#jaime lannister angst | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ichorai · 11 months

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i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.

track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 47.8k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/violence/murder/injury/blood, attempted sexual assault, this story covers the events from game of thrones s1-4, politicking, incest, talks of sex, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, reader is known as the bitter wolf and is ned’s youngest sibling, bittersweet ending

main masterlist. read on ao3!

You first met Jaime Lannister during the Year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney of Harrenhal—you had only been ten years of age, still starry-eyed and gentle-of-tongue. Knights, lords, and ladies hailing from all over Westeros were buzzing about the opening feast. Chalices of golden ale, platters of fruit and cheese, and sizzling trays of freshly-roasted meats were splayed out over several long tables.

To your right was your eldest brother, Brandon, biting into a large turkey leg and gingerly offering you a piece when he caught you ogling him. To your left was your sister Lyanna, popping voluminous grapes into her mouth and chattering to your two other brothers, Benjen and Ned, across the table. Her grey eyes were alight with glee, and she tipped her head back to laugh when Benjen made a snarky comment about Ned’s overgrown hair.

You were well into your second serving of glazed lemon cakes when the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood up front. A hush descended upon the crowd when the handsome, silver-haired man brandished a large, golden harp.

He sang a song of sorrow, one of tragedy and death. His voice was soft and beautiful, saturated with honey and rich soil. It was a strange choice for such a joyous event, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it. Your sister, most of all, as she had tears warbling over her stormy irises upon his serenade.

When Rhaegar finally finished, Benjen noticed Lyanna’s tearful eyes and began cackling loudly with no restrain. Your sister scowled deeply and poured her entire glass of wine over Benjen’s head, Dornish red dripping down his shocked face. The younger man moaned with grief at his soiled tunic, but was still giggling nonetheless. You had watched the entire ordeal with a wide, toothy grin.

As the feast progressed, more and more people left to go dance. You and Brandon were exchanging knowing glances when the great beauty, Ashara Dayne, a woman of lengthy midnight locks and dark mauve eyes, began dancing with Ned Stark upon Brandon’s request. The two of you cheered him on from the sides, embarrassing your quietest and shyest brother beyond relief, his cheeks stained with a permanent dusting of rouge.

“Come, little sister,” said Brandon, only seven-and-ten at the time, holding out his hand with a kind smile. The soft grey of his eyes gleamed with earnest. “You shall be my last dance of the feast.”

You glanced around, apprehensive. “Would you rather not dance with any of the other ladies present?”

“I’ve had enough dances with girls I hardly know, much less any I’d ever see again. Come, let me have a dance with my youngest sister. It may be a long while until I see you again after this.”

Acquiescing to his wishes, you slid away from the table and took his hand, beaming up at your oldest brother. The two of you were no good at dancing—you trod on his feet more times than you could count, and he wasn’t quite used to having a dance partner less than half his height, resulting in a clumsy waltz of flailing limbs and awkward shuffling. Nonetheless, the both of you were laughing and smiling regardless of your quickly-numbing feet.

The joy was abruptly leeched away when the hall grew eerily quiet, orchestral music halting mid-note. You stopped in your dance with Brandon, letting go of his hand to turn and see what was going on.

King Aerys shuffled in, back slightly hunched, his glossed-over eyes surveying the crowd. His white hair was long and tangled beyond salvaging, the ends split and the strands near his scalp bunching together in matted clumps. There was a sickly, pallid color to his skin. His hands were twitching wildly by his sides, long, ochre-hued claws scratching the bare flesh of his irritated wrists.

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. You felt yourself step back closer to your brother, suddenly feeling a wave of fear dance through you. This was the first time you’d seen the King in the flesh—and from what you’ve heard, he was far from a good one.

The rumors did not fall upon deaf ears—you knew he was going mad. Now that you were looking at him, it seemed so obvious. He went from yelling at his squire at the top of his lungs, threatening to burn him alive, to laughing hysterically about a trivial matter that was lost to you, until he began wheezing and coughing and spluttering spittle every which way.

All of a sudden, the King’s wild gaze fell upon Jaime Lannister, a young blonde sitting on the table across the hall from you, beckoning the young man closer to kneel before him. You craned your neck to get a proper look at him. He was a sharply handsome young man, with soft tendrils of spun-gold, and gleaming viridescent eyes. There were many tall tales about him—of his unending skill in battle, of his excellent swordsmanship, of his bold fearlessness.

The young knight was called to swear the oath of the Kingsguard in front of the entire hall. You watched with muted curiosity—he was barely older than Brandon, and yet he was already swearing away his entire life to the Mad King.

What a waste.

What you hadn’t picked up on, however, was that Jaime was none too happy about this ordeal, either. His expression was not set in stone, subtle flashes of anger bubbling through his stoic facade.

The crowd burst into raucous cheers when he got back onto his feet.

You did not clap.

The King had sent Jaime away later that night to guard the Queen and her children, and you did not see him for the rest of the tourney.

Perhaps that was a good thing—the Tourney at Harrenhal led to many, many things shortly in the aftermath. The abduction of your older sister, Lyanna, by the crown prince. The death of your eldest brother, Brandon, along with your father, Rickard Stark, by the hands of the Mad King. An entire war broke out. Your brother, Eddard, marrying Catelyn Tully in Brandon’s stead, and siring a newborn son, Robb. Off he went to battle not too soon after—leaving only you and Benjen and tiny Robb as the remaining Starks in Winterfell.

Rhaegar Targaryen dying from a blow by Robert Baratheon, who’d been madly infatuated with your sister. Or, at least, he’d deluded himself into thinking he was.

Jaime Lannister slitting the throat of the Mad King.

Everything had spun by so quickly—it all happened in a mere few moons. You were infamously named the Bitter Wolf, for not once have you smiled since the deaths of your dear family. It did not help that Benjen soon left to the Night’s Watch, leaving your only kin left to be Eddard and his young son.

“The Bitter Wolf,” the people of Winterfell always whispered as you passed by, foolishly thinking that you couldn’t hear them. “Take care not to get in her way… lest she ties you naked to a stake outside the castle walls to freeze overnight.”

Thwack.

Little Bran stomped a small foot in frustration when his arrow flew wildly off course, splintering into the damp wood of a barrel beside his intended target.

Jon patted his half-brother on the shoulder comfortingly. “Go on,” he said, “father’s watching. Your mother, too.”

The second arrow whizzed straight over the target entirely, disappearing somewhere into the trees behind. Bran’s older brothers began to chuckle under their breath, an even younger Rickon joining in on their laughter.

“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” asked Ned from the platforms above the courtyard. You briefly thought back to when you were ten—right when the war started. When you’d lost Lyanna, Brandon, and your father…

The other two boys chimed in with their advice.

“Don’t think too much about it,” said Jon.

“Relax your bow arm,” piped Robb.

Having a certain soft spot for your young nephew, you decided to voice your own thoughts. “Keep practicing, Bran. It’s alright not to be perfect at first, despite what your foolish brothers may tell you. For years, I kept missing my targets just because I always gripped the bow wrong. There is a certain art to it,” you told the young boy with a steely tone whilst nocking your own longbow, lining your gaze up with the target. In the blink of an eye, you sent it arcing forward, impaling the center of the coal-lined circle perfectly. Robb whistled with an impressed expression coloring over his features. “Archery is something you build up to—you won’t magically learn to perfect it in half a day.”

From somewhere behind the lot of you, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing the target right beside the tip of your bolt. You rounded your gaze behind you to see your young niece, Arya, holding her own bow, and grinning widely, immensely proud of herself.

It was no secret that Arya admired you greatly, aspiring to be like you when she grew older. Ned would often lightheartedly blame you for his second daughter’s callous, wild, and unladylike nature, but you would always reply with a straight tone, “Arya is every bit Lyanna. I am not Lyanna.”

With a frustrated huff, Bran darted after his sister, angry that she had bested him in something she wasn’t even supposed to be good at. Arya scurried away with a cackle, mud and gravel flying up beneath her boots with her remarkable speed. Robb and Jon burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

The smiles fell away when you shoved a bow into each of their arms. “Alright, boys. You think you’re so much better than your brother? Show me. I want ten perfect hits—only grazing the circle does not count.”

The two young men incredulously glanced up at their father, as if expecting Ned to save them from your stern wrath. Your older brother merely shrugged, half of a grin tilting his lips lopsided.

With a groan, the boys turned to do as they were bid, until Theon Greyjoy came bounding up to Ned with a message. A deserter from the Night’s Watch was captured not too far from Winterfell. An execution by Ned’s hand was in order for breaking a sworn oath.

Saved by the raven, you thought grimly, though you made a mental note to get them to practice again afterwards, even if it meant you had to drag them out by the ears.

The biting winds nipped at the small amounts of exposed bare skin that wasn’t covered by layers of thick furs, turning your face frigid. Outside the castle walls, the cold was more daunting and the gales were far stronger. You were well-acquainted with this sort of weather, however, and showed no sign of discomfort when Bran quietly asked you if you were as cold as he was.

They set the deserter upon a log, his neck resting upon the wood for Ned to chop it off. The poor fool was mumbling incoherently, too quiet for you to catch, but you could see the panic crystal clear in his far-away eyes.

“Don’t look away,” said Jon to his younger brother. “Father will know if you do.”

Bran blinked, looking up at you for a brief moment. You dipped your head in agreement. It was something he needed to face eventually—death was inevitable.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said Ned. “I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

With that, your brother raised his longsword and swung it down cleanly onto the back of the deserter’s neck. His severed head fell to the frozen ground with a squelching thud.

“You did well,” you quietly told little Bran, who had a slightly disturbed expression upon his quickly-paling features, but did not flinch all the same. He didn’t look at you, feeling a certain sickness coiling in his stomach.

