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aerynwrites · 4 years

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Duty and Honor (Pt. 2)

Oberyn Martell x Reader

Author’s Note: Okay y’all I have agonized over this chapter long enough haha, so here it is. You asked for a wedding night and you got the wedding night. BUT, this is not smut. its hardley even NSFW. This is a SFW blog so i kind of had to find a way to write this scene in a muted/toned down way. Idk how I did with that so let me know! I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: angst, fluff, slightly nsfw content? but not really? idk man. discussion of consummating a wedding, wedding night stuff, fluff, just lots of fluff.

//////

Despite telling Oberyn the night before that you were unafraid of this marriage, you felt complete and utter nervousness as you were walked arm in arm down the length of the sept by your father Tywin. Your hand squeezed his arm tightly as you reached the stairs, nerves at an all time high as your eyes finally fell to those of your future husband. He was beaming at you, eyes sparkling as he looked down at you waiting for your father to deliver you the last few steps into his arms. Before you move to climb the small set of stairs and begin your new life, Tywin’s hand falls on top of your own and rubs it lightly. You pull your attention from Oberyn and your eyes meet your father's who, for one of the few times in his life, has a genuine look of gratitude and tenderness on his face. He leans in slightly so as not to let the others hear and speaks.

“I know you are unhappy with the arrangement, but you have to know I would never give you to a man who would treat you any less than you deserve,” he mutters.

You give him a small smile and kiss his cheek quickly, “I know father.”

He gives you a curt nod, melting back into his usual stoic and fearsome exterior before leading you the rest of the way up the stairs and presenting you to Oberyn silently before returning to his place in front of the crowd. You look at Oberyn silently, both of you smiling like idiots, as the Septon turns to Oberyn and speaks, beginning the ceremony.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the Septon announces.

You give a small smile to Oberyn as you turn your back to him, allowing him to remove the golden cloak, embellished with the Lannister sigil, and replace it instead with a beautiful orange and yellow silken cloak adorned with the Martell Sigil, officially taking you into his house. He drapes the heavy fabric over your shoulders, his hands squeezing your arms lightly before you turn to face the Septon once more, both you and Oberyn standing side by side as he continues the ceremony.

"My lords, my ladies,” the Septon begins once more, “we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

As the Septon pauses for a moment, you raise your hand from your side to be held out in front of you slightly. Oberyn follows suit, resting his hand a top yours, and you immediately find comfort in the familiar warmth of his hand on yours, calming your nerves slightly. The Septon continues, procuring a white ribbon from within his robe and wrapping it twice around your and Oberyn’s joined hands, tying a knot.

"Let it be known that (y/n) of the house Lannister and Oberyn of the house Martell are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder,” you feel Oberyn’s fingers twitch slightly a top your own, and you smile as the Septon continues, “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” he then unravels the ribbon from your hands, the both of you now metaphorically joined for the rest of your lives.

The Septon then looks from you to Oberyn, “Look upon each other and say the words,” he commands.

You and Oberyn turn to face one another and he takes your hands in his own, eyes shining with emotion as you both begin the vows simultaneously, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” you say together before you break off into the main vows of the ceremony, Oberyn speaking first.

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” his voice is deep, and his accent shines through more than usual, a detail that causes your heart to flutter in an all new way as you return your vows in kind, “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

After your vows are said, your breathing speeds up slightly as you anticipate what comes next. Oberyn removes his hands from yours and brings them to cup the sides of your face gently, stating loudly for those around to hear, “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he states, voice filled with sincerity as he leans down to capture your lips with his own, in the most passionate kiss you have ever experienced. He pulls away after a moment, aware that you are still at the ceremony, and turns with you to face the crowd who applauds you both. You cast Oberyn a large smile and link your arm with his as he leads you down the stairs and out of the sept towards the wedding feast.

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It was noon when the wedding took place, and the feast and events after ceremony took the entire afternoon. You and Oberyn sat at the main tables for most of it, talking politely to guests and cutting the pigeon pie and then watching as the other guests danced before you and Oberyn joined yourselves. He took your hand and helped you from your seat, guiding you into the small crowd of guests dancing in the center of the room. The musicians had started to play a slow song just as you and Oberyn entered the floor. He placed one hand on the small of your back while the other grasped your hand in his own, your other free hand rested on his shoulder. You followed his lead as he slowly swayed and danced to the music, smiling contentedly as you gazed at him.

He sends you a coy grin before looking around the room before returning his gaze to you, “Are you enjoying the festivities my wife?”

You smile and nod, “I’ve always found these celebrations a bit over the top but…” you trail off looking up at him through your lashes, “You have made it bearable, husband.”

Oberyn lets out a chuckle, one that comes from deep within his chest and your heart flutters as he speaks, “I never thought I would love hearing that word,” he admits lowly, “I never wanted to be tied down, I wanted to be free but,” he pauses, brushing his knuckles across your cheek affectionately, “hearing the word come from you makes me the happiest man in the seven kingdoms.”

You smile up at him and stand on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips before returning to the dance, head resting against his chest. Despite feeling complete happiness at your situation, you still had nerves throughout most of the day, but standing here and dancing with Oberyn has slightly abated them, and you continued to dance.

-------

You had returned to your seats after one last dance, another slow one that, despite how nice it was, ignited nervous butterflies within your belly as you saw the sun slipping below the horizon. You loved Oberyn and he loved you, this much you knew very well. However, as the night drew on and the celebration started to die down, you felt a nervous and slightly scared anticipation of what was to come.

The bedding ceremony.

It was customary of all marriages in Westeros to be consummated the night of the wedding, something you had known since you were old enough to understand you would one day be married off. However, for one reason or another, the thought had escaped you in the two weeks leading up to your wedding and all of the hidden fear was hitting you at once. You loved Oberyn, you truly did, but the thought of consummating the marriage scared you to no end. You, obviously, had no experience while Oberyn was the epitome of the word. As if his eight daughters back in Dorne were not telling enough, his relationship with Ellaria was.

