with Dontos. The parts of his appearance that Sansa finds unattractive are his blotchy skin and broken veins, which are both symptoms of his constant drinking. It’s his drinking that bothers her:

“I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?”

. . .

This is madness, to trust myself to this drunkard

But Sansa manages to look beyond that as soon as Dontos invokes Florian the Fool. As much as Sansa understands that the songs aren’t true, the idea still appeal to her. When Dontos says he wants to make amends and become a true knight, in spirit if not name, Sansa treats him as if he actually were a knight:

“Rise, ser.”

. . .

Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. “My Florian,” she whispered. “The gods heard my prayer.”

Sansa’s growing understanding of the world around her also changes the way she thinks of class. To some extent in A Song of Ice and Fire, every single character is classist because they’re all rich people in an extremely hierarchical society. The entire structure of kings, lord paramounts, lords, knights, and peasants requires you to be classist; if you believe everyone in Westeros is equal, the entire structure of the society crumbles. While some of the POV characters like Jon and Davos make great strides in understanding how bankrupt the Westerosi class structure is, they’re still generally classist; it’s almost impossible not to be when you grow up in the culture they did. Davos grew up poor, but the indoctrination of classism has given him an almost religious fervor to follow Stannis as the “true” king.

Sansa especially had a very rigid understanding of class in A Game of Thrones; Arya making friends with the butcher’s boy was anathema to her. But the more that Sansa sees the people in power as the monsters they really are, the more sympathy she has for the people below her. In the sept praying before the Battle of the Blackwater, she holds hands with a washerwoman:

The old woman’s hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy’s small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to

The more Cersei and Joffrey try to isolate Sansa, the more they try to snuff out any feeling of goodness or loyalty she had, the more Sansa reaches out to connect with people. Everything bad that happens to her makes her feel more connected to the people of King’s Landing. She’s too young and privileged (class-wise) to have a fully functioning understanding of the true evils of hierarchy, but she fundamentally understands something most of the aristocracy do not: that the common people are people and should be treated with respect.

She knows the common people will suffer the most if Stannis breaches the city walls, and prays for theme:

She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike

Sansa gladly positions herself alongside the working people, not offended to be among them the way the Lannisters certainly are.

Sansa’s deepening worldview also gives her an incredibly complex relationship to the songs and stories she used to love. As I’ve already mentioned, she doesn’t disown them entirely; the high ideals of the songs are still very important to Sansa. The concept of a true knight, who would actually defend the defenseless, is the cornerstone of Sansa’s belief system, and she doesn’t need that person to actually be a knight – as long as they fulfill the moral obligation of being good. (Little does she know that very person is later tasked to find her.)

But now she knows that the stories lie. She understands their role as propaganda; when Arys Oakheart tries to say the peasants believe the comet heralds Joffrey’s reign, she doesn’t believe him:

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure.

And she can’t even finish a sentence defending knights without realizing it isn’t true:

“Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.”

“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

The words ring hollow in her ears because Sansa does know what happens when a city is sacked; earlier in a previous chapter, she thinks this:

The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Cersei underestimates Sansa, assuming everything she knows is from a song, but here we see that Sansa knows that the songs don’t tell the whole story. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, she no longer holds them in complete reverence. The Sept used to represent everything beautiful about the songs to her:

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli.

It was the song’s come to life. But after Ned’s death, she hates it:

When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”

She literally wants to set fire to the things that used to represent the songs.

But songs and stories are the foundation of Sansa’s world; even though she doesn’t believe in them the way she used to, they still shape her perception. She doesn’t want to let them go:

There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

She still uses the template of songs and stories to interact with the world, but now with the understanding that the world is so much more complicated. Whereas before, the songs represented a sanitized version of war, Sansa begins to understand it in its entirety:

Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.

It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

Thinking about something through the lens of a song no longer represents a childish fantasy for Sansa. Her conception of them is no longer permanent; her view of the songs has changed to fit with her new reality, but it’s still a comforting way for her to make sense of the world around her.

She even incorporates her love of the songs into her political manipulations:

"You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much."

"I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please . . . not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear for you to have ill luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so . . ."

Her use of the songs nearly saves her life here. Joffrey doesn’t know enough to be sure that she’s lying, so once the Hound corroborates her story, he has to believe it’s true.

Sansa’s attachment to the stories is integral to her character, and GRRM does a tremendous job of making it important to the arc she starts in this book, which is her continued journey from pawn to player in the Game of Thrones. Sansa’s perspective as a political actor is entirely unique from anyone else for many reasons, and one of those is her connection to the ideal version of Westeros that lives in the songs. Even as Sansa realizes the songs are lies and that the world is so much darker than she thought, she never gives up on the hope that it could be good. Her unwavering optimism for the world, in the face of so much trauma, means that she will never stop trying to make the world better.

Flowering

Throughout her time in King’s Landing, Sansa’s experiences with sexuality are inextricably linked to violence. The way Joffrey physically abuses her comes with a nasty undercurrent of sexual violence. The total control he exerts over her means she has to let him do what he wants:

The king settled back in his seat and took Sansa's hand. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made herself sit very still.

The subtext of that scene is drawn to the forefront when Joffrey has Sansa beaten after Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

. . .

“Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.

This is one of Sansa’s first experiences with sexuality, and it is nonconsensual and done specifically to humiliate her.

The relationship between sex and violence is never clearer than at the start of the Blackwater:

"Bless my steel with a kiss." He extended the blade down to her. "Go on, kiss it."

He had never sounded more like a stupid little boy. Sansa touched her lips to the metal, thinking that she would kiss any number of swords sooner than Joffrey

Joffrey is asking Sansa to kiss his sword; the metaphor here is not exactly subtle. To Joffrey, sex and violence are one in the same; having power over someone, hurting someone, turns him on as much as physical attraction. And as his betrothed, Sansa is on the receiving end of his sexually charged violence.

Unlike Joffrey, Sansa’s not turned on by violence, seeing it and sexuality as two separates things. And she would rather suffer through the violence, thinking to herself she would rather kiss the sword than kiss Joffrey. Her experiences with being found attractive to someone have all been so traumatic that actual violence scares her less.

Arguably the most traumatic experience she has is during the bread riot:

Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron's head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.

In the nightmares she has of that day, she dreams of being murdered; a knife cutting through her stomach until she’s left in bloody ribbons. It’s not hard to see the violent sexual imagery in that description. Sansa knows what those men planned on doing to her, and the memory haunts her. It’s no coincidence that she wakes from those nightmares to her first period:

“No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

The way GRRM writes her reaction is so visceral. As tears streams down her cheeks, she tries to wash herself, cuts apart her sheets, burns them, and tries to drag her entire bed into the flames as well. And the whole time she does this, she keeps thinking They’ll know or What will I tell them? or I have to burn them. She’s so completely and utterly terrified that anyone could ever know, she’s hardly even thinking. It’s just sheer, overwhelming panic.