Both Jon and Robb gritted their teeth. The older of the two turned and led Bran away to the horses.

“Bran is an imaginative boy,” you told Ned once he lumbered over to you, sheathing his sword. “He dreams of fights and knighthood—the glory and praise of it all. He knows not of the blood and death that consequently comes with it. Prepare him for that, Ned. Or he will be left traumatized and shrouded with fear.”

No one had prepared me, you wanted to say, but bit down on your tongue.

Your older brother took a pause at your words, considering them seriously. With a grim nod, he strode off to speak to his second-youngest son.

The ride back to Winterfell was rocky and far colder than when you had left. On the way, the group came across a mauled carcass of a stag, its bloodied guts pooling out of its abdomen, flesh nearly clawed apart.

“What killed it?” asked Jon.

“Mountain lion?” offered Theon, eyes darting to the trees in search of such a beast.

You shook your head. “Mountain lions don’t venture up this far. Must be a Northern animal. Claw marks are too small to be a bear.”

With slow strides Ned walked around the dead animal and down a muddy hill, where a bubbling creek rushed by. You followed along, brows quirking upwards upon seeing the large body of a direwolf, fresh blood coating the entire front of its pelt. There was an antler sticking out of its throat—no doubt the poor wolf died in agony.

Your attention was brought down lower to small, yipping pups, suckling at the teats of their dead mother.

“It’s a freak!” Theon said.

You shot him an icy glare, making him whither beneath your eyes. “Show some respect. The direwolf died protecting her pups.”

“Tough old beast,” Ned gruffed, before pulling out the bloodied antler.

“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb postulated, befuddled as to how this had happened.

“Now there are five,” said Jon, before picking one of the pups up by the scruff and moving it out to Bran. “You want to hold it?”

The pup whimpered as he was placed into Bran’s awaiting arms, wanting to go back to its mother. “Where will they go?” asked the boy. “Their mother’s dead.”

“They don’t belong down here—better a quick death,” said Ned, pulling out his sword once more. “They won’t last without their mother.”

Eager to please, Theon leapt forward, brandishing a knife and pulling the direwolf pup away from Bran. “Right, give it here.”

“No!” cried your nephew.

“Put away your blade,” you barked out, stepping closer to the ward.

Theon gulped nervously, but was stubborn to a fault. “I take orders from your brother, not you.”

“Please, father!” begged Bran, ever the sweet boy. He had already witnessed one death today, and was not yet ready to see five more.

“Put it away,” you repeated menacingly at Theon, before looking to your brother. “Ned, there are five direwolf pups… one for each of your children. The direwolf is the sigil of our house—it would do us no good killing off our own symbols. ‘Tis a rare thing to find direwolves around these parts. This is a blessing, brother. Take it as one.”

With a sigh, Ned hung his head, before staring directly at Bran. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves. If they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

Theon sheathed his knife at Ned’s words, thrusting the pup back into Bran’s grasp.

The group began to walk away, and you hauled up one of the pups into your arms, wondering whether it will go to Sansa, Arya, or Rickon, as Robb and Bran seemed to already have their pick.

“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.

The dark-haired man stiffly replied, “I’m not a Stark.”

The sound of another whimpering pup roped your attention away from the one in your arms. Jon knelt down by the stump of a tree, brandishing a pure-white direwolf, its eyes a hazy shade of crimson.

“Ah, the runt of the litter,” chuckled Theon. “That one’s yours, Snow.”

Jon still seemed disheartened, staring at the scrawny little thing with narrowed eyes as the rest of the group were already hitching their horses.

“Come on,” you nudged the younger man along with your elbow. “The runts always turn out to be the strongest. Perhaps not physically, but their wills are unmatched.”

It was not often that you were remotely affectionate to him, but when Jon turned to glance at you, your expression had hardened back to its usual state. “Now get on your horse, before I convince your father to abandon you out here.”

The month passed by in a blur. The direwolves were growing at a rapid speed, reaching taller than the height of your knee when they sat up, ears perked. News of Jon Arryn’s death had come not too long ago, and King Robert Baratheon was due to arrive at Winterfell any minute by now, along with his family, and a plethora of other royal subjects.

“I want to see the Imp,” Arya babbled to you, scurrying along by your side as you swiftly crossed the courtyard to the stairs that led to your chambers, eager to change into something more appropriate for the arrival of the King.

“Why? Because you want to meet someone shorter than you, for once?” you asked her dismissively, allowing her to slip through the door behind you as you changed out of your muddied garments into much cleaner ones. “Take no offense to this, Arya, but Tyrion Lannister prefers the company of much older women.”

Arya hopped onto your bed, eyebrows furrowing. She reminded you much of your late older sister, and it pained you to look at her for too long. Your comment about Tyrion’s tastes flew right over her head. “I’m not that short! Bran and Rickon are much shorter than me!”

A derisive snort fell from your lips as you did up your tunic, leaning close to the warped mirror to make sure you were decent enough for the public’s eye. “Not for long, girl. Not for long.”

Before Arya could reply, you were already making your way out of your chambers, just in time to see Bran clamber down the tall castle walls, yelling out, “The King is here! I saw him, he’s here!”

Not ten minutes later, nearly a hundred horses clopped through the gates, carrying fluttering Baratheon and Lannister flags.

You stood beside Catelyn, head held up high. To her other side was Ned, then Robb, then Sansa, then Bran, and finally, little Rickon. Arya pushed forth between Sansa and Bran, shoving her younger brother aside. “Move!” she gruffed, earning her an angry glare from both parties.

Behind you was Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy, the former looking like he’d really rather be doing anything else, and the latter looking excited to see Southern folk—the girls there are much prettier, he’d always thought.

The King certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He’d grown twice as wide since last you saw him, rounded belly straining the buttons of his stretched coat. His dark beard was thick and long, wild locks of black hair hastily combed back. A servant had to place down steps for him to clamber off his horse.

Ned knelt down before his old friend, and you followed suit. The King strode up to him, beckoning your older brother to rise, along with the rest of the people of Winterfell. You stood back up on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Your eyes wandered further behind the King, wondering where the rest of the royal family were.

“Your Grace,” said Ned, bowing his head.

Robert scanned his eyes over the Warden of the North, thick brows quirking down with disapproval. “You’ve got fat,” he quipped. Pot, meet kettle.

Your older brother tilted his head, using his chin to gesture to Robert’s own protruding stomach. The King then let out a loud, wheezing laugh, spreading out his arms to wrap Ned in a tight embrace.

He gave Catelyn a hug next, exclaiming her name warmly.

His dark eyes then landed on you. “Ah, the infamous Bitter Wolf,” he boldly said. He dared not hug you, wondering if you’d bite off his hand, uncaring that he was the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms. There was a pregnant pause—his gaze rested a second longer than it should have, for he couldn’t help but notice how you’d grown well into your features, sharing a few traits with Lyanna—though she looked much like your father whilst your appearance favored your late mother. “Time has done you wonders. Last I saw, you were only but a wee thing.”

“If only I could say the same to you,” you replied, voice sharp and level. Robert only gave a grand chuckle at your words, before moving his gaze back to Ned.

“Nine years—why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

A ghost of a smile graced Ned’s lips. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.”

“From what? Naked tree branches and piles of snow?” he said, amused at his own jests.

A little ways behind Robert, you could see Queen Cersei Lannister step out of a carriage, lifting her golden skirts just slightly so they wouldn’t drag along the mud.

“Where’s the Imp?” you heard Arya ask her sister.

“Will you shut up?” Sansa shot back, rolling her deep blue eyes to the side.

The King walked on to see the Stark children, a proud glint to his expression. “And who do we have here? Ah… you must be Robb,” he said, shaking the eldest boy’s hand firmly. Robert looked at Sansa, brows raised. “My, you’re a pretty one.”

He then leaned down closer to Arya, who looked much too preoccupied looking for the Imp, asking for her name. Arya absentmindedly responded, still searching for Tyrion, not even bothering to look the King in the eye. Robert seemed not to mind, only barking out a gruff chuckle.

“Ooh, show us your muscles!” Robert told Bran, who immediately raised a scrawny arm with a small grin. The King wheezed a chesty laugh. “You’ll be a soldier!”

The last of the horses rode into Winterfell, and you keenly noticed a golden-armored knight climbing off his steed, tugging his helmet off his head.

Jaime Lannister.

The man who killed the King. The very same King that murdered your father and brother.

Nearly unchanged from all those years ago, he was. His golden hair stood out starkly against the grey walls of the castle, green eyes bright and cunning.

You hadn’t even noticed that you were staring at him until your attention was ripped away by Cersei Lannister, her hand held out in front of Ned.

“My Queen,” he said, lightly kissing her knuckles. Catelyn bowed, a polite smile to her lips. You watched her with narrowed eyes, and for a brief second, Cersei met your cold gaze, as if challenging you to back down.

Before she could say anything, Robert strode back in front of Ned. “Take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”

To Lyanna. He wanted to see Lyanna.

Cersei scowled. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”

The King ignored his wife. “Ned. Let’s go.”

Your brother glanced apologetically at the Queen, before leading Robert away, down to the crypts.

“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked a third time, bouncing on her feet.

Nobody spared her a response, but Cersei swiftly rotated around to Jaime, taking hold of his arm. “Where is our wretched brother? Go and find the little beast.”

You watched Jaime huff in amusement, before striding off in search of Tyrion.

When Cersei turned back to the Stark family, you were nowhere to be seen.

The feast was held at sundown.