You were brought from your thoughts by a loud uproar from the crowd, and your mouth went dry when you realized what they were chanting. They were calling for the bedding ceremony, and before you could really adjust to the sudden change in atmosphere, Oberyn was pulling you gently to your feet and out of the banquet hall, earning an even louder round of cheers and applause from the guests. You felt a lump form in your throat as Oberyn led you through the halls of the red keep, the sound of the celebration fading into the distance, until you were entering an unfamiliar bed chamber. One you quickly recognized to be Oberyn’s by the dornish clothing laid out in various chests and the many pillows piled on the bed. You watched silently, wringing your hands together nervously, as Oberyn left your side and approached a nearby table. He took a pitcher in his hand pouring a dark red liquid into two glasses slowly before setting the pitcher down and returning to you, extending one of the half full glasses to you. You take the glass carefully, watching as the liquid sloshes in the glass due to your shaking hands. Something that doesn’t escape Oberyn.

You take quick gulps of what you realize to be dornish wine as Oberyn sets his own glass back down in favor of taking your own cup from your grasp and putting it with his. He looks down at you, concern etched into his features as one hand rests on your waist while the other comes up to wipe a drop of wine from the corner of your lips.

“What is wrong, my wife? You have barely spoken a word since we danced together,” he observes quietly, his hands running up and down your arms in a soothing gesture.

You can’t speak past the lump in your throat and you feel nervous tears burn in the back of your eyes as you inadvertently cast a glance to the bed behind Oberyn. He follows your gaze and lets out a long sigh as he sees what has you so troubled.

“The consummation?” he queries, brows furrowed in either concern or confusion, you can’t really tell which, “Why does this have you so troubled?”

You look up at him, the tears now pooling in your eyes and you take a moment to look at the man who is now your husband. He truly was handsome, in his own rugged and harsh way, it was something that made him…Oberyn. The man you loved, and you knew loved you back by the complete and utter concern filling his eyes as he wiped a stray tear from your cheek.

“I don’t know, Oberyn, I just-“ you take in a shuddering breath followed by a dry laugh, “I’ve never been with a man before and you-“ you gesture to him, a tight smile on your lips, “You’ve probably been with both men and women, and I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m worried that I won’t even compare to her-“ your thoughts are cut short as you realize the woman you are about to compare yourself to is nowhere in sight, a detail that went completely unnoticed in your nervousness upon entering the room. She had been at the ceremony, so you were sure she would have been here as well.

“Where is Ellaria?” you ask quietly, avoiding Oberyn’s searching eyes.

“We thought it would be best if we completed the bedding privately, worried of overwhelming you…” he begins, before letting out a low chuckle, “But it seems that it didn’t make much of a difference.”

Your eyes fall to the floor in front of you, embarrassed and worried that you have insulted him or ruined something in some way, “I’m sorry my Prince,” you whisper.

Oberyn just lets out a low ‘tsk’ sound taking your face in his hands and making you look at him, “Do not apologize my love,” he says gently, gazing at you intently, “Do you desire this? With me? I will not force myself upon you if that is not what you wish. I will wait as long as you need.”

His words are sincere, and they surprise you slightly. You had been told your entire life that the bedding ceremony was something to dread. That your husband would take you with or without your cooperation, so it was better to just take it than try and fight the inevitable. And most of all, it wasn’t something that was to be pleasurable. So, to hear Oberyn basically tell you that he would never take you if you did not wish, was challenging everything you had ever been taught, and it made you realize that you do want this. You want to be with Oberyn in every way possible, be as close as you could physically be with him, and this somewhat calms your fears and your eyes meet his firmly.

“I do want this Oberyn, I want to be with you in every way possible but I-“ you pause, unsure of how to describe your eager yet nervous feelings to the man standing in front of you. But it seems you don’t have to, and as if Oberyn knew what you were going to say, he pulls you into a passionate kiss, his lips molding with yours as his hands drift from your cheeks and down to your shoulders before falling to your low back, pulling you into him gently as his fingers play with the ties of your dress. You feel your heart speed up, beating against your ribcage as his fingers loosen the ties completely at the same time his tongue swipes across your lower lip begging for entrance, something you do not deny him. He slowly works his fingers up the back of your dress before he pulls away from the kiss, both to let you breathe and to remove the outer garment of your gown. You can’t help the blush that rises to your cheeks, although you’re not sure Oberyn could tell due to the flush already there from your shared kiss. You are only mere inches away from him as he gently slides the white silk and lace down your arms, his fingers raising goosebumps in their wake. He pulls the sleeves off your arms and lets the wedding gown pool at your feet and you step out of it, leaving your shoes behind as you do so. You look up at him again, an embarrassed flush replacing your aroused one as you realize this is the least clothing a man has ever seen you in, and Oberyn was about to see much more.

He gives you a reassuring smile taking your hand in his before leading you over to the side of the bed, kissing you gently before pulling away, “Turn around my love,” he instructs tenderly, eyes filled with love and reassurance the entire time.

You nod and turn to face the bed, arms hanging rigid by your side. Your ears twitch when you hear a clothing that is not your own, fall to the floor with a muted thud. A sharp gasp escapes your lips when you feel one of his arms slip around your waist, pulling you into him. Despite the thick fabric of your corset, you can tell that Oberyn removed his outer robes, leaving him in nothing but his trousers and allowing you to feel the heat radiating from his chest. You let out a shaky breath, arousal pooling low in your belly as you feel his lips lay gentle kisses to the exposed expanse of your neck, his mustache an added pleasure. You were so caught up in the feeling of his mouth, that you didn’t even notice he had deftly untied your corset letting it fall to the ground. And if your heart wasn’t already beating fast enough, you felt as if it was going to leap right out of your chest as his hands started to pull at the thin fabric of your chamise, the last barrier keeping you hidden from him. You clamped your eyes closed as he finally pulled the offending fabric over your head, as if that would somehow protect you from the embarrassment you felt creeping up your neck. The moment the thin article of clothing hit the ground, you expected him to be on you, but you were pleasantly surprised when he started to gently pull the pins and ties from your hair, letting the strands frame your face and cascade down your shoulders. You felt grateful tears gather in your eyes at the somewhat intimate gesture, and quickly tried to blink them away as his hands rested on your bare hips igniting an unfamiliar fire within you as he turned you to face him, finally revealing yourself to him completely. You watched in anxious anticipation as his eyes roamed your figure, his mouth falling open slightly. You felt a surge of self-consciousness wash over you and you instinctively moved your arms to cover yourself, but Oberyn’s hands grasped your arms gently, wrapping them around his neck instead.