This line in particular stands out:

The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

Down to jewelry she wears and the way she styles her hair, Sansa’s body belongs to Joffrey. Her job in King’s Landing is to look pretty for him in the hopes that it will save her from his wrath. Her body exists solely to please him. She’s literally stripped of her own agency and control.

Flowering is the last straw for Sansa because it means she can be tied forever to Joffrey through marriage, and he’ll be free to rape her and force her to have his children. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to stop it. Her own body has betrayed her by merely existing.

Sansa’s period is again equated to physical violence during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“You look pale, Sansa,” Cersei observed. “Is your red flower still blooming?”

“Yes.”

“How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.”

Then a second time, Cersei compares sex to violence:

“You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it.”

Through Cersei’s eyes, we get the clearest summary of the point GRRM is trying to make. Existing as a woman in Westeros is inherently oppressive to the point of smothering the life out of her. Where the men are given swords, women are given marriage and childbirth; but the latter is no less violent than the former. In Cersei’s words:

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.��

“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.

“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”

In many ways, Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is centered around this idea; the violence of femininity in Westeros. Being a child isn’t enough to spare Sansa the horrors. The whole reason she’s trapped in King’s Landing to begin with is because of her body; the Lannisters want to use her like property – a broodmare to sire them sons to inherit Winterfell.

It’s no surprise the climax of Sansa’s chapters in A Clash of Kings pushes this concept to its furthest bounds . . .

Ser Dontos and The Hound

Throughout Sansa’s chapters in King’s Landing, GRRM is deconstructing the trope of the Princess in the Tower. Sansa more than any other character is aware that her life takes place within a story, and she prays to the gods to send her a hero to save from the Red Keep. GRRM had already subverted the idea of a charming Prince with Joffrey in the first book, so A Clash of Kings subverts the trope of a knight coming to save her. That’s why her two protectors in King’s Landing are Dontos and Sandor Clegane – two men who aren’t quite knights.

For most of the book, the narrative treats Dontos and Sandor as foils. The story of why either one is not a knight puts them on two opposite ends of a spectrum. Dontos has his knighthood taken away from him because he’s too soft. He would rather drink and let people laugh at him than fight with a sword, which is why Joffrey makes him a fool. On the other hand, the Hound likes killing too much to be a knight:

“Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

This dichotomy between them is made clearer in the way Sansa has to escape their advances. Around Dontos, she’s dodging kisses:

"Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck." He swayed toward her.

Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep.

But it’s a steel kiss she has to dodge from the Hound:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

The idea of Dontos and Sandor as opposites is driven home further by their different approaches to Sansa’s love of stories; Dontos uses it to win Sansa’s trust:

“I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you . . . your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself." His voice dropped. "The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all . . ."

"Florian," Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her.

"Sweet lady, I would be your Florian," Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her.

The Hound uses it to berate and belittle her:

“There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

But underneath the superficial differences, Dontos and the Hound have the exact same relationship to Sansa. When Joffrey is having her beat after Robb’s victory at Oxcross, both make efforts to help her – Dontos volunteering to hit her with a melon instead of a sword, and the Hound telling Joffrey “enough” – but stop short of doing anything that would put themselves in danger. They both make advances on Sansa against her will – Dontos with kisses and the Hound with knives, but the overt sexual nature of both cannot be denied. They both position themselves to Sansa as a sort of mentor figure, telling her how to act and what to believe, with the implicit (and often explicit) message that she’s not smart enough to think for herself and it would really be in her best interest if she just trusted them instead. Both men position themselves as Sansa’s “protector”, but they never protect her from much of anything; in the few moments they’re actually given the opportunity, like during the Battle of the Blackwater, they both panic and leave her to fend for herself.

What really connects the two men is how they use Sansa. To them, she’s the paragon of youth and innocence; the way she believes in the stories reminds them both of what they used to be like before the world beat them down. Sandor was a boy who played with toy knights before Gregor burned his face, and Dontos was saved as a child by the knight of knights Barristan Selmy. While they’ve both grown jaded, Sansa brings out the parts of them that still believe in the stories. That’s clear from the way Dontos reacts to the Lannisters winning the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

And even though the Hound claims to hate the stories, it’s a song he wants from Sansa:

“Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids.”

Sansa as the princess in a tower appeals to the fantasy of both men to be her hero.

But this is a subversion of that trope, not a straight retelling. Particularly in regards to Sandor, GRRM really deconstructs the destructive nature of this male fantasy. Before Sandor asks Sansa to sing him a song, he comments on her body:

“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost . . .”

Sandor wanting to play the knight with Sansa is always tied to his sexual attraction to her; in every single instance, GRRM always ties them together. There is never one without the other. It should go without saying that this is not good; Sansa is barely twelve, and hasn’t even had her first period when Sandor’s sexual advances start. She is a child. In Maegar’s Holdfast, she’s shocked that men would view her sexually:

“Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.”

“Me?”

“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember?”

This passage also very clearly draws the connection between Sandor’s relationship to Sansa and violence. Cersei explains to Sansa the way battle makes men into monsters around women, and then the next chapter Sandor appears in Sansa’s bedroom with a knife. This is not meant to be a romantic scene, or else GRRM would not have framed it with threats of rape and violence.

This is further re-enforced by the song Sansa sings to Sandor. When he holds the knife to her neck, he demands she sing the song of Florian and Jonquil:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

But Sansa can’t remember the words, and instead sings the Mother’s Mercy hymn:

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

It is incredibly symbolic that the Hound demands Sansa sing him a song of romance, but she physically can’t; the only song she can remember the words to is one of forgiveness.

So much of Sansa’s narrative in A Clash of Kings is people demanding things that she can’t give them. Joffrey wants her loyalty, Cersei wants her words, Tyrion wants her trust, and Dontos and Sandor want her love. Everyone is pulling her in different directions, and her entire personality starts to crumble under the pressure; there’s no way she can give all of these people everything they want. Something has to give.

And when Sansa can no longer play her role, when the fear of dying is too visceral for her to wear her courtesy like an armor, the one thing Sansa can still give Sandor is her mercy. . .

Radical Empathy

The running thread that connects all of the themes in Sansa’s chapters is her being trapped. Physically through Joffrey’s abuse, emotionally through Joffrey, Cersei, Dontos, and Sandor, and even by herself mentally as she begins to internalize the abuse. Everything about the Red Keep is meant to turn Sansa cruel and self-interested, just like everybody else; even if they aren’t intentionally cruel like Joffrey, they’re okay with Sansa being hurt because that’s just how life is, like Cersei. Or Dontos and the Hound, who don’t intend to hurt Sansa but do because they’re too caught up in their own narrative to acknowledge her humanity. Even Arys Oakheart, who really doesn’t want to hurt her, but is too afraid to say no and defy the class structure of Westeros.