Your creamed potatoes were growing cold, but you hadn’t the stomach to eat anymore—not when Robert Baratheon was sticking his tongue down a servant’s throat only two tables away from you. So you opted to sipping on your drink instead, half-listening to whatever tall tale Robb was exaggerating to the lords around him.

It was only when half of the food was already scarfed down, did your brother Benjen arrive. He came clopping on horseback, striding through the crowded entrance and ducking between cheering men with overflowing chalices of ale.

“Little sister,” he greeted, clapping a hand on your shoulder and drawing you into a tight hug. Surprised at the sudden embrace, it took you a moment to reciprocate his affection. Your nose buried into the thick furs of his coat. You did not smile, but there was a faint trace of fondness to your eyes. “You are looking as sour as ever. Not a wonder why people only ever call you the Bitter Wolf these days. ‘Tis a rare thing to see you at a social calling, much less one this crowded.”

“Aren’t you a charmer? I’m only here because the King ordered me to be. Why, I cannot possibly say,” you dryly replied, before shoving him away and handing him a goblet of wine. “Here. Must be better than what you’ve got up on the Wall.”

Benjen said something in reply, but it was muffled into the rim of the cup as he slurped it down with a greedy groan. “Ah, I missed this terribly. You can’t imagine how awful alcohol tastes up there. Where is our dear brother? Ned!”

The taller man strode away to the eldest Stark by the main table, cuffing his shoulder with a wide grin. Ned, however, was solemn-faced, pondering about the mad boy he had beheaded all those weeks ago.

You chanced a glance towards the King—he was far too occupied with two other ladies fawning over him to notice you slipping out of the Hall. With that, you began weaving through the packed throng, eager to take your leave.

To your dismay, you were stopped in your tracks by a taller figure, the dark lapels of his tunic brushing against your face with your sudden halt. You reared back a step, your narrowed eyes meeting his curious green ones.

Jaime Lannister.

“Excuse me,” you said, none too pleased about being stopped in your tracks.

“Lady Stark,” he murmured, voice silken smooth. “Or, should I say, the Bitter Wolf?”

Annoyance growing, you only scowled at him. “Pardon me, Ser Jaime. Or, should I say, Kingslayer?”

Jaime frowned. The action twisted his sharp features in a manner that did not suit him at all, as if such an expression did not belong on such a face. The words stung like he’d just been slapped. Nonetheless, he pressed forth, determined to keep your conversation ongoing.

“I hear your brother is to be Hand of the King.”

What was this? Amicable chatter? With the Queen’s brother, no less? You were bewildered as to how you got to such a predicament—you only wanted nothing more than to retire to your chambers.

“Yes, lovely to hear that I am the last of my siblings to remain at Winterfell,” you snarkily replied, deftly stepping around him and ushering out of the Hall. It was to no avail, for Jaime simply strode with you, ambling after you out into the cold snow. “Why are you following me?”

“Walking you to your chambers,” the blonde knight simply replied, as if it were common sense. “You were there, were you not? At the Tourney of Harrenhal? I saw you. Small thing, you were.”

A beat of silence. In the distance, a raven cawed. You could feel the tension in your shoulders only barely dissipate.

“Yes,” you carefully replied. “I remember little of it… I was so young. Times were simpler then.”

Jaime huffed out a dry laugh and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for me, they weren’t.” It was clear to you that he was implying his time with the Mad King. You were given no chance to reply when he continued speaking. “You weren’t so bitter then. I saw you dancing with your brother… Brandon, was it?”

A lump formed in your throat. “Yes,” you quietly responded, voice suddenly hoarse.

“I’m sure a tournament will be held in honor of Lord Eddard’s new title, should he accept,” Jaime said, hands clasping behind his back. “I would hope to see you there, Lady Stark. Perhaps you can watch me best your brother in combat.”

Much to Jaime’s amazement, you scoffed, bordering on a near laugh.

He had made the infamous Bitter Wolf nearly laugh! A strange sense of pride curled within the confines of his chest.

“Your arrogance will be your downfall, Ser Jaime. Besides—Ned doesn’t fight in tourneys. I wouldn’t, either.” You turned the corner to climb up the steps to your chambers, halting in your tracks to look down upon Jaime. “‘Tis a foolish thing, fighting for naught but gold and praise. When the enemies come striking, there is no gold waiting on the other side. Just the bittersweet relief of survival.”

Jaime tilted his head, considering your words. “It’s not always a relief.”

“Pardon?”

“Relief… not all are relieved to be alive,” he mused, hand resting upon the stone wall beside him.

You observed the man before you. Perhaps you had severely misjudged him.

“Yes,” you murmured, casting your gaze up to the starry night sky. “I know what that’s like.”

The two of you stood in silence for a while longer. It was neither comfortable nor was it unbearable. It was simply just there.

“I’ll be retiring for the night, Ser Jaime. You’ve followed me this far—I could only hope you won’t follow me into my chambers,” you said in a warning tone, eyes locked intensely with his.

With a playful tone, Jaime pushed at the elasticity of your limits. There was a roguish grin to his mouth. “I would never. Not unless you invited me, of course.”

And there it was again—your gruff scoff-laugh. Jaime stood up straighter, wishing to hear you laugh properly.

“Good night, Ser,” you curtly said.

“Good night, Lady Stark. Sleep well. Perhaps we’ll reconvene on the morrow,” he replied with a small bow of his head. With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the mess hall. You hummed in thought, thinking back to his earlier words as you slid into your dark chambers.

Not all are relieved to be alive.

You were up early the next morning, sharpening one of your many throwing daggers by the foot of the staircase.

It all happened in a blur. One moment, you heard a faint thud from the edges of the castle walls. You thought nothing of it at first—brushing it off as one of the saddle boys accidentally knocking a barrel over. But the morning was still young, and you doubted any of them would even be up at such an hour. It would do you no harm to go check. And so, you sheathed your dagger and strode across the yard and rounded the bend.

The next moment, you were happening upon Bran’s small, broken body, laid across the grass and gravel, clearly having just fallen from a great height. You had yelled for the maesters so loudly that the entirety of Winterfell seemed to awaken at the commotion. With frantic motions, you gathered Bran up in your arms and sprinted towards the infirmary, murmuring panicked prayers to the Old Gods beneath your breath.

The startled Maester Luwin swooped to take Bran from you, setting him down on a bed to check on him. The small boy was unresponsive, but still breathing.

Catelyn and Ned came running in soon after. You took to comforting an anguished Cat while answering Ned’s solemn questions as to what happened.

For the days to come, you rarely ever left your nephew’s side, curled up in a chair by the head of his bed, only ever leaving to occasionally clean yourself up and grab food for yourself and Catelyn. The boy’s poor mother was in shambles, often crying into his blankets and pleading for him to wake up. She prayed to her Seven Gods, begging them to bestow mercy for her sweet boy. When she wasn’t sobbing, she would read to him in a low, croaking voice, or occupy her shaking hands with needlework.

Cersei Lannister had appeared by the doorway the morning after Bran’s fall, clutching her thick coat close to her form.

“Oh, I would’ve dressed, had I known you were coming, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, standing up to bow slightly. You glanced up from your own book, dipping your head in acknowledgement to the Queen.

The woman hummed. “Please, this is your home. I’m your guest.” She looked upon Bran, green eyes dark and thoughtful. “Handsome one, he is. I lost my first boy—a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter, too… tried to beat the fever that took him.”

Her words made you set your book down, brows furrowing.

She seemed to sense both you and Catelyn’s agitation, clasping her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. That must be the last thing you need to hear right now.”

“I never knew, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her palm. She was exhausted, having forgone sleep for the entire night.

“It was a long time ago,” Cersei replied wistfully. “Robert was furious… beat his hands bloody on the wall. All the things men do to show you how much they care.”

“Without actually caring,” you murmured, thinking back to his crazed infatuation with your older sister. Cersei’s stare turned to you, and she nodded once.

There was a long, pregnant silence. The Queen cleared her throat and continued on. A thin film of tears warbled over her viridescent irises. “The boy looked just like him. Such a small thing. A bird without feathers. When they came to take him away—Robert held me. I screamed and battled, but he held me. I never saw him again. Never visited the crypts.” She drew in a shaky breath and fixed her stare back on the motionless Bran. “I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she will return your child to you, Lady Catelyn.”

“I am grateful,” Cat sniffled.

“Perhaps this time she’ll listen,” said Cersei. She turned to take her leave, but not before glancing at you. “You were the one who found him, were you not?”

You set your jaw at the question. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Hm. It is a miracle you were there… he would have been dead if not for you,” she murmured, a strange edge to her tone. The skirts of her dress swished noisily as she strode out of the room.

The fresh air was doing you good. Your head felt much clearer as you made your way around the castle, the cold winds settling nicely over your skin, pleasantly tousling your hair. You made your way to the smithy, where you spotted Jon hovering over the wooden table where a blade was being carefully cleaned.

It seemed the young man was quite taken with the prospect of going up to the Wall with your brother, Benjen, and swearing the vows of the Night’s Watch. You weren’t too happy to hear of his plans on leaving Winterfell, but you supposed he’d feel much more at home further up North with people cut from the same cloth as him. Not only was Jon leaving to the Wall, but Ned, Sansa, and Arya were also going to the capital with the King quite soon.

“Jon,” you greeted, dipping your head at your nephew. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

The grey-eyed man shook his head, curls flying. There was a small, wary smile touching the corner of his lips. “I was going to come visit you and Bran before you left. I have something to give to Arya first.”

You peered over his shoulder to take a closer look at the thin sword. “A sword for your sister? Be sure your father doesn’t see you giving her that.”

Surprised flashed across Jon’s face. You were never one to pass up the chance to nag him until his ears fell away. “Are you not going to tell me off?”