“Don’t hide from me, flower,” he whispered, “You are more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

You felt your heart swell at his words, and you tangled one hand into his hair, bringing his lips to your own. Oberyn leaned forward slightly, urging you onto the bed behind you with one hand supporting himself while the other held your hip firmly. You laid back, sinking into the feathered bed and bringing Oberyn with you. Opposite to what you had been told, as Oberyn’s lips travelled from your lips, to your jaw, and further below, and as his body covered yours totally, you felt completely and utterly safe. You brought his face back up to yours and looked deep into his eyes, fingers tracing the scruff on his cheeks.

“I love you Oberyn,” you say quietly, a final and verbal submission to the man above you.

He gives you a warm smile, kissing you quickly, “And I love you more, my wife.”

--------

The following morning you wake up to the familiar sounds of waves crashing against the rocky shores of Kings Landing. You peel your eyes open and are immediately aware of a comforting pressure wrapped around your waist, and the sound of light snoring coming from beside you. You turn from your stomach onto your side and your eyes fall onto the figure of your husband, sleeping peacefully in the early morning light. The sheets cover his lower half and you take this moment to admire him while he is blissfully unaware. He seems to be even more peaceful as he sleeps, the lines of age and worry usually adorning his face seemed to melt away. Your eyes trail from his face to his exposed back, catching the occasional faded scar, most likely received from battle. You let out a quiet sigh before carefully slipping his arm from around you, pausing when he readjusts, and rising from the bed when you are sure he is still asleep. you wince slightly when you stand, not prepared for the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. The memories of last night bring a smile to your face as you try to move about the room quietly, trying to find a robe or your chamise from last night in an effort to cover yourself. You finally spot a light pink, silk robe tossed haphazardly across a nearby chair, and you don’t hesitate to take it and slip it over your shoulders. You startle slightly when a soft knock sounds at the chamber door and you glance quickly over to Oberyn, sighing when you see that he was undisturbed. You walk swiftly to the door, holding your robe tighter against you and you pull the door open slightly, eyes widening when you see Ellaria on the other side.

“May I come in?” She asks teasingly.

You splutter slightly, and open the door stepping to the side to let her in, “O-of course. It is your room after all,” you say, the realization of your statement dawning on you, making a small pit form in your stomach. While last night was amazing and wonderful, the reality of the true nature of your marriage with Oberyn set in once you shut the door and looked at Ellaria.

Before you could dwell too long on the thought, Ellaria spoke up, “you look nice,” she says kindly, “The pink looks much better on you than It ever did on me,” she says slyly.

Your eyes widen at her words and a blush covers your cheeks as you glance down at the robe still wrapped around you, “o-oh, I’m sorry Ellaria, I had no idea-“ your words are cut short as Ellaria shushes you, taking your hand in hers as she leads you to the balcony in the room. You stand next to her on the balcony, relishing in the breeze as it blows across your still blushing skin. Neither of you say anything for a moment just taking in the purple and pinks as the sun rises over the horizon, turning the ocean a multitude of colors. You finally break the silence, but keep your eyes on the horizon.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can manage.

You see Ellaria turn to face you, brows furrowed in confusion, “Sorry for what, dove?”

You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes as all of the conflicted feelings from the past two weeks come rushing back all at once, “I feel like I am ruining everything,” you admit, tears streaming down your face, “You and Oberyn have each other, you have had each other for years, you have children together and I –“ you take in a shaky breath as Ellaria places a comforting hand on your shoulder, “I feel like I don’t belong. Will never belong.” You say finally, words hanging heavily in the air.

You tear your gaze from the rising sun as Ellaria turns you to face her, eyes hard yet sympathetic as she speaks, “Has Oberyn not told you of how we love in Dorne?” she asks.

You nod, “Yes he has. You love freely, you can love many people at once,” Ellaria nods, wiping the tears from your cheeks, a small smile on her face.

“Then you must know that it is true,” she says, “Oberyn loves me and you. I know this is true because he has told me himself,” she states, her hands dropping from your face to your own hands, squeezing lightly, “He told me all of the things he loves about you, told me of your beauty and your kind personality, and it made me eager to meet you,” she stated, eyes reassuring.

You shake your head and blink away the tears, genuine curiosity replacing the despair, “How do you feel about this?” you ask her.

She smiles and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, “I have fallen for you just as Oberyn has, quickly and all at once,” she says sweetly.

“She is correct, my wife.”

You let out a small gasp as the familiar yet slightly groggy voice of Oberyn reaches your ears and he comes up behind you and Ellaria, wrapping you both in his arms, “You entranced us both from the moment we met you, my love. You are ours and we are yours. From this day, until our last days” he says quietly, mimicking your wedding vows and pressing a slow kiss to your lips before turning and doing the same with Ellaria.

Surprisingly you don’t feel jealousy as you watch them kiss, you are confused when the first feeling that crosses your mind and settles deep in your belly is a warm curiosity. When Oberyn finally pulls away from Ellaria, she sends you a wicked smirk before looking back to your husband, “She tastes even better than you described my Prince,” she says, voice airy.

You can’t stop the blush that rises to your cheeks, and watch in slight apprehension as Oberyn moves behind you hands resting on your shoulders, and his lips coming to rest by your ear as he speaks, “Oh,” he sighs, fingers curling beneath the collar of your robe and sliding it from your shoulders slowly, “You have not even experienced the best of it,” he says wickedly, dropping the fabric of your robe to the ground completely. Your eyes widened as his arms slipped around your waist and Ellaria approached you slowly.

“Do you believe us now, my wife?” Oberyn breathes lowly, warm breath fanning over your ear sending a shiver down your spine.

Your voice hitches in your throat, so all you manage is a small nod as they both whisk you away into the bedroom, fully intending to show you how much they love you.

////

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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years

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if the summer of lives could just come again, ch24

AO3 link

Dragonstone

Tyrion doesn’t have the most extensive experience with queens. When the ruling monarch's consort for half of your life has been the sister who despises you, one learns to take even that experience with a grain of salt.

So, to say he’s apprehensive about meeting this so-called Dragon Queen, is putting it lightly.

“Any word from King’s Landing as of late?” he asks Varys one day when they’re still waiting about the castle. The keep had been nearly deserted when the pair had made the journey. Stannis had taken a number of his men, and his wife as well, when he sailed north.

And many more of them had been pulled away, Tyrion learned, when the men from the Iron Islands had begun attacking Storm’s End. Despite their feud, Tyrion knew Stannis would consider it his duty to aid his brother’s men.