That makes Sansa’s defiance through empathy stand out in such radical contrast. The kindness Sansa shows everyone, even those who hurt her, is how GRRM brings the songs to life. Sansa doesn’t love those stories because she’s silly and naïve; she loves them because they justify her belief in the inherent goodness of being kind.

Empathy and kindness are Sansa’s defining character traits, and that’s why her arc in A Clash of Kings opens with her saving Dontos’ life:

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.

Even though just moments earlier she had noted Joffrey’s mood was turning dark:

The way Sansa stands up for Dontos is particularly notable because he had the chance to do the same for her in A Game of Thrones, but chose not to:

Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

- Sansa V

Dontos wouldn’t even risk treating Sansa with basic courtesy, yet she risked her live to save his.

And that’s not the only time Sansa stands up to Joffrey to save someone:

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.

- Tyrion IX

The only other character we ever see move to actually stand up to Joffrey is Tyrion, who is also the only person in court who doesn’t have to be afraid of Joffrey’s retaliation. Everyone else sits by day after day and watches as Joffrey abuses Sansa and says nothing; or worse, they actively participate. But whenever Sansa sees Joffrey hurting someone, she risks herself to make him stop.

Sansa also uses her kindness to give herself courage:

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

She’s too afraid to speak back at Joffrey when he’s abusing her, but as soon as she sees him mistreat Tommen, she finds the courage to stand up for others.

Kindness is almost an involuntary reflex for Sansa:

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

Lancel Lannister, who stood by and egged the crowd on as Sansa was stripped and beaten after the Battle at Oxcross. She has every reason not to help him; she knows if she stays in that room, with the battle all but lost, Ser Ilyn is going to kill her solely because of the Lannisters’ spite. She has no reason to stay and help Lancel. But she can’t stop herself.

The moment where Sansa’s kindness stands out the most, though, is when the Hound comes to her room during Blackwater:

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.

I think reading this passage out of context is what allows certain fans to paint this scene in a romantic light. The softness of Sansa reaching out to touch Sandor is an indelible moment. But it does the moment a disservice to read it that way. This scene is so well written because of what comes before it:

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” he heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

Afraid for her life, Sansa closes her eyes. But Sandor is too bitter, jaded, and wrapped up in his own self to realize that’s why she closes her eyes; he thinks it’s because she still can’t look at the burned ruin of his face. He came to her room with kindness the furthest thing from his mind; the flames dancing on the Blackwater Rush made him scared like a wild animal, and he’s come here to get something from Sansa – whether she wants to give it or no.

(And while certain people are interested in carrying a lot of water to redeem this character, GRRM has really left no ambiguity in Sandor’s intentions. The passage He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed, taken in tandem with his confession to Arya, I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf, make it very clear that Sandor intended to rape Sansa. That is not up for debate.)

Sansa singing the Mother’s Mercy hymn is the last thing Sandor expected. The idea that in this moment, as Sandor becomes all of the worst things he’s ever believed about himself, about to do one of the most monstrous acts a person can do – that in that moment, Sansa could still show him mercy, is enough to stop him. He can no longer pretend that all the songs are lies and that everyone is only pretending to be good, because in this moment Sansa is still somehow capable of showing him kindness.

Sansa’s ability to have empathy for seemingly irredeemable characters is not limited to Sandor (though certain shippers would like to pretend that’s some unique characteristic of their relationship, it most certainly is not). The dynamic between Sansa and Cersei is so rich because of Sansa’s inability to hate her, even though Cersei is responsible for pretty much every bad thing in Sansa’s life.

The Sansa and Cersei dynamic is one of the narrative’s most dynamic and complex, as Cersei represents a dark mirror of Sansa. Both were in love with the idea of becoming Queen as children, but arrived in King’s Landing to find their Prince is not who they thought he would be – Cersei both literally and figuratively, as she realizes she’s not to marry Rhaegar Targaryen but instead Robert Baratheon. They’re both subjected to emotional and physical abuse by the King for things that aren’t their fault – Robert hates Cersei because she isn’t Lyanna, and Joffrey hates Sansa because of his fight with Arya on the Trident.

But Cersei’s Lannister upbringing and life have made her cruel in all the ways Sansa is kind. She can see the parallels between herself and Sansa, but instead of reacting with empathy, she uses it to justify her cruelty:

“You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did.”

Being afraid of the men in her life has taught Cersei that’s the correct way to wield power:

“Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

But Sansa reacts the opposite way:

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

This line has become the definitive statement of Sansa’s character because it so wholly embodies her ethos. Cruelty is not in her nature, and her instinct is always to show kindness. It also ties a direct connection to her own personal experiences shaping how she wants to be as Queen:

“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”

Sansa knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she never wants anyone else to ever feel like that. Where the cruelty Cersei suffered taught her it was normal and good to rule that way, Sansa learns what it feels like to be at someone else’s mercy. If she ever has control over someone, which she will in books to come, she’s learned to always be kind because she knows what it feels like when someone isn’t.

All of her chapters in A Clash of Kings are full of moments that show how much Sansa values kindness. While I’ve already highlighted the life or death examples, she also shines in the small moments, like when she encourages Tommen before he faces the quintain at Joffrey’s name day tourney. And she comforts him when Myrcella leaves for Dorne:

Prince Tommen sobbed. "You mew like a suckling babe," his brother hissed at him. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon," Sansa Stark said, "and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

- Tyrion IX

She tries to comfort Lollys Stokeworth across the bridge to Maegar’s Holdfast:

She greeted them courteously. “May I be of help?”

Lady Tanda flushed with shame. “No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well.”

“I don’t want to.” Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. “Please, please, I don’t want to.”

Sansa spoke to her gently. “We’ll all be thrice protected inside, and there’s to be food and drink and song as well.”

Her prayer in the Sept before the battle starts shows just how much she cares for everyone:

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

There’s only one person in the whole of Westeros Sansa won’t extend her empathy to:

But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

This line feels especially important. A lesson that’s drilled into Sansa time and time again by Cersei and Sandor is that her kindness makes her weak. It was used against her in A Game of Thrones, where her trust in Cersei and Joffrey left her completely vulnerable to Ned’s death. But this passage shows that it is not weakness that makes Sansa kind - it’s strength. For a character as kind as she is, and subjected to so much abuse, it would be easy to see her narrative as someone repeatedly letting herself be run over. By including this line, showing that Sansa’s empathy is a choice she makes – and making it clear that she chooses not to have it for Joffrey – it shows that Sansa still has control over herself, and will set boundaries.

Instead of using her experiences in a negative way like Cersei, Sansa learns to carefully apply the lessons of her life; she won’t let abuse stop her from being kind, but she knows when to stop herself from trusting someone again.