“No,” you grimly replied. “King’s Landing is a dangerous place. The girl’s going to need it someday.”

Jon nodded once, pleased that you weren’t going to stop him.

It was then that you heard a familiar voice susurrate from behind you, making both you and Jon turn around at the same time.

“Lady Stark, my deepest condolences for your young nephew. Let us hope he makes a speedy recovery,” he said. He was grinning strangely, in a manner that you rather misliked.

“Yes,” you responded stoically. “I suppose this is a farewell for us, then.”

The blonde knight tossed his head back in a confident manner. “Only time will tell, Bitter Wolf. You never know—our paths may yet cross again.”

You couldn’t quite tell if that was a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.

You spared him a distant hum, turning back to look upon the sword Jon was having specially crafted for Arya.

“A sword for the wall?” the Kingslayer asked, head tilting.

“No. I already have one,” said Jon.

The older man’s brows lifted. “Good man. Have you swung it yet?”

The bastard scoffed. “Of course I have.”

“At someone, I mean,” the knight clarified. Jon remained silent. “It’s a strange thing… cutting a man open for the first time. You realize we’re nothing but sacks of meat and blood and bone to keep it all standing. Let me thank you ahead of time, Jon Snow, for guarding us all from the perils beyond the Wall. Wildlings and white walkers and whatnot.”

Jaime tightly clasped Jon’s hand, clearly mocking the man with a condescending lilt to his words. It took no genius to discern that Jaime was no fan of the Night’s Watch—to him, they were nothing but a group of lowly thieves, rapists, and murderers.

The younger boy tried to pull his hand away from Jaime’s grip, but the blonde man merely grasped harder. “We’re grateful to have such good, strong men like you protecting us.”

“I’d appreciate it if you let go of my nephew, Ser Jaime,” you cut in, voice icy and eyes ablaze. You were rather indifferent to the blonde knight, but he was starting to get on your nerves.

Jaime took one glimpse at your hardened scowl, before relinquishing his hold on Jon and stepping back. You couldn’t quite read the expression on his handsome features. “Give my regards to the brothers at the Wall. I’m sure it will be thrilling to serve in such an… elite force. And if not, well… it’s just for your entire life, right? Small price.”

The Kingslayer left the both of you glaring at his back, making his way back into the castle to find his brother. You looked to Jon.

“His arrogance will be his downfall,” you whispered, parroting what you’d told him the night of the feast.

Jon only grunted in response, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

It was easy to say goodbye to Jon. You knew he was going to be safe with your brother watching over him, and he was going to be much happier at the Wall without feeling out of place, like he did in Winterfell. You gave him a one-armed hug, pulling away to pat his cheek twice.

“Write to me, will you? I want to know how you’re faring,” you said, tone uncharacteristically soft. It’d been nearly a month since Bran fell out of the window, and you weren’t keen on losing another one of your nephews.

Jon nodded, lips pursed grimly. “Of course. Will you let me know if Bran wakes up?” he asked.

“When he wakes up,” you corrected.

“Right. When he wakes up. You Starks are hard to kill.”

Though you didn’t smile, there was a clear glimmer of fondness to your irises, one that Jon only rarely caught when you were speaking to Ned or little Rickon. The fact that it was directed to him for the first time made his stomach roil—he was going to miss you.

“You’re a Stark to me, Jon. You’re my nephew, my blood… never forget that. Now, get on—Robb’s waiting to speak to you.”

You ushered the younger man off to say his farewells to his half-brother, but Jon paused in his steps and lowly asked, “Before I go, I wanted to ask you… do you know anything about my mother?”

There was a beat of silence. You certainly hadn’t expected Jon to ask you that. “Your father never spoke to me about her. All I know is that she must’ve been a good person if Ned took a liking to her. I’m sorry… I wish I could tell you more, but I know little of the matter myself.”

You didn't miss the glimmer of disappointment to the young lad's grey eyes. “Don’t be. Farewell, Aunt Y/N.”

You watched Jon turn on his heel and walk off to speak with Robb.

“You don’t look too happy to see me off,” said Benjen, magically appearing by your side and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. He ruffled your hair with a mild grin. “Then again… you never really look happy, do you?”

With a scowl, you ducked away from his hands. “Oh, stop it. I’ll be seeing you again sooner or later, no doubt.”

“I’m being serious, dear sister. I cannot remember the last time I’ve seen you genuinely smiling,” he said, evident concern flooding his winter-hewn features. “Give me a smile—just one before I leave. You used to smile all the time when we were little.”

Before the war. Before father and Brandon were murdered.

You shook your head, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. “That was a long while ago, Benjen. I am not the same person I was before.”

Barking out a laugh, Benjen crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed you are not. I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll be keeping Bran in my prayers.”

“You don’t pray,” you dryly said.

“I would for him,” your older brother replied solemnly before mounting his horse. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

Your own goodbye was too quiet for him to hear, as he was already clopping away.

The next farewells in order were for Ned, Sansa, and Arya. Your brother tugged you into a loose hug, face grim.

“Winter is coming,” he had whispered into your hairline. “Take care, Y/N.”

As for the two girls, Sansa was rather intimidated by you, and squeaked out a stiff goodbye, whilst Arya hugged you tightly, her face buried into the fabric of your tunic. You had frozen at first, but loosened with time and gently patted her head.

There was too much of Lyanna in her, you thought with a frown as she pulled away from you and scurried off to get into the carriage behind her older sister.

Hours later, you found yourself sitting by Bran’s bed once again, Catelyn on the other side weaving together a prayer wheel for her son. You were flicking through a voluminous tome on the history of dragons, muffling a yawn behind your fist. It was only when Maester Luwin strode into the room did you pull your attention away from the book.

“It’s time we reviewed the accounts, my Lady,” he hesitantly said to Catelyn, hands clasped together. The woman’s eyes watered, and she glared at the maester for even thinking that she was up for speaking of money when her son was still hurt. “You’ll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us.”

She hummed dismissively. “Talk to Poole about it.”

Sympathetic, Luwin lowered his voice. “Poole went south with Lord Stark, my Lady. We need a new steward, and there are several appointments that require our immediate attention—”

“I don’t care!” Catelyn bit out. “I don’t care about appointments! My son needs me.”

Another figure stepped through the doorway. “I’ll make the appointments,” said Robb. “We’ll talk about it first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be happy to help, if need be,” you offered, nodding to Robb.

“Very well, my Lord—my Lady,” said Maester Luwin to the both of you, before dipping his head and excusing himself out of the room.

You casted a worried glance to Catelyn, who’d taken to intensely staring at her prayer wheel once more.

“When was the last time you’ve left this room?” Robb asked his mother. Crossing the room in three long strides, he reached out to open up the windows. The noise of the howling direwolves flooded into the chambers.

There was a tremble in her voice when she said, “I have to take care of him.”

“He’s not going to die, mother. The maester says the most dangerous time has passed,” Robb tried to reason fruitlessly.

“What if he’s wrong?” she retaliated, eyes wild. “Bran needs me!”

Her eldest son shook his head. “Rickon needs you. He’s six. He doesn’t know what’s happening—he follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying out for you, for Bran, for father—”

The direwolves howled some more.

“Close the windows!” Catelyn cried, abandoning her prayer wheel to curl her hands into fists and knock them against her knees in frustration. “I can’t stand it! Make them stop!”

The howling only grew louder.

With furrowed brows, you stood up on your feet to stand beside Robb and glance out the window.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

Fire.

Red, greedy flames. Licking at the air, spitting embers at the gravel.

With urgent movements, you dashed out of the door to help put the growing blaze out, catching Robb ordering his mother to stay in the room.

When you returned to the chambers not fifteen minutes later, you found Catelyn curled up on the cold floor, murmuring prayers beneath her breath, her hands soaked in dark ichor. An equally bloodied Summer was laying protectively over Bran’s unconscious form.

On the other side of the room was a man, throat nearly turned inside out, crimson so dark it nearly looked black, gushing out of his neck.

And on the ground between them was a dagger.

A dagger to change the fate of the entirety of Westeros.

“This is where he must have fallen,” you whispered to Catelyn, gazing out from the opening in the tall tower.

Your sister-in-law gritted her teeth. “Or where he was pushed.”

Anger bubbled within your throat. It made sense—Bran had never fallen before while climbing, and someone was sent to murder him not too long after the first failed attempt.

“Who would do such a thing?” you asked in an icy voice, gaze scouring around the rest of the tower.

Catelyn knelt down on the ground, eyes widening. From the ground she picked up a long strand of blonde hair.

Fury turned your vision red.

Cersei Lannister.

Nearly an hour later, Catelyn had convened a small group she was sure to be loyal to her. Ned’s ward, the master-at-arms, the maester, you, and her eldest son.

“What I am about to tell you must remain between us,” she said, an urgent edge to her words. “I don’t think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was thrown.”

Maester Luwin bowed his head in thought. “The boy was always sure-footed before.”

“Someone tried to kill him twice. Why? Why murder an innocent child?” Catelyn whispered, blue eyes hardened. “Unless he saw something he shouldn’t have seen.”

Theon tilted his head. “Saw what, my Lady?”

“I don’t know… but I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown.”

“Did you notice the dagger that the killer used? It’s too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, and the handle is dragonbone. Someone gave it to him… someone with a lot of money,” said Rodrik, presenting the sharp dagger for everyone to see.

Enraged, Robb snarled, “They come into my home and try to murder my brother? If it’s war they want—”

“If it comes to that, you know that I’ll stand behind you,” Theon interrupted, ever desperate to please.

“Perhaps it is best you think first with your head before your fists,” you told the two bristling boys in a placating tone. “War is the last thing we need. We have to keep our emotions in tact… find out who did this. Justice will be served, but it mustn’t be rushed.”