Now the only people who remain at Dragonstone are the beleaguered castellan and a handful of household servants. These people hadn’t even spared Tyrion and Varys a second glance when they had arrived. It was nearly perfect.

“Word is that our queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy. She has named him Gerold. The smallfolk have taken to calling her Good Queen Margaery, and her child the golden cub.”

Tyrion nods. It’s a good pick. Suitably kingly and honoring a Lannister remembered as clever and fair. There were too few of those lately.

“Do we have any idea of what our impending visitor will mean for her?”

Varys’s expression is solemn.

“One would not expect good things to come to a regent when someone who feels they have a birthright to the throne returns. “Usurper” is the word I would expect to hear thrown around.”

Tyrion takes a deep breath. Varys’s assessment is indeed accurate.

“Whatever our dear queen’s cunning ambitions leading her to the throne, I must say her rule has been nothing but benevolent for nearly everyone. She shouldn’t be held responsible for the present or future behavior of her husband or his hand.”

“Do you think she will be?”

Varys smiles, though a bit uncertain.

“Our queen is a clever woman indeed, though I do hope she’s not too clever by half. There are many stories that have made it across the narrow sea about Danaerys Targaryan, Mother of Dragons. One tells that she had a husband and child, both of whom were lost to her. Others say that she believes herself to be barren.”

Tyrion is shocked by that. Targaryan or not, a royal needed heirs.

“If I was still an advisor to the queen, I would suggest her best course of action would be to throw herself on the Dragon Queen’s mercy and hope they can find some common ground. “

That might be best. As hard as she worked to put herself on the throne, Tyrion can’t imagine Margaery giving it up easily. This is what he’s still thinking about when the wind begins to change, and he sees movement on the horizon over the water.

Tyrion is awash as the creatures come towards land out of the mists. The stories could never do dragons justice. His imagination as a child had not been enough.

But his eyes are soon drawn away from the figures circling the skies. He doesn’t even catch a glimpse of their rider.

He’s been distracted by the small fleet of ships on the bay below her.

“Are...are those Ironborn ships?” he asks Varys.

Varys’s eyes are actually uncertain.

“It appears they are. Perhaps this story will have a few more complications than expected.

Winterfell

Robb, his siblings all muse, is quite possibly one of the only men in all of Westeros, who could go into a holding facility for a group considered ‘savages’ and come out with a politically advantageous betrothal.

They at least had notice, Ned having sent a raven with the news, before they returned so the rest of the Starks could react.

The woman in question was named Val, she was Mance Ryder’s goodsister. Her own sister and goodbrother had been killed in one of the assaults on Castle Black, but her and a small group had managed to flee south, when they had been captured at the Last Hearth.

We know they don’t give her any kind of importance to her position, Ned writes them. They chose Mance to lead them, they didn’t choose her. Despite this, they do listen to what she says, and they seem to think we’ll lend her some kind of weight to her family connection. They think the alliance will mean more to us because of it.

I’ve spoken to Robb alone, he’s fine with this choice. He hopes she will get along with her as well. This could play a huge role when the rest of the seven kingdoms find out about the Free Folk coming south of the wall.

This is the first thing that’s come there way that has genuinely shocked any of them.

Arya asks Bran if he remembered anything about Val from before.

Bran frowns before answering “Not much really. She was blonde, fought with a dagger. She and Dalla were both killed when Stannis’s men ambushed Mance’s camp following the assault on Castle Black.”

Arya’s face is curious, a combination of concerned and apprehensive.

“She better be worthy of him.”

Robb and Ned are still a few weeks from returning to Winterfell, so there’s not much to do but continue shoring up the weapon and armor stores, prepare the shipments of both to other holdfasts and continue training.

This particular morning, however, Arya doesn’t feel much like doing anything. So when most of the others are in the training yard practicing, she sits on one of the walkways looking down at them.

After a bit, Meera comes and sits beside her.

“Need a break too?”

Arya nods.

“Sansa and Mother should be getting home later today. Thought I’d save my energy. “

Arya’s face looks pensive and after a moment, Meera asks.

“Are you worried about your brother’s marriage?”

After a bit, Arya nods.

“Robb getting married before led to disaster. He must have known it was wrong, marrying someone else when he was betrothed to a Frey. Betrothed for a fucking bridge. I was too, but I didn’t know that for years later, after I’d slaughtered House Frey.”

Arya suddenly shifts, and she wonders if Meera had ever been told that particular bit of her background.

If she hadn’t been told, her face doesn’t show it.

“If you’re expecting horror from me, you’re not going to get it. The Freys have been nothing but a thorn in my house’s side for generations. I’m actually a little bitter they’re alive again.”

Well at least there’s that, Arya thinks.

“This, an arranged betrothal to someone he’s barely met for the sake of a politically necessary alliance, regardless if he was twice my age or a brute or we hated each other...this was the sort of thing I always thought was the future for me, and that it was set in stone. That’s what I grew up thinking marriage was.”

Meera purses her lips.

“I always meant to ask what it was that made you change your mind about wanting to marry. Everyone here seems to think you had basically sworn to never do it.”

Arya laughs. It’s so strange in retrospect.

“Honestly? When I was traveling north to return to Winterfell, I ran across a couple of Lannister soldiers. I was frightened at first- I’ve seen first hand how soldiers often treat vulnerable women- but they were kind. Shared their fire and their food with me. And one them- he kept going on about his wife at home. Told me about how they were expecting a child, and how he wanted a girl. And it- after everything? It sounded so nice. Peaceful. So different from what I always thought it would be and also nothing like the songs of romance Sansa loved. Being able to marry without worrying about politics must be one of the nice things about being lowborn.”

Meera’s lips quirk into a small smile.

“I was always a little frightened of marrying myself. Not that I was worried about being sold off like you- no one bothers making political alliances with the crannogmen.”

“There are a few minor houses in the Neck aren’t they?” Arya asks her. She never spent much time paying attention in lessons, and Jojen and Meera don’t talk too much about the other people from their home.

Meera nods.

“We can’t just marry within them though, or we’d all be Targaryans by now. My mother isn’t of noble blood- I’ve seen how my parents’ marriage was written down. ‘Jyana of the crannogmen’.”

Arya files that little bit of knowledge away. She should ask Meera to tell Gendry that. Maybe they might even be able to meet her someday when this is all over. All these years and he still occasionally got attacks of insecurity because of his birth.

“But I had been raised that my duty was the carry on our house line, so I knew I would have to marry eventually.”