Because Sansa’s kindness and optimism are the most important aspects of her character, her arc in A Clash of Kings ends there. Joffrey setting her aside in favor of Margaery is an emotional rollercoaster for Sansa:

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”

He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”

Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, the narrative is constantly testing Sansa’s commitment to her ideals. Everything she knows is constantly turned on its head, going from a dream to a nightmare. The momentary joy she feels knowing she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey is only allowed for a second, until it collides with Dontos’ harsh reality.

But instead of ending there, the narrative takes a page out of Sansa’s book and leaves on a vision of hope for the future:

It was a hair net of fine spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”

“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”

“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”

#Sansa Stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #just over 15000 words #which is a new personal record #sansa meta

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exalted--zealotry · 9 months

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"Ah. Yet another year has passed, has it? I almost forgot."

#( i must attend to matters of the court... [ic.] )#( a spirit's observations. [dash commentary.] )#( Happy birthday Anri )#( You literal fucking ghost )#( Only a quick thing since I think Dynamite is starting soon )#( If not I might do something more )

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uwuwriting · 4 years

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Sakusa and Ushijima seeing their wife and child at their game.

Request: UM EXCUSE ME BUT DAD PRO PLAYERS ARE A MUST HAVE IN MY LIFE. I know you haven’t done anything with dads yet but maybe Skusa and Ushijima seeing their wife and child at one of their game. It’s a surprise though so they don’t expect it. THANK YOU!

OMG ANON THIS IS AN AMAZING ASK. I have another dad related ask which I’ll get to later this week I hope *or maybe next week*. I haven’t written Sakusa before so I’m sorry if he’s a little OOC. Hope you like it. Love yaa.💖💖💖

rules

warnings: fluff

characters are aged up

Sakusa Kiyoomi

-How did you manage to end up with a child from this man?

-I mean mister germaphobe here actually slept with someone? And got her pregnant?

-In all seriousness he would do anything for you and his son.

-From the moment he was born, Oomi was wrapped around his little finger.

-Not being able to see you two as much as he wants leads to him being kind of a push over with both of you.

-He will shower you with affection after sanitizing you, the house, your son and himself giving you as any kisses as possible and then cuddling you during the night, holding you as close as possible.

-As for your son...he will be spoiled from sunrise to nightfall.

-He wants a new volleyball even though he has 3? Done.

-He wants a toy that he saw at some random store? Done.

-You’ll have to talk to Oomi about it since you are starting to become the bad guy since you are the one who says NO every once in a while.

-Poor man wants to make up for lost time.

-Your son has gotten into volleyball of course, even at the early age of five he already trains with his dad whenever he can.

-So when Oomi has a game that isn’t in another country your son is ecstatic.

- “Daddy’s game is in Tokyo this time! It’s not that far! Can we go please????”

-You wanted to go yourself, it had been ages since you had seen one of his games in person.

-So you agreed under the condition that he keep it a secret.

- “Let it be a surprise for daddy hm?”

-Once Oomi left for the match you went to your bedroom and put one your Black Jackals n. 15 jersey.

-Then you went to your son’s room finding him struggling to put on his makeshift MSBY 15 jersey that his dad bought him for Christmas.

-You helped him and you were out the door in no time.

-Entering the gym you took your seats in the bleachers and waited for the match to begin.

-Usually you would text or call Sakusa to wish him good luck but not this time.

-And boy did it affect him.

-He was so grumpy during warm up until he heard a very familiar squeal when they stepped on the court and were getting into receiving position.

-Looking at the bleachers he immediately spotted you, holding your son in your arms both of you adorning his number.

-He was filled with so much determination and giddiness that it was a shocker to Atsumu who saw his teammate smile for the first time.

-After a successful game, he will rush home accompanied by the two of you, listening to his son rambling on about what he saw and what he wanted to learn.

-He will shower doing his usual routine of sanitizing and cleansing his skin from germs with the power of the gods before scooping both of you up and cuddling you on the couch.

-He thanks you for going to his game because you pushed him to give his all.

-Might promise his son to take him to his practice the next day.

Ushijima Wakatoshi

-Our baby Toshi here has wanted to start a family with you for so long.

-Since you graduated high school and moved in together to be exact.

-He knows however that his occupation keeps him away from home a lot and he wouldn’t want to raise a child who doesn’t know him.

-He wants to be there for everything.

-So when you announce a few years later that you’re pregnant he is almost panicking.

-He has to be here for everything.

-You sit down and talk things through agreeing and making compromises, finally getting to the exciting part that was that you were having a baby!!

-Fast forward five years later and now you are a mother of two.

-A five year old boy who has you hair and his eyes.

-And a three year old girl who has his hair and your eyes.

-They are literally a mix match result of the both of you.

-Despite their age they are both crazy over volleyball, practicing with their dad when he doesn’t have practice and even attending his practices running around catching balls.

-They are adorable to say the least.

-Toshi is there for the majority of the important moments and he spends all his free time with them, trying to make up for lost time.

-They always accompany you to the airport to say goodbye no matter the time and are always with you to meet him when he comes back.

-Facetime before going to bed is a must if you want them to sleep in their beds, otherwise they’ll take over your bed and basically kick you out.

- “We didn’t talk to daddy!” your daughter would say with a pout that looked too much like your own.

- “Yeah and now you lose bed privileges.” your son would add before hopping onto the bed.

-At first you thought they were kidding but when they wouldn’t budge you had to call Wakatoshi and complain about your kids’ bullying.

-He would of course laugh at first and then ask to see them.

-So yeah.. they are overly attached to him.

-It makes you jealous at times.

-So when a game was close to your house the kids started acting more like angels than ever.

-They would do whatever you wanted and not question you.

-That’s how you knew that they wanted to go to the game.

-You see your kids had two modes 1) I’ll help you drive mom crazy and 2) don’t you dare breath in my direction.

-So when they both wanted the same thing mode n. 1 is in constant affect and you’re kinda scared of how easily they work together when they want to.

-You surprise them with shirts with their dad’s jersey number as you yourself are wearing one of his older jerseys.

-Now your daughter prefers your shirt and will ask if there’s another one which she can wear as a dress but sadly there isn’t (she would also look like a potato sack with Ushijima’s huge shirt one her).

-When you get to your seats the match is starting and your son is scanning the other team as they serve.

-Both Ushijima children follow the ball with such concentration like wow.

-Then the ball falls on the opposite side and dad Ushijima is going for a serve.

-Both of them are screaming/chanting for their dad and you were certain that they were they were the loudest in the gym.

-Ushijima looks at them( he spots them immediately no matter where he is )and gives them a soft smile, his whole body swelling with bride and fuzziness.

-The whole game continues with the two of them cheering and you laughing next to them as you see how terrified some of the opponents are.

-True Ushijima strength right here.

-After the game its ice cream and a family outing because he is just so happy and proud he could combust.