Robb blew out a frustrated breath, but nodded. It was not wise to rush headfirst into war. Everybody had to be smart about this.

“Lord Stark must be informed,” said Maester Luwin.

Shaking her head, Catelyn responded, “I don’t trust a raven to carry these words.”

“I’ll ride to King’s Landing,” Robb offered.

Immediately, Catelyn refused his proposal, not wanting to put another one of her sons in danger. “No. You are Winterfell’s heir—you should remain here. I will go myself.”

“Mother, you can’t—” Robb began to protest.

“I must,” said Catelyn, heavy with finality.

Rodrik pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll send Hal with a squad of guards to escort you, my Lady.”

Again, Catelyn denied the offer. “I don’t want the Lannisters to know I’m coming. Too large a party will attract attention.”

“Then let me accompany you,” said Rodrik. “The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone.”

Crestfallen at having to see his mother off, Robb whispered, “What about Bran?”

Catelyn’s lips trembled. “I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month. Bran’s life is in their hands now.”

By nightfall, Catelyn had packed a small rucksack to take with her, and Rodrik was awaiting her by Winterfell’s gates.

“Watch my boys for me,” she murmured, taking your hands within hers and squeezing. Tears lined her eyes, threatening to fall, but none did. “There isn’t much you can do for Bran but Robb… Rickon… they need you.”

“I’ll be here, sister,” you said solemnly, squeezing her palms in a reassuring manner.

With that, you helped her mount her small horse, and watched as she rode off with Rodrik in tow. Robb came by your side, his jaw set.

“All my life, I’ve watched people go,” you said to him, wistful. “My father, my brothers, my sister, and now your mother. The waiting is the worst part.”

The younger man casted you a curious look—this was the first time he’s heard you speak of your past. He pulled a hand over his weary face. “I’m not good at waiting.”

“You’ll have no choice,” you told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, Robb. We have an entire castle to uphold. We must work together, you and I. You are a young man, with a heavy responsibility weighing over your head… but I will shoulder it with you. You hear me, boy?”

Conflict warred within the blue of his eyes. He looked so much like Catelyn, nothing like you or Ned. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

To his surprise, you pulled him into an embrace, and he couldn’t help but swallow down the lump in his throat, forcing away the sharp sting to the corner of his eyes. Never before had you openly shown him such affection, but these were changing times. You loved your nephew dearly, even if you weren’t one to show it.

“Come,” you said once you pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “Let us go have supper.”

A week had gone by when Bran awoke.

He was tired and groggy, and felt nothing from the waist down. He’d never be able to walk again, the maester had said. Bran was angry at the news, spending his days looking glum and solemn.

When Robb had asked him if he remembered anything, Bran merely bit his bottom lip and shook his head. You wrote to both Jon and Ned of the bittersweet news, sending the raven off first thing in the morning.

Nearly a moon later, Lord Tyrion returned back to Winterfell after his little adventure to the Wall, with a brother of the Night’s Watch, Yoren, accompanying him.

“I must say I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit,” the Imp mused, standing before you and Robb and Maester Luwin.

A scowl flitted over your features. “Winter is coming, Lord Tyrion. Not much warmth going around the North these days.”

Robb tilted his head. “Any man of the Night’s Watch is always welcome in Winterfell.”

“Any man of the Night’s Watch but not I, eh, boy?” Tyrion asked.

With a steely tone, your nephew gritted out, “I’m not your boy, Lannister. I’m the Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.”

“Then you might learn a Lord’s courtesy!”

It was then that the door to the hall swung open, and Hodor lumbered in, carrying Bran in his arms.

“So it’s true,” said Tyrion, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?”

Maester Luwin responded on the boy’s behalf. “He has no memory of that day.”

Frustrated, Robb asked, “Why are you here?”

Ignoring the question, the Lannister looked back to Bran. “Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt.”

With a straight face, Bran quietly said, “Kneel, Hodor.”

The large man did as Bran asked.

“Do you like to ride, Bran?” queried Tyrion.

“Yes. Well… I used to.”

Luwin’s brows furrowed. “The boy has lost the use of his legs.”

Brandishing a paper scroll, Tyrion easily replied, “With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.”

The small boy frowned at the wording. “I’m not a cripple,” he said, clearly upset.

“Then I’m not a dwarf!” Tyrion exclaimed before handing Bran the scroll. “My father would be rejoiced to hear it. Here—this is for you. Give it to your saddler, and he’ll provide the rest.”

He unraveled it eagerly, a smile touching his lips upon seeing intricate designs for a special-made saddle to accommodate for his legs.

“Will I really be able to ride?” asked Bran.

“You will,” said Tyrion. “On horseback, you’ll be as tall as any other man.”

Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “What game are you playing at, Lord Lannister? Why are you helping my nephew, if you even are?”

“No game,” the Imp replied. “I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”

Bran smiled at the blonde, and Robb seemed to soften a bit at this.

“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” he said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Spare me your courtesies, Lord Stark. There is a brothel outside your walls. There, I’ll find a bed and both of us can sleep easier.”

With that, Tyrion turned to leave.

“I’ll be right back,” you told Robb, who watched you go with curious eyes. You said nothing more, getting up from your seat and hurrying out after the surprisingly quick man. “Lord Tyrion.”

“Ah, the Bitter Wolf—I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking to each other alone before,” he hummed. “My brother seems to think you’re amusing… though you don’t quite look the kind to jape.”

You waved away his words, getting straight to the point. “Do you know where Cersei Lannister was the morning Bran fell?”

The Imp’s brows raised. “I can’t say I do… I was sunken into my whore and my cups… and Cersei avoids me like the plague. I scarcely know where she is even when I’m sober. Why? Do you believe my wretched sister played a hand in his crippling?”

“Indeed, I do,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “These are dangerous times, Lord Tyrion. Sleep well.”

With no more to say to him, you turned on your heel and marched back into the hall, with the Imp’s gaze burning holes into the back of your head.

The small scroll the raven brought to Winterfell bore nothing but bad news. Catelyn had taken Tyrion as hostage in belief that he was the one responsible for Bran’s fall, as the dagger apparently belonged to him. She planned on bringing him up to the Vale to contest his crimes with her sister, Lysa.

It is not Tyrion, you wanted to scream at your law-sister, even though she was thousands of miles away. It is Cersei Lannister. I am sure of it.

Not too long after the news of the Imp’s imprisonment reached you, another raven came flying into Winterfell. This time, its contents were far graver.

Jory was dead. Ned was seriously maimed on behalf of Catelyn—a spear pierced cleanly into his thigh—and he was tossed into a jail cell by order of Jaime Lannister.

Fury had consumed you whole when you read the little parchment, nearly ripping the paper apart from your tight grip. You had half a mind to ride to King’s Landing and demand your brother be freed at once, but you steeled yourself with reason. There was little you could do—the Red Keep was swarming with golden lions and hungry cats of the same ilk. It was no place for a wolf of winter.

When you had told Robb of the news, he was surprisingly calm about it, drawing away from you to mull it over silently. He did not want to jump headfirst into violence—but what choice did he have now?

“My mother shouldn’t have done that,” murmured Robb, voice lowered so nobody would be able to overhear. “The Lannisters will go to war with us for this.”

You hummed, pensive. “No, she shouldn’t have. It is not Lord Tyrion that pushed Bran—he may be a drunkard, but he is not a fool. He wouldn’t equip an assassin with his own personal dagger. Only an arrogant idiot would do such a thing.”

“Then who do you think did it?” asked your nephew, blue eyes cold.

“Cersei Lannister. Your mother and I found a long strand of blonde hair in the tower Bran fell from. Who other than Cersei has long blonde hair? I don’t know why she would do such a thing—but I’d bet an arm and a leg that it was her. She loves nobody but her own children… and she is none too fond of your father, or the King, or any of you. Perhaps Bran saw her with someone. Someone she wasn’t supposed to be with,” you said, tone slow as you spelled it out for him.

Brows raised, Robb reared back at the realization. His breath seemed to crystallize within his throat. “If word were to get out about Cersei’s couplings, the King would have her head on a spike. It would make sense for her to eliminate any… threats.”

“Yes, boy. We must keep this to ourselves for now—we could lose our tongues at the very least if we have no proof.”

The younger man blew out a sigh. The heavy burden laying over his shoulders seemed to only grow weightier by the minute. “Should we not tell Bran? About any of this?”

Both of you looked at the sweet summer child, hollering out excitedly as he rode about on Dancer, strapped into the new horse saddle Tyrion had designed.

“He seems happy. Perhaps it is best we let him remain in such a state for a little while longer.”

It was then that Theon made his way to the two of you, having heard the news of Jory and Ned from a grave Maester Luwin.

“Are you not going to make the Lannisters pay?” he asked Robb, grey eyes ablaze.

Setting his jaw, Robb firmly shook his head. “I will not go to war.”

“It’s not war—” Theon firmly replied, “it’s justice.”

A scoff lodged itself in your throat. “Queer definition of justice, ey, Greyjoy? Is revenge the only way you settle fights back on the Iron Islands? ‘Tis a wonder the lot of you haven’t already murdered each other, then.”

The ward bristled at your nonchalant comments, but decided to ignore you, addressing Robb once more. “Jaime Lannister put a spear through your father’s leg. The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock, where no one can touch him—”

“It was not him,” you sharply corrected Theon, scowling.

“What?”

“It was not Ser Jaime who speared Ned,” you repeated yourself, slightly quieter.

Mirroring your frown, Theon shook his head with frustration. “What does it matter? He was there. He fought Lord Stark in front of a whorehouse!”