She makes a face.

“Even though it was more likely I would have known the boy I would end up marrying since childhood, there was also always a chance I would have spent my whole life thinking he was a shithead. And while I didn’t really think I would ever be forced to do it, I knew I might have been pressured...especially if Jojen died young like many people seemed to think he would. I was sixteen when we left Greywater Watch before, and I thought it was a blessing that I got to put the topic off for a little while.“

Arya thinks a bit before she asks her next question.

“When did you realize you and Bran were, I mean- you’re nearly as much older than him as Gendry is than me.”

Meera smirks.

“More actually, nearly six years. Gendry and I have had a couple of conversations on this very topic - the two of us are actually only a couple of moons apart.”

She blinks a bit, lost in the past before continuing.

“I’m pretty sure Bran was taken with me pretty early. Your brother wears his heart on his sleeve, he’s not good at hiding things like that. I tried to ignore it, because he was so young, and I was sure his interest would fade. But then time went on and we both got older and it didn’t seem like our age should matter as much as it did before.”

She blinks again, and Arya wonders if she’s blinking away tears.

“After we fled, I pulled him until I couldn’t. He didn’t even wake up from the visions until I couldn’t run anymore. My legs felt like jelly and I could barely feel my feet at all. I fell and tried to get back up and then fell again. When I couldn’t do anything else, and I was certain we were going to die, I wanted to kiss him senseless. “

Meera’s eyes stare off, faraway, but she’s got a tiny smile as well.

“And then when your uncle saved us, it didn’t go away. I thought that maybe when we made it back south things between us would...it seems like such a damned joke. That when I finally began to return his feelings, he no longer cared.”

Wiping her face and sniffing, Meera is suddenly desperate to change the subject.

“I hope your uncle can make it back from the wall. He saved our lives, before, he deserves some happiness too.”

Their conversation is broken by the sound of a horn announcing an arrival.

Arya pulls herself to her feet.

“That must be Mother and Sansa.”

It’s not even been a whole turn of the moon, but seeing both of them again is fantastic. Even with both bits of news they have to break.

Sansa looks as disquieted by the news of Robb’s impending marriage as Arya had been. Catelyn merely nods, acknowledging that it really was time Robb found himself a wife anyway.

It’s after she leaves that Arya reaches for Sansa’s arm and holds her tight as she grits her teeth and mutters.

“Robb’s entire future could hinge on this. If he- if she...I wish I had realized before what a bunch of bullshit the idea of marrying for the greater good is.”

Arya squeezes her arm. She’d always disliked the idea, but Sansa had first hand knowledge for how the resentment and anger these bonds caused could fester and grow and spill over. How they could transform into deceit and underhandedness and backstabbing. These could threaten the safety of the realm far more than by having one that was not united. As much as she could pray that this marriage worked out, she looked at every such possibility and wondered if it would breed another Cersei.

But when Arya tells her that the Wall had been breached by Others, than with nary a word, Sansa is all business again.

“Is Ser Davos at Winterfell now?” she asks.

Arya nods, a little confused. She follows Sansa up to the little study in between all of the Stark children’s chambers. This was where the Septa had given the girls their lessons, and before, where Old Nan had kept an eye on them when they couldn’t be wandering about. Arya hadn’t spent much time in this room in years.

“What are you-” she asks as Sansa rummages through one of the desks. She removes a letter she had stashed away.

“Lord Tyrion sent me a contact to reach out to near Castle Cerwyn which could provide us with wildfire to use against the Others. It won’t be safe to use it once they get past the wall, so I should seek them out as soon as possible.”

Arya’s eyes go wide.

“Wildfire doesn’t go out easily,” Sansa muses, “Even detonated over the ocean, it still burned, burned nearly all of Stannis’s fleet...I don’t think even the worst of winter blizzards will do much to its effects. I won’t risk the destruction of our home by burning it on this side of the wall.”

That’s what Sansa thinks on when she goes to Davos that night and before they prepare to leave in the morning. She sees the image in her head still of the strangely beautiful green flames, peeking in through the windows of the Red Keep. She also remembers the fighting men set on fire by it running, diving in the sea, trying desperately to put it out, screaming as they burned to death.

She thinks this is what causes the haunted look on Ser Davos’s face when they mount their horses and set out the next morning.

“I’m glad Stannis is at the wall,” Sansa tells him. “There’s not a lot of men I would trust with such a deadly weapon. Too many of the Night’s Watch have spent too long thinking that the Free Folk are the only enemy they are meant to be guarding us against. And they have been trained to not even think of them as humans- they might not think that it’s abominable to use such a weapon against something living. I believe Stannis does understand that.”

As long as Stannis doesn’t get stuck on something involving fire again, that is.

Castle Cerwyn is less than a day’s ride in good weather, but in the snow they barely make it by nightfall.

The guards who lead them to the guest house, Sansa recognizes, as Free Folk. They seem at ease too, but are both wary of her and Davos. Sansa wracks her mind, trying to remember if she’d heard any particular complaints from this holdfast about the decree regarding them. She can’t. House Cerwyn had suffered greatly under the thumb of the Boltons before the Long Night, and had barely been able to send any men to fight at all.

They go out early the next morning in search of the name in the letter.

To say he is strange is an understatement.

He is extremely old, older than the oldest men Sansa can recall meeting. He walks with a hunchback and his voice as a strange quality that makes Sansa think perhaps he has suffered some injury or illness of the throat in his time.

Or, she thinks looking about his workshop, perhaps he drank some concoction he shouldn’t have.

Wisdom Othlelle keeps looking at her out of the corner of one eye and muttering. She sticks close to Davos for more than a few reasons.

She also notices a few young men coming in and out of the shop and files them away in her mind.

When Othlelle inquires as to why they require the substance, Sansa plainly says.

“So I guess you haven’t been hearing any stories of enemies of the north with a particular weakness to fire.”

Sansa and Davos pay him for his services, and he directs one of the younger men to prepare the shipment.

Sansa looks him square in the eye.

“And there won’t be any funny business with the transport. It will only go to the wall, and only be passed into the hands of Stannis Baratheon. I can’t imagine the Alchemist’s guild would think too highly of you training acolytes unofficially this far north.”

He seems taken aback by her tone, so Sansa hopes it’s enough for her words to make an impact.

With that taken care of, Sansa and Davos mount their horses again and take off, hoping it’s still early enough to make it home by the end of the day.