TAG TEAM AY:

@brattyquirks @the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings

#haikyuu sakusa #sakusa #sakusa x y/n #sakusa x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima haikyuu #ushijima x reader #ushijima x y/n #haikyuu x reader #haikyu!!#haikyuu

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hrwinter · 4 years

Note

How about one where Kara turning the tables by flexing her biceps/showing off her back muscles and abs

Lena’s never cared much for tennis. Her family owns some billion dollar thing-or-other, but she hasn’t ever actually made a public appearance or attended a match. Despite her last name being inked on every bright yellow ball, a classic, universally recognizable ‘L,’ Lena’s historically been more invested in completing her engineering PhD. And decidedly less interested in sunlight and hand eye coordination. She does just fine pouring a martini, thank you.

“Lena, you simply must come,” her brother begs one sunny afternoon. They’re lounging poolside at their vacation home for spring break.

“It’s the semi-final of the National City Open. We’re invited to sit in Sara Lance’s box seats, and she’s playing a local.”

Lena shoots her brother a sidelong, maligned glaze. She lifts her scientific journal back up.

“Remind me why we’re sitting in the Swede’s box? Isn’t that a touch anti-American?”

Lex leans across his pool chaise, and Lena blocks his appealing face by turning the page.

“I’ll get you all the RumChata champagne you want. There’s a whole tent.”

Lena’s magazine stays up. She reads the same sentence 8 times.

“Fine, bottle service, a whole booth,” he raises.

Lena hates it when Lex gets this way, she can never say no.

She looks up. “It’s not far from here?”

“Twenty minutes,” he endears, eyes rounded and hopeful.

Lena groans, shutting her journal.

—

The jubilant air of anticipation before the match is more exciting than Lena will ever admit, dead or alive. The massive stadium is filled with a chatter of all stages of inebriation, both quiet and loud. Lance has three other celebrities in her box (she’s a popular player) and even Lena knows who two of them are, which is impressive given the “hobbit cave” Lena lives in at MIT.

“Seriously, I worry about your vitamin-D levels,” Lex mocks, but Lex doesn’t know dick-all about Vitamin D, or any vitamin for that matter. His primary study at Yale was pretty girls.

Currently, her brother is sucking down a strawberry laden glass of Moet & Chandon at the speed of light while charming the Princess of Morocco or whoever.

Lena rolls her eyes, glancing back to the court, adjusting her blocky sunglasses. She’s reaching the first stages of uncomfortably warm, the slight flop sweat forming at her brow under her wide brimmed sun hat most unwelcome. If she gets a sun burn, she’s going to flay Lex alive.

Maybe wearing all black was a mistake.

“Are we going to a wake?” he’d asked before they left. “Are you trying to suck all the light out of the desert?”

If only.

Down on the court, the players do a coin toss and begin to warm up. Lena hasn’t really taken a proper look at Lance’s opponent. It’s another crisply tan, All-American looking blonde. Lena dismisses her as fairly run-of-the-mill until she notices that the player is taller than Lance, taller even than she looked in the match guide. Six feet, maybe? She’s perfectly toned, too. Well-muscled. An honest to god Amazon.

Those arms, Lena thinks, they’re bulky. She can see the line of muscle across her shoulders ripple as she takes her ground strokes. She hits so hard, the ball strikes the strings in a whip crack, and there’s an answering flush in Lena’s body that has nothing to do with the sun.

She misses her drink straw entirely when she goes to take a sip, mouthing at thin air.

“Distracted, are we?”

Lena nearly jumps as her brother presses his face conspiratorially to hers.

“Shut up,” she replies in her imitation best of cool reserve, not taking her eyes off the other player.

She doesn’t need to see the smirk on his face to know it’s there.

Feeling suddenly and infinitely more invested, Lena does some quick research on her phone. How is the game played? How do you win? What’s this player’s name?

Kara Danvers. 22. Up and coming. Won junior Wimbledon. Single.

The only thing more impressive than her serve, apparently, is her thousand watt smile. Her teeth are the blinding white of a tooth paste commercial model.

When the match starts, Lena can’t tear her eyes away. She sits in a monk-like silence. A meditation on the beauty of movement, if you will. Kara breaks Lance’s serve, takes an early lead. She’s about to close out the set.

Lena’s learning all kinds of jargon. Who knew tennis could be interesting?

At the changeover, Lena stows her sunglasses and makes Lex go get more alcohol, preferably a vat of vodka brewed in a bucket of ice. When he’s gone, she notices Kara standing rather than sitting at her bench. She’s facing Lance’s box, too, instead of her own, and her eyes connect with Lena’s. Even at the short distance, Lena can see the baby blue of her irises, clear as the desert sky. She’s soaked in sweat, downright glistening, and Lena watches her throat bob as she drinks from a water bottle. Kara plants one hand on her hip, and Lena swears she flexes her bicep. Lena’s traitorous eyes track the movement, and when Kara drops the bottle, she has the absolute nerve to smile.

Lena finds herself clapping for the wrong player not two games later.

“At least, try to give the barest impression you’re cheering for Lance,” Lex chides in a whisper. “Or we’re never getting invited back again.”

Lena doesn’t care.

In the next round, Kara does something similarly soul destroying at the baseline. While waiting on a challenged call, she glances at Lena and pulls her shirt up to wipe her face, not breaking eye contact. It grants full view of what are positively mystical abs. Her obliques. Words for other anatomy that are entirely forgotten.

Lena’s brain goes into an early dementia. Lex belts out a full on laugh.

Lena becomes extremely intoxicated during the next forty-five minutes, in more ways than one, while Kara Danvers makes short work of Lance. During the post win, on court interview, she’s humble and appreciative, though honestly it’s a miracle that Lena can hear anything at all through the haze of her seismic attraction and the absolute roar of the crowd.

They clamber over each other in a craze to get at the signed balls Kara launches into the stadium. For the last ball, however, she aims directly for Lena in Lance’s box.

It has to be a massive social faux pas to do this in Lance’s box, but that doesn’t stop Lena from reaching out, anyway. She surprises even herself by snatching the ball out of the air with one out-stretched hand. She hasn’t caught a ball since second grade.

She turns it over in her palm to find a phone number and a quickly sharpied heart.

Fuck.

“God, I hope this makes the match highlights,” Lex looks down at the ball with glee. “Mother is going to kill us.”

#supercorp #anon prompt #fanfic #i think i got all the requested muscles #tennis au

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superfluouskeys · 3 years

Text

wanted to share a lil bit of this bc I prob won’t have time to finish it very soon -- sorry if tumble fucks up the formatting. Hawke/Meredith, DA2

Could she truly have played so easily upon Meredith's affections? Could Meredith, who had looked upon scores of desperate souls glad to throw themselves at her mercy and felt nothing but a distant echo of pity, truly be swayed by something so commonplace as a smile, so base as the touch of a hand?

No, the hollowness whispered to her, and for the first time since her miserable youth, she felt inclined to listen.

She continued to sit vigil every morning faithfully, and though the practice reflected well upon her to her subordinates, its hold upon the sanctity of her own mind was rapidly slipping. She became restless by midday, ravenous by evening, and an ice-cold bath before bed did little to mitigate the gathering storm inside her.