“What would you have me do?” demanded Robb, lifting his head in a challenging manner. “March on Casterly Rock and order the Kingslayer to come out of hiding? Then you are more a fool than I thought, Theon.”

Raising his voice ever so slightly, Theon retaliated, “You’re not a boy anymore! They attacked your father. The war has already begun, whether you like it or not. It’s your duty to represent House Stark when your father can’t.”

“And what do you know of duty?” you spat, glaring angrily at Theon. “It is not your house—I’m afraid you’re confusing captivity with duty.”

With an angry yell, Theon pushed himself up to his feet, towering over you, but you merely rolled your eyes to the side. The both of you knew that if Theon were to lay one hand on you, he would be hanging from a noose by the end of the day. Uncaring of the bridling man, you glanced around to look for Bran.

Where the devil was he?

“Where’s Bran?” asked Robb, wildly looking around for his younger brother.

Still upset, Theon hissed out, “Don’t know. Not my house.” With that, he stalked away, shoulders slumped.

You and Robb hurriedly scoured the forest in search of little Bran. A nocked bow was gripped in your hands, and a dagger was safely tucked beneath your cloak in case you ever needed it.

Finally, the two of you heard whispers and mutters coming from behind a bush, and you raised your bow with narrowed eyes. It was Bran on his horse, appearing frightened—and around him were four Wildlings, their furs muddied and their faces covered with soot. One of them had a blade against Bran’s paralyzed leg.

“Drop the knife,” Robb commanded, voice booming. He unsheathed his sword, the cold metal gleaming with the sparse rays of sun through the dark grey clouds. “Let him go, and I’ll let you live.”

The wildlings glanced at each other, snickering. One of them dove forward with a yell, arcing an axe down upon Robb. Your nephew was quick to parry and duck away, his sword slicing cleanly along the flesh of his throat.

You let your arrow loose straight through the eye of the wildling closest to Bran, and he fell back with an ear-splitting scream. With nimble movements, you ran to the horse, beginning to unbuckle the straps to the saddle keeping him in place. To your right, another wildling came charging at you, her dull axe swinging down to your arm. You jerked away before it could make a clean chop, but the blade carved a large gash into your forearm nonetheless, blood splattering all over your tunic. Pain blossomed over your hand and you rolled away before she could hit you once more. Robb came forward, slanting his longsword against the wildling woman’s jugular.

The last straggler grabbed your injured arm, making you cry out at the sudden pressure, the tip of his own dirty knife pressing into your jaw. A crimson bead leaked out from your skin, rolling down your neck.

Robb’s eyes widened. From his horse, Bran worriedly yelled your name.

“Drop the sword!” the wildling yelled, glaring at Robb holding his friend. “Do it!”

With slow, cautious movements, Robb reluctantly lowered his sword, but didn’t relinquish his grip on the woman.

All of a sudden, an arrow flew through the air, piercing straight through the wildling that was holding you with a sickening squelch. More blood splattered over your face and you grimaced, shoving him away with a gasp. You rounded your gaze behind to see Theon Greyjoy, his face grim yet smug.

Robb was quick to rush to Bran, asking if he was alright. His blue eyes glanced at you with concern, noting how your entire arm was drenched with your dark blood.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered to him, wincing as you put pressure upon your gash. “Maester Luwin will stitch me up.”

“Do I not get a thank you?” Theon asked you, nocking another arrow to point at the wildling woman’s forehead. “In the Iron Islands, you’re not a man until you’ve killed your first enemy. Well done, Robb.”

A scowl crossed your features, but Robb replied in your stead. “Have you gone mad?” he growled out. “What if you’d missed? You could’ve gotten her killed!”

Indignant, Theon gruffed, “That wildling would’ve killed the three of you anyway, had I not been there.”

“You don’t have the right—!”

“To what? To save Lady Stark? It was the only thing to do so I did it! Would you rather her be dead?”

You raised a hand to placate the two, tone calm and soft. “Alright, alright. Thank you, Theon. Happy? Can we get on with actual important matters now?” Your eyes darted to the last wildling alive.

Whimpering, she cowered beneath the tip of Theon’s arrow. “Please, m’lord, gimme mah life and ah’m yours,” she simpered, crawling closer to Robb.

Ever the tender boy, Robb bowed his head. “Keep her alive.”

She blew out a sigh of relief, kneeling down to press her head into the cold, damp soil with gratitude. You turned away, marching back to the castle, leaving a trail of blood dripping from the deep gash in your wake.

Benjen had disappeared. The small raven’s scroll was read over and over nearly ten times altogether… desperate for some sort of misreading or that the words would magically change. But they did nothing of the sort—your older brother had vanished into thin air beyond the Wall.

Before you could even begin to process your grief, another message came to Winterfell, written by Sansa.

Ned had been arrested.

“Treason?” Robb whispered after he read the message. “Sansa wrote this?”

“Sansa’s hand… but a Lannister’s words were stuffed down her throat. No mention of Arya either,” you growled out, pacing back and forth in front of your nephew, Maester Luwin, and Theon.

The old man clasped his hands in front of him, appearing grim. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new King.”

Brows furrowed, Robb spat, “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?”

“This is a royal command, my Lord,” said Luwin. “If you should refuse to obey—”

“I won’t refuse. I’ll go to King’s Landing… but not alone. Call the banners,” Robb told the Maester, grave and solemn.

Lowering his voice, Luwin asked, “All of them, my Lord?”

“They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not? Now we see what their words are worth.”

There was a glint of pride in Luwin’s eyes. He’d been the one to pull Robb out of his mother’s womb, and now he was practically a man grown. With a bow of his head, he turned to amble away, off to send the ravens to the bannermen.

Robb’s hands were shaking violently. It didn’t go beyond your notice when he clasped them over one another in an effort to stave his nerves away.

“I’m going with you,” you told him firmly, surprising both Robb and Theon.

A protest formed on the tip of your nephew’s tongue. “No, you should stay here with B—”

“Ned is my brother. The only one left, if Benjen is truly gone. I need to go, Robb. I need to.” Your voice cracked with desperation and you reached out to tightly clutch at his shoulder, eyes cold with muted fury. “When the King summoned my father and my brother, Brandon, to King’s Landing… they never returned to Winterfell. And now Joffrey is calling for you… I can’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you—end of story.”

There was a lengthy beat of silence.

Eventually, Theon was the one that caved, barking out a laugh. “There’s no stopping her, Robb.”

“For once, Greyjoy seems to be finding sense,” you snidely remarked.

A small sigh fell from Robb’s lips. “Alright. Perhaps this is the best thing to do—I don’t know if I could lead a war all on my own.”

“You’re not alone, my boy,” you told him, patting his cheek twice. “You’d have to pry my cold, dead body away from you if it meant I was to be leaving you.”

A grand feast was held for the bannermen’s arrival at Winterfell. Everybody drank and ate and chattered joyfully, exchanging tall tales of war and battle. Everybody save for Robb, who was still ridden with anxiety, prodding around pieces of chicken with the prongs of his fork, having no appetite to eat. You sat beside him, taking small bites of a berry cake.

From across the table, Lord Umber was barking out, “For thirty years I’ve been leaving corpses in my wake! I’m the one you want leading the vanguard!”

His efforts to convince Robb were fruitless. “Galbart Glover will lead the van,” he repeated himself, quite exhausted of the matter already.

“The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!” the old man yelled. “I will lead the van… or I will take my men and march them home!”

You paused mid-bite, placing the half-eaten cake down on your plate as you glared at the northman. Icy were your words as you threatened, “Do so, Lord Umber, and you would be hanging from the gallows in under a fortnight. Your house would be branded with the name of an oathbreaker.”

The man’s dark eyes hardened and he stood up from the table, slamming his fists against the top. Plates of food and cutlery clattered with the sudden motion. “Oathbreaker, is it, Bitter Wolf?” You stood up as well, which prompted Robb to get up onto his feet, along with the rest of the table—save for Bran, who glanced worriedly between you and his brother. “I’ll not sit here and swallow insults from a woman who doesn’t even know the first thing about war!”

“How dare you speak to Lady Stark in such a way?” Robb bellowed, making the older man’s heated gaze fall on him.

“And you! How could I be taking orders from a boy so green he pisses grass?”

With that, he drew his blade, the sound of steel singing across the table. In a blink of an eye, Grey Wind leapt onto the table and knocked Greatjon onto his back with a great thud. The direwolf’s sharp teeth sank into the Umber’s hand, tearing off two fingers completely. Blood splattered all over the floor, accompanied by his agonized shrieking.

With a frustrated growl, he pushed himself back up onto his feet, clutching his maimed palm close to his chest.

“My Lord father taught me it was death to bare steel against your liege Lord,” said Robb. After a considerable pause, he continued, much softer. “But doubtless… you only meant to cut my meat for me, no?”

Oh, Robb. Sweet summer boy… too kind for his own good, you thought with a mild scowl. It will be the death of him.

It appeared as if the Umber wanted to curse Robb out some more. He glanced down at the direwolf, its muzzle covered in his blood. A bolt of fear jolted down his spine.

“Well,” he reluctantly said, clearing his throat, “your meat is bloody tough!”

The rest of the hall slowly fell into laughter, chortling at the dissipation of what could’ve been a bloodbath. Robb laughed amicably, finally sitting back down to actually start eating his food. You didn’t laugh, nor did you touch the rest of your cake.

By the time the feast had waned away, you escorted Bran and Hodor out of the hall, following behind the large, gentle giant into Bran’s chambers.

You sat by his bed once Hodor laid him down. With nimble, fleeting touches, you tugged the blanket up to Bran’s chin and brushed his hair away from his face. You were not the nurturing, motherly kind… you were not Catelyn, nor were you what Sansa wanted to be. You didn’t know how to care for Bran in the way he needed to be—Rickon even less so. But they were your family, and you needed to try for them… now more than ever before.