When they’re riding, the wind comes by quickly enough that Sansa wonders at the look on Davos’s face. He’s been moving slower lately, she’s begun to notice the lines in his face more. It’s mostly hidden by his cloak, but she thinks she sees a glimpse of-

When they stop to water the horses, she finally asks.

“You look as tired as the rest of us are. Do you ever think about going home?”

His face is guarded still, but there’s a flicker that makes Sansa think she’s right. She reaches out to touch him on the shoulder.

“It’s fine. You’ve done so much already. You helped get Gendry out of King’s Landing, you’ve spent all these years helping us evacuate the Free Folk to the south. You’re the one doing most of the coordinating with the other houses, not Robb. “

“How am I supposed to go south when I know what’s coming?” he responds, sounding slightly desperate.”How can I go be with my own family when I know I could be stopping someone else from losing theirs?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Talk to Father when he returns to Winterfell. You’re not technically in our service, you’re not beholden to any of us-”

“I’m beholden to you all far more than nearly anyone else in all of the realm.”

“And your wife and sons need you. You got them all back, you should spend every moment you possibly can with them, because they might not get you back again.”

Davos’s face falters, and Sansa decides not to push.

“Like I said, we’re getting to the brink of war here, and you’re not a young man. Talk to Father.”

The horses are back at strength, so they remount and keep riding. The snow is blessedly light, and the sky remains bright.

They’re getting nearer to Winterfell, when Sansa’s horse spooks.

“What is it?” she asks her, but only gets a ‘neigh!’ in answer. She tries to spur her on, but she balks. She turns her head to Davos, who’s own mount is acting strange too.

Sansa hears a noise she can’t place, so she halts the horse and draws her bow. She hears the noise again, and turns, trying to spot it’s direction.

Then the noise turns more familiar, it becomes a howl.

A howl that heralds a rush in the snow covered brambles and a light gray figure appearing.

Sansa sees Davos draw his own bow and has to shout, “Wait!”

She loosens her bow.

“Ghost?” she asks.

And watching his tail wag, she hears footsteps and more rustling.

She sees another wolf appear across a clearing, and then another.

And then a group of women.

Well, women, and one man.

Sansa lowers her bow completely.

“Jon?”

She’d recognize the face anywhere. She remembers seeing it for the first time in nearly as many years before.

She hastily stumbles off her horse and throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Sansa?” he asks her, sounding confused. “What are you doing out here?”

She pulls back to look at him, and then to look at the other women with him.

They’re a motley bunch, dressed in ragged furs and carrying a strange assembly of weapons. And then Sansa spots one of the women, who’s huddling into herself and pale, and feels a pang of familiarity.

“Gilly?”

The girls looks confused at her words, and Sansa steps back.

“This is Ser Davos of House Seaworth. We were just finishing up some business before heading back- you’re all on the way to Winterfell right?”

Davos has already rushed forward to shake Jon’s hand firmly, with a bigger smile than Sansa’s seen in ages. Jon mostly looks dazed.

“It’s good to see you again, Jon Snow,” Davos turns his attention to the women. “And you too ladies. May I ask your names?”

All of them answer, one by one. The last one is standing nearest Jon, holding a young boy on her shoulders. She looks up and says, “I’m Ygritte.”

Sansa can’t keep her hands off her face, and Davos’s similarly lets loose a noise of shock.

There’s a flash on the other woman’s face and Sansa suddenly wonders if she knows, what she knows.

“How far away are we from Winterfell?” Jon asks.

“Not too far. I can probably take one more person on my horse.”

“Take Gilly,” Henneh insists, “She’s still sick.”

“We haven’t had any issues with bandits-”

“I don’t think they will be a problem,” another voice says. Sansa squints and spies a small figure with an oddly shaped face.

“Sansa, this is Rowan. She’s the last of the children of the forest.”

Sansa smiles. Perhaps she should be more shocked.

“It’s getting a bit late,” she tells them all, helping Gilly onto her horse in front of her, “Maybe we should continue this conversation on the road.”

The road, even with the snow, is far less intimidating with such a group. Jon walks beside Sansa and Gilly. He reaches up and touches her quiver.

“You have a bow now?”

Sansa grins.

“Lots of things have changed since we’ve seen you. I have a bow, Arya has a husband, Robb has a betrothed, she’s a wildling too.”

As they get closer, she reaches down and touches Jon on the shoulder.

“I think you should try and talk to Mother if you can. Father told her the truth...and I think it really shook her up.”

Jon’s eyes go dark, and so Sansa gives him a pat.

“Like I said, lots of things have changed. It’s okay if you have changed too.”

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #gendrya #breera #time travel fix it #fic

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sxpiosexualx · 7 years

Text

Jonsa is one of the healthiest dynamics to come out of the current situation

**Note, this may get a tad bit lengthy because I’ve screencapped a few exchanges but I promise you, I’ve highlighted why I truly love this ship at the end so tl;dr scroll to the last paragraph if you want!**

Can I just say something... this person was comparing Jonsa to J*nerys and Ja*me x Cers*e and calling it just as toxic and that was new to me? Please note I didn’t say our ship was pure considering it’s ASOIAF/GoT and it’s heavily ironic, but to say it’s just as toxic? I get it, the main reason why people are incredibly opposed to the idea of Jonsa (and the other ships) is because of the incest!factor. See:

I usually ignore antis but the notion that it’s just as toxic as some of the other ships really got me, my response was:

“Whoops idk mate it’s context within the political world of this fictional westeros and I suppose I’m more desensitised over the issue of cousin marriages in highborn families due to the fact that it’s still practiced even in the context of my own country’s monarchy. I just see it as a means of concluding the story and think it could play out well considering the heavy irony and the fact that neither jon nor sansa really regarded each other as siblings.

All I’m saying is there’s narrative purpose for making jon and sansa the most distant starks, for us never seeing them interact. It would be as if you were reuniting with the kid down the street that your siblings regard as their brother bc of how close they were to him. That gives way, in a literary sense, for confusing feelings that aren’t exclusively platonic to arise, given the situation.

And overall, I suppose I’m not opposed to Jonsa because they appear to be one of the only “healthy” dynamics left, yes, they argue, but they get it all out and communicate. I can’t get on board J/C because it’s toxic, the same way J/D would create a ton of problems narrative wise, as opposed to creating a solution to conclude the story in a satisfying light. Jonsa just seems more likely considering how GRRM’s mind works.