Deceitful witch. A wiser mind might have realized that Meredith's affections would be of no use to her in her grand scheme. What had Meredith ever loved that she had not seen torn apart before her eyes?

There were other matters to attend to, as she felt her mind and her body betray her by days, and though she made her best effort to tend to the issues that arose, she was met not merely with resistance, but with nothingness. People turned away from her, they ignored her, they denied her, and a few brave souls even had the audacity to jut out their chins and call her mad to her face.

Hawke found her sharper, angrier, undisciplined, pacing her office.

"Meredith?" she ventured, so light, so effortless.

Meredith turned on her, felt certainty settle into her skin and blur the edges of her vision until she saw only Hawke. "You." She reached past Hawke and closed the door with a slam that resounded through the empty stone corridors that surrounded them, loomed over her with one hand pressed firmly against her only exit, the other hand clenched into a fist at her side, ready to strike, ready to touch, ready to hold, ready to possess.

Hawke flinched at the sound of the door, but she did not show fear in the face of Meredith's wrath. Instead, her face showed only something far softer, something Meredith refused to believe could be genuine concern.

"You think I've forgotten what you are?" Meredith demanded, low and harsh.

Hawke assessed her briefly with eyes so bright they seemed to pierce. Her stance remained infuriatingly relaxed. "Have I done something to offend you?" she wondered, still with the faintest hint of a smile upon her lips.

Meredith felt fury rise up, white-hot and all-consuming. She grasped Hawke roughly by the wrist, as though to demonstrate how a touch could burn. "Release me from your thrall, mage."

Hawke startled at her harsh words, but remained otherwise calm. "I don't know what you're talking about, Meredith."

Meredith felt her lip curl. "You will address me with no such familiarity."

Hawke's lips twitched, near-imperceptibly, and she glanced from Meredith's hold on her wrist back to Meredith's face. "Of course, Knight-Commander," she conceded, still with that infuriating lightness, as though it were all a game to her, a joke. "But have I given you some reason to doubt my motives?"

A huff of derision escaped Meredith's lips. "Your very presence ought to have been reason enough," she snapped. "I am well aware of my role and my reputation. What could possess the famous apostate to court my favour, if not a sinister plot?"

Still Hawke showed no fear, no outrage, not even the slightest tic of tension. Rather than even allowing herself to be backed against a wall, she moved into Meredith, and then it was Meredith who must fight the urge to back away.

"Did it occur to you that I might simply enjoy your company?"

Meredith scoffed, but much of the cutting edge had gone out of the sound. She could feel the low hum of magic under her palm, the faint warmth of Hawke's presence so near to her. "Your guileless charm may fool many, serah, but I do not have the luxury of accepting only what lies on the surface."

Inconceivably, Hawke found reason to smile. Meredith frowned instinctively in response.

"You flatter me, Knight-Commander," she said, warmly.

Warmly. So warm it burned. Meredith staggered backward as though scalded, cast off the wrist she'd held captive and turned away, determined to chase the treachery from her mind. "Stop this!" she cried.

"I'm afraid I must disappoint you," said Hawke, still with that terrible warmth that threatened to overwhelm her. "I'm not really the scheming type. And I'm afraid the guileless charm you mention is often just that. I...suppose I might confess I had hoped to charm you, a little," Hawke paused, and Meredith leaned heavily upon her desk, as though her words had borne a literal impact. "...but I never dreamed I'd have any success."

"What is it you seek?" Meredith hissed through clenched teeth. She righted herself and turned upon Hawke once more. "What is it you think you can gain?"

At least now Hawke had the good grace to avert her eyes in shame, though it still read as remarkably good-natured. "Oh, come now, Knight-Commander," she said airily, and her hand found the back of her neck almost awkwardly. "Don't we all harbour an impossible infatuation from time to time?"

#hawkedith #exciting tag for writing things #actually the only thing I might edit #besides a few phrasing things #is that they talk for too long LOL #let's GO LADIES #da2 #dragon age #marian hawke #meredith

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 3 years

Text

Day 4 Birthday Plot Bunnies 2

If you want this to become my next WIP, be sure to shower it with lots of love!! 🥰 💖 All the story starters will be linked back to this masterpost.

Title: The Hoardless Dragon

Summary: Thorin has been waiting his whole life for something interesting to happen in Erebor, and when Tharkun arrives with a “dragon expert” to warn of Smaug’s survival he thinks he may have gotten his wish. However, Thror falling in and out of the gold madness its beneficial to Erebor’s defenses, and it may be that there is more than one dragon to fear.

Tharkun has always been a curious character. Thorin may only be twenty-three, but he knew enough to recognize at least this fact. First off, he carried himself as neither man nor elf. Thorin has always been amicable to the men of Dale, much to his grandfather’s chagrin. Even to a lesser extent, his own father seemed hesitant over his friendship with Girion’s son. Flawed they may be, Thorin would describe men as a race as being unchiseled rock. Rough, but hiding their true value deep within. He would never use this to describe Tharkun.

Likewise, the elves had an almost ethereal, and in Thranduil’s case, haughty air about them that also didn’t apply to the wizard. Tharkun carried the same wisdom and experience as the ageless race, but he was also warm and wizened like he came to expect of men. He could even argue that Tharkun was secretive and stubborn like his own people if his battle of wits with his grandfather was any indication. Yes, Tharkun was odd. However, he was also kind. He encouraged Thorin’s curiosity of what lay beyond the gates of Erebor with tales of stone giants and great eagles. Battles fought long ago, and hidden lands of green hills and little people.

Thror may look at the eccentric being and sneer, but Thrain and Thorin were in near agreement that Tharkun was a true Khuzdbâha (dwarf-friend). That’s not to say Thorin was blind to the fact that Tharkun was a meddlesome interloper who preferred to speak in riddles. Thorin was third in line for the throne after all, and he knew how to watch for a politician’s half-truths. Still, when the herald rushed into the throne room to announce the arrival of the grey wizard, Thorin found himself fidgeting beside his grandfather’s throne in excitement.

Thrain’s eyes were twinkling as he looked over his father’s head at him. Still his words were reprimantory.

“Thorin, behave.”

The young prince ducked his head trying his best to calm himself. He still wasn’t quite used to throne room behavior, and was constantly being reminded to behave. His mother was in fits that he had to attend open court at all thinking him still too young. He was proud of the fact that his father was already training him in his duties to the crown. However, he knew his father wouldn’t have sprung it on him at all if it wasn’t for his grandfather’s declining health.