“Have any of your memories come back?” you asked, tone soft. When he shook his head, you blew out a sigh. “That’s alright. You just rest for now. How have you been sleeping?”

Bran bit into his lip, as if contemplating whether he should lie or not.

“I dream a lot,” he said, deciding to tell you the truth. “Every night. The same one.”

Cocking your head, you silently beckoned for him to go on.

“I see a raven… with three eyes,” he whispered. “Every time I get closer, it flies away.”

“Your mind knows no bounds, even in sleep,” you said, a hint of fondness to your gaze.

There was a long pause before Bran hesitantly queried, “Can I ask you a question, Aunt?”

“Go on, boy.”

“Does it ever… bother you? When people call you the Bitter Wolf?”

You leaned away from your nephew, humming in thought. “It did. It still does. It’s a constant reminder of my past.”

“Well, why don’t you order them to stop? You’re of higher rank than any of them!” squeaked Bran.

“The creatures of winter will always whisper, dear boy,” you murmured. “Only once the frost has taken them and iced their bodies into hard stone—only then would they fall silent.”

The young boy looked as if he wanted to ask you more, but the door creaked open, pulling both of your attentions to Robb, making his way into Bran’s chambers.

“What is it? Has something happened?” asked Bran, his deep blue eyes widening at Robb’s solemn features.

“It’s alright, nothing’s happened,” he replied, quiet. He met your gaze, and you nodded once in understanding. It was time to go.

It was then that Bran noticed Robb had donned his traveling furs. “Where are you going?”

“South,” Robb said. “For father.”

“But it’s the middle of the night!” he protested.

“The dark gives us cover for a few hours,” you spoke, voice only barely louder than a whisper. “The Lannisters have spies everywhere, no doubt.”

Bran reared back to face you. “Us? You’re leaving, as well?”

“Yes, Bran,” you told him simply, grim-faced.

“Can’t I come with you?” pleaded Bran. “I can ride now, you’ve seen me! And I won’t get in the way, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, Robb was already shaking his head firmly. “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Until I return, that will be you. You are not to leave the castle walls while we’re gone. Do you understand?”

Crestfallen, Bran reluctantly nodded.

“Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after your little brother,” you gently told him. “Be brave for us, Bran. Winterfell needs you.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

“Until we return,” Robb added, stepping forward to ruffle Bran’s hair affectionately. “We’ll ride together once I come back.”

A ghost of a watery smile traced the corner of Bran’s lips. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

With that, you pushed yourself onto your feet and both you and Robb made your way outside. Snowflakes danced with the cold wind.

“Do you really think this is smart? Going to war with the Lannisters?” asked Robb. You glanced at your oldest nephew, lips pursed. He was so young… and already carried himself as if he were two decades older than he actually was.

“No,” you quietly admitted. “War is never smart. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”

Robb hummed. “No. I suppose we don’t.”

A fortnight breezed by in the blink of an eye.

The war was steadily waging on—with Jaime Lannister at the crux of the oppositional side. To think that you had once thought him a decent man… it made your stomach roil just thinking about it. With Tywin Lannister’s armies approaching as well, Robb seemed to be vastly outnumbered in battles.

Your good-sister, Lady Catelyn, joined you in the Neck, the marshy region of House Reed. She had embraced you tightly, before pulling away to query about her two youngest sons with tearful eyes. You assured her that they were safe in Winterfell, pointedly avoiding the encounter with the Wildlings, not wanting to worry her any further.

Many strategy meetings were held on whether to move ahead on Jaime Lannister’s army, or Tywin’s. You butted heads with Greatjon Umber far too often, as you bore no liking for him and he would rather think with his fists than his head. Either way, the group would have to cross the Twins, which meant you had to garner the support of the Freys. The Lord of the Freys, Walder, was no man easily swayed. He had a penchant for gold and young girls, often of his own kin, and thought very little of his sworn oaths.

It was all one big headache.

You spent many sleepless nights practicing your archery, which was hard to do with your injured hand. It was steadily healing, but still throbbed when overworked. On days the pain would grow too overbearing, you would write letters for the ravens to take. To Maester Luwin, enquiring about the boys. To the Wall, wondering how Jon was doing after taking the black… and if Benjen had returned. You dared not write to Sansa or Arya, knowing full and well it would only be intercepted by the cunt of a Queen, Cersei Lannister.

By the next three days, Robb had reluctantly agreed to have his mother go into the Freys’ castle in hopes of bartering an agreement with the prickly old man, since she’d known him when she was a young girl.

When she came back, her face was solemn.

“Well?” Robb asked. “What did he say?”

“Lord Walder has granted your crossing,” she replied. “His men are yours, as well—less the four hundred he will keep here to hold the Crossing against any who would pursue you.”

The damn Lannisters, you thought grimly.

There was a steely glint to Robb’s eyes. “What does he want in return?”

“You will be taking on his son, Olyvar, as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time.”

Nodding, Robb stroked the shadow of a stubble growing along his jaw. “Fine, fine. And?”

Catelyn blew out a shallow sigh. “And Arya… will marry his son, Waldron, when they both come of age.”

You gritted your teeth. “She’ll be none too happy about that.”

When Catelyn nodded at your words, she pursed her lips, as if she had more to say.

“There’s more?” said Robb.

“And… When the fighting is done, you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer—he has a number he thinks will be suitable.” Reluctance weighed heavily in Catelyn’s tone.

If Robb was upset at the news, he did well to hide it.

“I see,” he said. “Did you get to see them? His daughters?”

“I did. One was… nearer to your age,” she replied, slow and cautious. “Do you consent?”

The poor boy, you thought. Having to give up his choice in exchange for duty.

“Can I refuse?” he asked. For a moment, he looked as if he were his age again, eyes wide and fists clenched.

“Not if you want to cross,” replied his mother.

There was a long beat of silence. In the distance, his direwolf barked at a stray mutt passing by.

“Then I consent,” Robb said. With that, he quickly stepped out and away from the tent, in need of some time to digest his new betrothal.

As you watched him go, you heard Theon come up to stand beside you.

“A small price to pay,” he crooned, a slight smirk to his lips. “A marriage to win the war.”

“You only say that because you’re not the one paying,” you lightly responded, though there was a sharp edge to your tone, as if warning him not to toe your boundaries. “Robb carries a heavy burden. Do well not to add yourself to that, Theon.”

With a nod, you excused yourself, heading back to your tent, itching to write to Jon of the news.

Two thousand men sacrificed to distract Tywin Lannister… whilst the other eighteen thousand took over Jaime’s armies.

And now Robb had the Kingslayer in his grasp.

He was bound and kneeling before you and Cat, blonde hair caked with dried blood and face filthy with dirt and soot.

“By the time they knew what was happening, it had already happened,” said Robb, staring down at the Lannister with pure hatred roiling within the blue of his eyes.

“You did well, Robb,” you said, keeping your narrowed gaze trained on Jaime.

The knight looked to you, a lazy smirk curled at the corner of his bleeding lips. “Bitter Wolf. It is a pleasure to see you again. Terrible circumstances, but a pleasure indeed.”

You frowned. All you could see when you looked at him was his sister, who you suspected played a hand in Bran’s fall. His nephew, the cruel boy that had your brother imprisoned. He was a Lannister first and foremost… no amount of lives he took or saved would ever change that.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Ser Jaime,” you replied in a stiff tone.

Jaime merely hummed, before turning his head to face your good-sister. “Lady Stark. I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have lost it.”

With stinging words, Catelyn sharply said, “It is not your sword I want. Give me my daughters back. Give me my husband!”

Jaime swallowed, his throat itchy and dry. “I’ve lost them as well, I’m afraid.”

“Kill him, Robb!” said Theon, eyes wild. “Send his head to his father! He cut down ten of our men—you saw him!”

Brows furrowing, you shook your head firmly. “What use would that be, you foolish boy? Killing him would bring us nothing but Tywin Lannister’s wrath. We keep him alive for leverage.”

“Is that all I am to you, Bitter Wolf? A bargaining chip? You wound me,” Jaime sardonically gruffed, though there was a twinge of gratitude to his voice.

“You are nothing to me, Kingslayer,” you spat, effectively wiping away the smug look on Jaime’s face.

Robb bowed his head at your words. “Aunt Y/N is right. He is more useful to us alive than dead.”

Catelyn nodded in agreement. “Take him away and put him in chains.”

Just as two of the guards were ready to haul him away, Jaime barked out, “We could end this war right now, boy. Save thousands of lives. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters. Just you and me—swords, lances, teeth, nails… you take your pick. Let’s end this here and now.”

Save thousands of lives, he had said. A tempting offer. But would that be worth the life of your nephew?

Robb squared his jaw. “If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you’d win. We’re not doing it your way.”

The guards laughed as they began tugging Jaime along, off to shackle him down. “Come on, pretty man,” one of them cackled, kicking at Jaime’s feet.

Turmoil danced clear as day over Robb’s features. “I sent two thousand men to their graves today.”

“The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice,” said Theon.

Robb momentarily shut his eyes. It was all so incredibly loud. “Aye. But the dead won’t hear them.” With that, he stepped forward to address the rest of the army. “One victory does not make us conquerors! Did we free my father? Did we rescue my sisters from the Queen? Did we free the North from those who want us on our knees? This war is far from over.”

Stone-faced, Robb turned on his heel and marched off.

You blew out a long, tired sigh. From the trees above you, you noticed a rotund pigeon staring straight at you from a high branch. It chirped lightly, before flying off, making its way North. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, before stalking away, retreating back to your tent.