So, no, I’m not trying to claim my ship is pure because it’s heavily tainted with irony. I acknowledge that it’s meant to be twisted and yet considering the context of the books, it’s meant to offer a solution to the narrative. I could get into this and point out how it would bring the story full circle in many respects but I doubt you’re interested so I’ll just leave it at that. No one’s claiming it’s pure but it’s in no way as toxic as the others. Have a good day.”

I really did try my best to defend Jonsa from being equated to being just as toxic as J/C but their only response was:

Honestly, this sort of irked me? Because I genuinely tried to be respectful and tried to get them to see where I was coming from unlike the other responses I often see where their only rebut is “but Jon is Ice and Danielle is Fire” but of course it didn’t matter to them. And yet, I responded:

“Considering I’m against a Targaryen restoration and believe the Stark lineage will survive and continue with Sansa, I don’t think the show and books are going to pair her with a character that hasn’t already been established? Show wise Jon seems to be the only worthy candidate considering he is the only one who shows an understanding of the trauma she’s been through, and never tries to force anything upon her which is why I think that dynamic is so important to showcase?

It allows for her to heal in her own time, there is no guarantee for that with any other male character we see come to play and no this isn’t me reducing her to a character that needs a male counterpart, it’s me focusing on her arc and deducing it to where it may end up from here.

All I’m saying is, stop shitting on people’s ships when they’re tried hard to provide you with reasons as to why the narrative may take it there. Have a nice day.”

Note: I wasn’t trying to convince anyone that Jonsa will for certain be endgame, nor was I trying to convert someone to a Jonsa shipper, I just wanted to clarify that we have actual sound reasons for wanting Jonsa to be canon. It really bugs me that someone would compare the ““toxicity”” of it to J/C?

I felt like I had to clarify that I genuinely want Sansa to be with someone like Jon because she deserves this one nice thing. She deserves to be loved by someone who makes an effort to understand what she’s been through, to protect her from unwanted touches by men who have hurt, abused, exploited or manipulated her. She deserves to realise her fantasy of having children and rebuilding the family she lost in the home that was taken away from her, and Jon allows for that to happen. Jon helped her reclaim Winterfell when he rode into battle for their family, and Jon wants very much to have children of his own that he could raise in Winterfell as well. Sansa would allow for that to happen, she’d allow for him to officially be a Stark by taking her name - the one thing Jon’s always wanted. I love Jonsa because Jon allows Sansa the agency she’s always been denied. He recognises her worth, he trusts her with his home. So how is this a toxic pairing?

I know I can’t speak for everyone but I feel like a large reason why our part of the fandom is always putting out meta is because we’re more invested in the dynamic they propose rather than simply shipping two people who look good together on screen, and it’s a tad bit insulting to know so many people think we ship Jonsa because of that. It’s more than just a superficial ship, we’ve been presented with them and how they work together as a pairing(yes, we also note that no romantic feelings have been realised - although in a literary sense this gives way for catharsis once Jon’s true lineage is revealed), and the foundation is there. They care for each other, they truly do. How are we sick for wanting something sweet to happen for once.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #sansa deserves happiness #even if it's never realised as canon their dynamic is beautiful #favourite dynamic #i love my babies

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the-cerwyn · 7 years

Text

Golden Roads, Chapter V:

The point of these writings is to show how the happenings of Cley whilst the Season 2 AU, as well Season 6 of the show, occurred. References to other OCs and characters are included as listed: Kyra Glenmore, belonging to @badgershite.

You and 67% of readers chose to tell Rikkie of Cley’s lordship.

Cley really thought about their incoming conversation, what he should tell her. Rikkie… she had a right to know, they’ve known each other for the longest time now. And he didn’t want her hearing it any other way. It may sour the mood for the moment, but it’ll be a far cry if she finds out elsewhere. As the two of them sat down on a fallen log near the golden grassy fields aforementioned, the Condon decided to start up the conversation again, just as the Cerwyn decided what he’d inform her.

“So Cley… what have you been up to? First year was probably lordship training… but what about the next one?” Her tone was curious, wondering of what Cley had been up to. He couldn’t blame her, stuck here seems a bit too peaceful for her tastes. She was an adventurous woman, all too welcoming in seeing new conquests; she was the type to take any new and huge challenge.

The Cerwyn paused for a moment, trying to think of how to word what he needed to. How could he tell her that the bastard walked into his hold, butchered his family, and left him in charge of not one, but two steadfasts? How does someone convey that to a lifelong friend? There’s just… no easy for it. He began, seeming hesitant: “Rikkie, I… There’s something you need to know. I’m not… I’m not the heir of Castle Cerwyn. I’m… I’m Lord Cerwyn”.

Rikkie on the other hand, gave a face of sheer confusion and worry. He had a feeling… it sounded way off, compared to what they spoke of prior. The Condon inquired, giving a soft face, as well as placing a hand on his shoulder: “Cley… what are you talking about? What happened?”

Cley looked down in shame, sheer mortification was planted on his face. His voice was a bit shaky, as if he were reliving the moment, as the Cerwyn began to explain: “Roose Bolton sent his... recently legitimized bastard son, Ramsay, to Castle Cerwyn... To collect taxes from us. My father… however, refused to pay. He proudly professed his loyalty to House Stark... Called Ramsay a turncloak. For his…” The next word out of Cley’s mouth was hard to choke out, Ramsay’s vocabulary and his differed greatly. He finally managed out: “...Defiance, Ramsay called it, he had my father... flayed alive... along with my mother... and one of my uncles…” The Cerwyn struggled more with what he had to say next, it was… bad, not in general, but very bad if that’s the heir of Winterfell. He looked up, a glazed look in his eyes, glancing to his old friend. Cley finally spat it out with memory in his tone: “All the while… Rikkie, he made me watch. All of it… had his men hold me back and watch. Then he… Then he made me pay the taxes he came for”.

He hung his head in a ignominious manner, obvious stricken by guilt for surviving. He had to live… not for himself, not anymore. He had to live, so his house could survive. The weight of Westeros was on his shoulders, and there were people few and far in between that could ease the tension he was feeling. The lady however, by the tone of her voice, wouldn’t be taking this lying down: “I’m going to kill him, Cley, I promise”.