It was something Thrain and Fris did well to hide from their children, but Thorin wasn’t blind. The days of Thror encouraging Thorin and Frerin in their mischief as they tried to sneak by his office or taking him into the forge to experience his first taste at smithing were far behind him. Now, he could barely catch his grandfather’s attention so absorbed was he in his gold. Even raised to appreciate the might and beauty of Erebor, Thorin had a hard time understanding why his grandfather spent so much time with his gold and gems. Even his smiles and laughter were now replaced with ice glares and harsh words. Thorin loved his grandfather, but he was not so sure that his grandfather loved him anymore. Whatever strange inflection has taken Thror, Thorin hoped Tharkun held the cure.

The doors to the throne room were thrown open once more as Tharkun was escorted down the path with four guards stationed inside. A new precaution his grandfather deemed important to take as of late. Tharkun made no motion that the blatant display of distrust bothered him as he swept his way to the bottom of the steps with a deep bow and wide grin.

“Hail Thror, son of Dain. Hail Thrain, son of Thror. Hail Thorin, son of Thrain. It pleases me greatly to see the sons of Durin in good health and prosperity.”

Thror was content to glare down at the wizard so Thrain took it upon himself to greet their guest.

“Hail Tharkun! If we had known you would be arriving, we would have already pulled out the good mead. As it is, if you intend to join us for dinner tonight, I would see it done.”

“You do know how to tempt me, dear friend. As much as I would like to revel in pleasantries, I believe business must come first.”

“Yes, what storm follows in your wake this time, Tharkun Amsâlakhzar (bringer of bad luck)?” Thror mused.

The room was immediately filled with tension as Tharkun’s eyes narrowed on Erebor’s king in tight scrutiny. He’s never actually seen it in action, but Cousin Fundin, used to tell Thorin stories of Tharkun’s raw power, and how you never anger a wizard. The dwarf prince was half-afraid he was about to get a firsthand account.

“Ha!”

The sudden noise seemed to startle everyone in the room as Thorin turned his head just noticing for the first time that Tharkun did not arrive alone. The strangest being Thorin had ever seen in his life stepped out from behind the wizard. He stood merely an inch or two taller than Thorin which was on the small side for a dwarf. His beardless face, large wooly feet, and slightly pointed ears hidden by bronze curls stood in stark contrast to what Thorin was used to with his own kind having never seen another species of their height. Even his fashion was bizarre with the short trousers, perfectly tailored vest, and a velvet jacket of all things. That’s when Thorin remembered Tharkun’s stories of the little people on the other side of the world. This creature must be a halfling!

“I suppose you had every reason to fear, Grey Wizard, I’ll give you that much.” The halfling snorted, deriving some sort of depravatated humor from the situation.

“And what is this?” Thror demanded.

“Not what, Your Majesty, who. You can be knee deep in a dragon spell, and still have some manners about you.” The smaller male mocked.

Thorin had a detached bewilderment as he watched the impending mine-collapse. His own father didn’t speak to Thror so brazenly, and by the tightened grip on the stone throne, this matter would not be taken lightly. Still he couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by ‘dragon spell’?

“How silly of me!” Tharkun forced the diversion even as his hands tightened on his staff. “King Thror, Prince Thrain, Prince Thorin, allow me to introduce Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”

At this the halfling gave a small nod of his head raising the ire of his grandfather. The smaller male would be lucky to leave with his life if he continued on this way. However, Master Baggins' attention then swept over to Thorin himself, and the halfling seemed caught off-guard for the first time tilting his head just slightly as he blinked slowly. The halfling’s hand immediately went to the golden band on his right hand, and he began to fiddle with it while narrowing his eyes on Thorin.

“Why is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire in my mountain?” Thror snarled, pulling Thorin’s attention back to his grandfather and the wizard.

“Bilbo has been my traveling companion as of late.” Tharkun smiled, seeming to think the conversation was back on his terms.

“Not voluntarily, mind you.” The halfling grumbled earning a small whack on his back from the wizard’s staff.

Thorin had to duck his head to hide his mirth at the scene, but when he looked back up the halfling was watching him again. This time with more fondness, as he gave the prince a wry grin and a quick wink.

“You see, I asked Mister Baggins to join me because I noticed stirrings to the north.” Tharkun remarked casually enough.

“Stirrings of what?” Thrain asked curiously.

“That my Prince, is the right question.” Tharkun smiled brightly before his face and tone fell grave in the blink of an eye. “The fire-drake, Smaug, is awakening from his slumber, and he seems to be sniffing out a new hoard to bed in even as we speak. If you do not take precautions, I fear his sights may fall to Erebor.”

The wizard’s warning was met with silence. Thorin wouldn’t lie. There was a small part of him that thought this was fantastic news. Nothing exciting ever happens in Erebor! The entire time he’s shadowed his father, it’s been nothing but boring council meetings, numbers and figures, even their trips down to Dale had become tedious. Now, though, there was something exciting to occupy his attention, and he couldn’t deny that part of him that wanted to charge headfirst and face down a dragon to earn his epithet. Thorin Dragonslayer, they would call him!

Outwardly, he portrayed the same concern he could see on his father’s face. Then his grandfather burst into fits of laughter.

“You have told some tall tales, Wizard, but this one steals the prize! A dragon! Next you’re going to tell me Durin’s Bane itself is knocking on my doors.”

“It is no jest, King Thror.” Tharkun insisted with a tight expression.

Thror sobered up some, but still seemed to discredit the grey figure’s words.

“I have been chased from my home by a dragon before. I know the signs. Erebor is prosperous, it will not fall. Especially to a fire-drake that has been extinct for ages!”

“You ignore the signs.” Mister Baggins stepped forth once more. “They are all here, King Under the Mountain, and the fire-breather Smaug lives as well as a few that your people refer to as cold-drakes. Why, it wouldn’t shock me to find Eisigem still sleeps in Dain’s Halls.”

“Enough, you impertinent imp!” Thror cried, jumping to his feet.

Thorin’s hand fell to his sword at his waist along with the other guards even though he was conflicted about attacking Tharkun and his companion. Still, the hobbit offered his grandfather great insult, and he was not about to deny that.

“Who are you to question the word of the king?” Thror demanded.

Mister Baggins’ lips were pressed in a tight line, and once glance at the dark look from Gandalf sealed his sour mood.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Mister Baggins replied in a clipped tone. “I am but a simple hobbit, and it is clear that I overreached my station.”

“A simple hobbit, in the service of this ustar (interferer).”

“Gandalf is an...old friend. He called on me for a favor, and I found myself in the position of being able to fulfill his request.” Mister Baggins offered in response.

Thror gradually seated himself once more, and Thorin relaxed the grip on his blade. Tharkun stepped in at that point, half shielding the smaller being behind his person.

“Bilbo, you see, is something of a dragon expert.” The wizard offered. “I thought his knowledge would benefit Erebor well with the terrible news I’ve brought.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo with renewed interest. A dragon expert? How many of the beasts had he slain to earn such a title? Thorin found himself hungry for the halfling’s story perhaps more so than he ever yearned for Tharkun’s own.