The Cerwyn shook his head, he knew that she could be strong enough to rip him apart, perhaps tear down the walls of Winterfell too, but… He knew all too well, what he was capable of. And what he would specifically do to her, considering she was of the opposite gender. He wasn’t just a monster… he was a terror, and he was going to be in charge, one day, he’s going to lord over all of the North. And he couldn’t a damn thing about it. Other than… to warn her: “Rikkie… I trust you. I trust in your personal strength. But… you wouldn’t be the first to try. Ethan Forrester, of Ironrath, tried to be defiant. The fucking monster put a blade through his throat, and he was younger than me! And then… Arthur Glenmore, he tried to help the Forresters, Ramsay flayed him living. I talked to his little sister, Kyra Glenmore, she was distraught after his death… and still is. I try my best, in being a good friend for her, but I know I’m just a distant thought in the grand plan of things. She has better people to think of…”

He looked back up, putting his own hand on her closest shoulder, advising: “I know you’re strong, Rikkie, you’re stronger than me. But… I don’t want you to die. Rikkie, I don’t want there to be even the possibility of you dying. I… I care about you too much”. He wasn’t lying, maybe she could accomplish what so many people failed to do, then… maybe not. But he didn’t want to risk her life on such a bet. No sort of wager could ever compare to her.

The Condon on the other hand, gave a sigh, before looking back up to him. She held a weak, yet hopefully smile. Her next words eased any worries he had: “I hear you, Cley… I hear you. I won’t march off to Winterfell and rip him apart. And I care about you too, don’t like seeing you sad”. She did the action of poking Cley on the nose in a cute manner, something from their childhood days, a small smile grew on the Cerwyn’s face. She settled into her own seat, giving a sigh, and humorously noted with a bigger smile now: “That’s a lot you came at me with… So tell me, is the lord seat as comfy as it looks?”

Cley’s own smile grew, glad they were moving on, he replied: “The Cerwyn one? Surprisingly, yes! Haven’t sat in the Flint’s Finger one yet”.

She cocked her head a bit, wondering about that little detail, before the thought process kicked in: “Oh! Right… your uncle Robin fell at the wedding… So, his lordship fell to you?”

Cley gave a nod, before adding the details: “Would of fell to me, but my mother took the position, felt I wasn’t ready. She was Lady of Flint’s Finger for a while”.

Rikkie gave a thoughtful nod to his words, before commenting: “Huh… Lord of two castles. And just how do you have time to be visiting me, hm?” She was poking good fun at him, possibly was also genuinely curious of just how he was accomplishing the feat. The Condon gave a laugh with his question, managing to find some humor with his predicament. It in turn, made the Cerwyn giggle in response, before finding his words to answer her.

��Luckily… Uncle Vanlir offered to lead in my stead as I’m gone, considering I don’t have castellan. Flint’s Finger however, does have a suitable castellan in charge as I’m not there. As well as knight that trains and prepares the soldiers they have there. Both handpicked by my uncle, before his passing; I saw no reason to remove the men who have been working valiantly. I’ll be visiting very soon to properly lead and involve the Flints”. Cley went to explain his situation, feeling a sense of pride for his Flint side. Despite everything that’s occurred, he cares very much for them. Just as the Cerwyns lost everything, so did the Flints of Flint’s Finger, he knew how they felt.

Rikkie rubbed the back of her head, sheepishly noted: “You lead a busy and important life, Cley… I’m glad to be apart of it”. She gave a genuine smile to her words, he missed that smile during the dark times he had to face.

He in turn, gave her a very warm smile. The Cerwyn replied: “I’m glad you are, and I’m very grateful to be apart of your’s. I think my life would have a lot less shine on it, without you”.

The Condon gave him a playful shove on his arm, still felt something considering her personal strength, she added a pleasant laugh with smile and her words: “Oh stop you! Trying to make blush, eh? ...Well you’re on your way, but it shouldn’t be that easy!” The two of them gave in to some laughter, before not too long, the lady brought up something: “Did… my great uncle mention our recent problem. I mean, if he did, he probably asked for your help”.

The Cerwyn nodded in agreement to her words, proving her thoughts with his response: “That he did. Could do the easy thing, march in Cerwyn and Condon troops…” She looked out at him as he paused, before Cley continued: “That much movement… near Winterfell, might make Roose and Ramsay uneasy. As if I’m preparing to retaliate against them… But I have another idea”. His old friend watched intently as he explained, prompting him to go further.

“...I could call upon the Flints. Far from the Boltons. My steadfast and Widow’s Watch would be the easiest to contact and obtain forces, however… my aunt is dealing with her own problems, and journey would prove to be perilous with the obstacles between here and there. And Flint’s Finger doesn’t have many troops, I could perhaps get half to come here. I don’t know if that’d be enough. So… I would have to appeal to The Flint”.

Rikkie’s eyes widen a bit at the mention of the mountain clan chief, but she remained quiet as the Cerwyn continued: “He’s family, I’ve met him… But he’s not like other lords. I don’t… I don’t know if my appeal would mean shit. I don’t even know how to send an appeal to mountain clansman--”

“Cley”. The Condon stopped him right there, placing a hand on each of his shoulders, so eye to eye contact could be made. After getting his attention, she gave him some advice: “Mountain clansmen are tough, rugged… You need to be clear, concise with him. If you know him, then you can do this; you’re the only one here that can get your words to mean something to him. If he’s “The Flint”, then you’re “The Flint’s Finger”, you mean something to the Flints. Prove it to him”.

After gazing into each other’s eyes for a few moments, Cley snapped back into reality, and nodded his head. He quietly responded back: “I hear you… and I will”.

She gave a nice smile, telling him then: “Good. Now… let’s talk about something else”.

And they proceeded to, for many hours until it was time for dinner at Goldgrass. Cley was able to sit among the lord and his family, it had been a day or so since he had a proper meal at a table, so he was able to vigorously enjoy it. It was there he was informed that Stout scouts had found activity of the bandits gathering together into some sort of force, they didn’t know what for, but no one at the table liked the idea of such. They spoke of a plan, to gather what forces they could, to ward off a potential or future brigand attack. Cley vocally spoke of whom he’d contact, and would attend to it after the meal. The evening rolled by, and that’s when he decided to head up to where House Stout kept their ravens… ideas of what to write and whom weighed his mind.

It was time to prove that the Flints were still very much a force to be considered in the North.

#;;dabbles #;;ooc post #((feeling better than yesterday... and as such. things are kicking up!))

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