“Aye, a dragon expert.” Thror huffed wryly. “Why he looks more grocer than warrior. Axe or sword, Mister Baggins, what is your choice?”

He smirked darkly in response to the king’s blatant mocking as he continued to fiddle with the ring on his finger in agitation. “Neither. I’m more fond of using my bare hands and teeth.”

Thror huffed, not impressed with the hobbit’s jest even as Tharkun shifted uncomfortably.

“Your Majesty, I have not brought Bilbo to advise you on how to slay dragons, but on how to prevent their arrival because Smaug is coming. Perhaps not any time soon, but the treasure beneath your feet will be far too alluring, I fear.”

A tense silence fell over the room, and Thorin wanted to shut his eyes against the storm he knew to come. If there was one thing he had learned very well, it was that you did not mention gold in Thror’s presence.

“I see.” Came the unexpectedly calm reply. “You have not brought a dragon expert, but a burglar in my mountain. And use your insane theories of dragons as a front to rob me blind!”

“Your Majesty…” Tharkun began before Thror cut him off, banging his fist on his throne.

“SILENCE!” Thror roared. “I ought to kill you now for such insolence.”

“DO NOT THREATEN ME, THROR SON OF DAIN!”

Like everyone in the room, Thorin shrunk away from the shadows that manifested outwards from Tharkun. Thrain broke protocol to place himself protectively in front of Thorin, and the guards stepped in front of the royal family. None approached Tharkun as they were quickly reminded the wanderer was in fact a wizard of great power.

“I’m not here to rob you!” Tharkun continued before the shadows suddenly died down, and his expression turned soft. “I’m trying to help you.”

There was no movement that followed as all eyes watched the king to see what he would do next. Thorin’s grandfather looked taut as a rope in a pulley. His eyes narrowed as if weighing his chances against the wizard in battle. Thrain’s hand squeezed Thorin’s arm in a reassuring manner, but his eyes remained on Tharkun just as his war hammer remained in his other hand. Thror finally got up and walked to the edge of the dais using its height to tower over Tharkun.

“Get out of my kingdom. You and your abrâfu shaikmashâz (descendent of rats).”

Tharkun’s chin jutted out proudly at the king’s order. Thorin’s eyes sought out the halfling to see how he would react to the slur. Only, the smaller being was no longer behind Tharkun’s cloak. He seemed to be the only one to realize this as his eyes darted over the chamber before finally landing on the halfling’s form. Thorin made a strangled sound in surprise as he jumped away from the throne. All eyes, including Master Baggins’, fell on Thorin as he merely stared in open mouth shock at the being standing on the king’s throne holding the Arkenstone close to his mouth. Almost as if he were speaking to it though Thorin couldn’t make out the words.

“T-THIEF! H-HOW DARE...AKLÂF MENU (curse you)!” Thror sputtered before coming to life and heaving his sword high above his head to smite the halfling.

Thorin could only watch in horror as Bilbo Baggins, dragon expert and friend of Tharkun, remained resolute in his execution, still whispering to the gem. Just when he was about to be struck down, the halfling’s eyes bore into Thror’s own, stopping Thorin’s grandfather in his tracks. It was as if time had been frozen around them. Thorin felt the itch to take a step forward, but Thrain still had his arm securely wrapped around the other. The guards also seemed uneasy about this strange spell being wove around their king and whether they could interfere. Tharkun only watched on with a narrowed, but unsurprised gaze.

Only a few seconds had passed, though they felt like a lifetime, when the Arkenstone’s light dimmed, and iron clattered against the ground. Thorin looked around wildly, but every adult had dropped their weapons and were staring at each other and the halfling with an awed fascination. Thorin looked up at his father as even he loosened his grip breathing deeply as if it were his first out of a long sleep.

“What did you do?” Thrain murmured softly.

The halfling merely hopped off the stone throne, straightening out his vest and jacket before approaching Thror. The king had sunk to his knees, but his blue eyes, the same eyes Thorin had inherited, looked brighter and troubled all at once.

“This is not a jewel, Your Majesty.” Master Baggins began still looking only at the king as he held out the Arkenstone. “This is a petrified dragon heart.”

Gasps rang throughout the room.

“While not as potent as a real dragon heart, it’s been weaving its spell over you all the same. The effects will lessen, though not disappear completely until it’s destroyed. At the very least, I wouldn’t advise putting it back above your head.” The halfling continued to explain as he shoved the stone into Thror’s hands.

“Don’t dragon spells come from locking gazes with the beast?” Thorin asked curiously.

Master Baggins flinched before turning to Thorin with a hard look. His voice, however, was soft and encouraging.

“No, Your Highness. That’s unfortunately a myth. It’s the heartbeat that lulls you.”

“Yes, but...what did you do?” Thrain repeated again.

“I spoke to it in its language and convinced the heart to sleep. Like I said, not a permanent solution, but I do hope it stops the irrational yelling and weapon drawing.”

Thror and Thrain just stared at him dumbfounded.

“You spoke to it…” Thror repeated.

“I did say our friend here was a dragon expert.” Tharkun used this moment to speak up, surprising many who had seemed to forget he was still there.

Thorin watched the hard glare that passed between the two before Master Baggins walked right past the wizard.

“Right, well, if you need me to silence any other madness-inducing gems, I’ll be down in the market. I’m famished.”

The halfling spun on heel, gave a deep bow to the royals, before disappearing out of the hall before anyone could so much as say a word in protest.

“Now, about Smaug…” Tharkun began.

Thror winced as he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“Peace Tharkun, it’s been a rather...eventful morning. If you are willing to wait until tomorrow...Erebor would be proud to host you and Master Baggins.”

Thorin stared at his grandfather in shock before a small smile began to split his face. Could it be? Did Tharkun and Master Baggins truly fix Thror? Tharkun’s approving smile managed to give Thorin hope that they had achieved the impossible.

“As His Majesty wishes.” Tharkun bowed.

Thror looked to be trying hard not to roll his eyes as he stepped out through the side entrance. Thrain immediately followed, dragging Thorin along behind him even as the younger prince turned to wave goodbye to Tharkun. Once they were in the relative privacy of the royal halls, Thror wrapped Thrain up in a hug.

“Makkê, birashagammi (My son, I’m sorry).”

Thrain didn’t say anything in return. Just clutched his father a little tighter and if either of the dwarrows were crying, Thorin pretended not to see. Instead he was practically vibrating in his desire to be dismissed so he could tell Frerin, Narvi, and Falvi. Obviously something as amazing as meeting a dragon expert was too big to keep from his best friends in the whole mountain.

“I have no patience to keep up appearances for the rest of the day. I would like to retire and actually enjoy my family once more.” Thror’s voice brought Thorin back to the present conversation just in time for a large grin to split his face.

He may just get his wish after all.

#birthdayplotbunnies #bagginshield #thilbo #starterdrabbles #when the only dragon of Erebor loves dwarflings not gold

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