The sun had not yet risen when a ground-shaking scream tore through the camp. Guttural, visceral, rageful…

Broken.

You had fallen to your hands and knees upon reading the raven’s message, wailing your sorrows to the ground.

Ned Stark was dead. You were the only one of your siblings left.

Dead. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. Killed by Joffrey’s command. Bitter wolf. Bitter, bitter, bitter wolf. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming.

Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and your eyes stung as if hot pokers were pressing against them. Thunder rumbled within your chest and you curled your hands into fists. Someone tugged you up and held you close. Your cheek was smushed into their neck and you cried even harder, sobbing hysterically.

Gods, give him back to me, you pleaded silently. Give him back. He was the only brother I had left. Give him back, give him back, give him back—

“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” Catelyn’s hoarse voice whispered into your hair. It took you a moment to realize that it was her cradling you.

Immeasurable guilt filled your lungs. She was the one who lost her husband. She had lost just the same as you, if not more so… and yet she was the one holding you, comforting you, mothering you.

“I’m sorry,” you wailed against her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Cat, I’m sorry, I—” You dissolved into another fit of heart-wrenching cries, fruitlessly trying to pull away and wipe your tears.

“It’s not you that should be sorry,” she patiently told you, cupping your damp cheek to gently stroke the hair away from your face. The blue of her eyes warbled with her own unshed tears. “Let it out, good-sister. Let it out.”

And so you did. For hours, you did nothing but cry until your voice mellowed into buzzing silence and your eyes could bear it no longer.

By the time the sun was beginning to sink down the horizon, you finally left your tent.

Robb. You had to speak to him.

Your nephew was in the thick of the woods, far enough from the camp where nobody could hear him cry. Dried tear tracks on his cheeks reflected the waning light of the disappearing sun as he swung his sword against the tree over and over and over again.

He stopped when he heard you coming, hands slackening around the hilt.

When he turned to take you in, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that you were just as much a mess as he was.

“Robb,” you whispered.

“Aunt,” he whispered back.

“You poor boy,” you croaked, vision blurring over once more. In no less than three long strides, you made your way to him, tugging him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Robb. I’m sorry.”

The young man only loosely reciprocated your hug at first, choking back his own tears. He had so much he wanted to say… but his thoughts came too quickly and too many at once, all lodged into the back of his throat. And so he fell quiet, soaking in your rarely-offered comfort. He had already cried out his promises of revenge with his mother, cursed his enemies with Theon, angrily strategized with his grieving bannermen.

All he needed now was some quiet support—a steady shoulder to lean on. And if that was all you had to offer him, he would gladly take it.

“You were right,” you whispered into his ear, expression hardening. “The war is far from over. Winter is coming, Robb. And lions do poorly in the frost.”

The hall was dimly lit with blazing torches hanging on the walls, casting ominous shadows across the room. You were seated beside Robb, with Catelyn on his other side. The bitter, the young, and the stone-heart.

“The proper course is clear! We join our forces with his!” yelled one of the bannermen.

He was speaking of Renly Baratheon, the late King Robert’s youngest brother.

Frowning, Robb firmly replied, “Renly is not the King.”

“You cannot mean to pledge allegiance to Joffrey, my Lord!” the older man responded, affronted by the notion. “He put your father to death!”

Evenly, Robb said, “That doesn’t make Renly King. He’s Robert’s youngest brother—if Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can’t be King before Stannis.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, Lords leaning their heads together to whisper and heckle.

“You mean to declare us for Stannis?” asked one of the Lords.

“Renly is not right, either!” exclaimed another.

“If we put ourselves behind Stannis, he would surely send us all to our deaths!” yelled a voice from the back.

Pounding his now-empty chalice down onto the table, Greatjon Umber stood up to address the riled-up mass. “My Lords—here is what I say to the two Kings!” He bent at the knees and spat a mouthful of wine onto the ground. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me! Nor Stannis, either! Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery fuckin’ seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong! Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to… and now the dragons are dead.”

The sharp sound of steel rang loud and true as Lord Umber unsheathed his sword to point at Robb.

“There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair, as well. The King in the North!” he proclaimed. “My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day, until my last day!”

A beat of silence.

One after the other, the rest of the Lords pulled their swords out of their respective scabbards to pledge fealty to Robb, and bend the knee.

Robb stood up, casting his gaze over the kneeling crowd.

“The King in the North!” they all cheered. “The King in the North! The King in the North!”

You glanced at Catelyn, noticing the conflict warring across her weathered features. Briefly, Robb caught your eye, and you bowed your head in an encouraging manner.

“The King in the North!” you yelled along with the rest of the Lords.

No longer would a lion be able to hold their paw over a wolf’s throat.

Robb was King now.

The King in the North.

It was colder tonight than it had been for the past decade. Your sigh misted into an opaque fog once you stepped out of your tent, small pinpricks of frost kissing your skin. Most of the knights and lords had retired to their own cotts, deep in slumber. Some of them were on the outskirts of camp, patrolling the perimeter in case Tywin was to come surging forth with his army to retrieve his prized son.

And that was just who you were leaving to see. You needed to ask him the same thing you had asked Tyrion—if Jaime knew where his sister was when Bran fell.

The guards raised their eyebrows at you, as if asking what you were doing here at such a late hour, but you simply stared at them until they uncomfortably shifted to the side to allow you to pass by.

It was certainly quite a sight—seeing Jaime Lannister shackled. He was cold, you could see, the tip of his sharp nose was crimson and his fingers were quivering ever so slightly.

You had made no noise whilst stepping in front of him, silent as a wraith. Jaime only noticed you were there because of your shadow looming over him in a near menacing fashion.

“Lady Stark,” he greeted, strangely pleasant despite being bound, freezing, and starving. “You look lovely tonight. Had I known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned myself up a bit.”

“Ser Jaime,” you replied in a curt, level tone.

The man before you tilted his head curiously. “To what do I owe such a pleasure? Is your bed lonely? Is that why you came? I’m not at my best, as you can see… but I think I could be of service for you. Slip out of those furs—let’s see if I’m up for it.”

His words were crude and unbecoming, but held no weight to them. Your expression remained unchanging.

“Celibacy is a part of the Kingsguard’s oaths,” you lightly said.

Jaime barked out a rogue laugh, leaning his head back against the stone wall. “Surely you know what everybody calls me. Oathbreaker.”

“For killing the King,” came your whisper. For a moment, Jaime could swear he caught a glimpse of gratitude within your stormy eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it came. “I can’t say I fault you for doing it. Aerys wasn’t fit to be King.”

The knight hummed, a ghost of a grin to the corner of his lips. “See… your brother seemed to disagree. He thought it wasn’t honorable. And look where his own honor got him—beheaded in front of his daughter, and placed on a spike by the walls of the Keep. Terrible shame, what happened to him. I wanted to have a clean duel with him before he kicked the can.”

Your fists clenched by your sides at the callous way Jaime spoke of Ned.

The green of his irises gleamed when he looked up at you. “How does it feel? To watch your family die off slowly, one by one?”

“Your tongue likes to run, doesn’t it?” you murmured with a scowl. “You’ll understand what it’s like soon. The war is sure to leave a trail of lion’s blood in its wake.”

Jaime sucked in a humored breath. “Bitter Wolf, indeed. Tell me, how long have you had that long stick shoved up your arse?”

There was a long moment of tense silence. Your hand was hidden within your cloak, resting upon the hilt of a dagger. When you began to speak again, you ripped your eyes away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, training your stare upon an uninteresting stone on the ground.

“When I heard Aerys burned my father alive, I wept until I nearly blinded myself with my own tears. My father was a good, honorable man. My brother, too. I loved them dearly. The Mad King took them away from me and I hated him for it. I hated you, as well… the youngest of his Kingsguard just stood by and did nothing. But then, not too long after, I heard that you were the one who slit his throat. I still hated you—but I couldn't be more grateful. You were right to kill him.”

Another beat of silence, this time longer. The atmosphere between the two of you seemed to shift. Jaime looked nearly stunned at your admission. “Do you still hate me?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. It was as if he was eighteen all over again, having to ‘go away inside’ when he didn’t want to deal with what was going on anymore. Your gaze left the stone on the ground to meet his. “No, Ser Jaime. To hate is to care. I do not care—not for you, at least.”

Strange, Jaime thought. His chest seemed to ache uncomfortably at your cold words.

Before he could say anything, your good-sister strode up by your side, her features stony and grim. For a moment, she met your gaze. If she was wondering what you were doing here, speaking to the Kingslayer, she didn’t ask.

“Lady Catelyn!” said Jaime, grateful for the distraction from the uncomfort within his ribs. “Join the party—we were just exchanging war stories. Except… neither of you have been to war before, I’m afraid. Oh, well—I suppose I can just entertain you with—”

Before you could react, Cat bent down to grab the exact same rock you had been staring at, jerking forward to strike Jaime across the face with its sharp end. Pain rattled throughout his face, blood streaking down where she had struck him. He grunted at the impact, working his jaw gingerly once Catelyn pulled back.

“I would kill you tonight, Ser… pack your head in a box and send it to your sister!” growled Cat.

“Then do it,” Jaime replied, infuriatingly glib for someone who nearly had his skull bashed in. “Hit me again, over the ear. Again, and again, and again. You’re stronger than you look—it shouldn’t take too long.”

Frowning, Cat asked, “That is what you want the world to believe, isn’t it? That you don’t fear death.”

“But I don’t, my Lady,” said Jaime. “The dark is coming for all of us. Why cry about it?”

Lips curling with contempt, Catelyn spat out, “Because you are going to the deepest of the Seven Hells if the Gods are just!”

“What Gods? The trees the Bitter Wolf here prays to? Where were the trees when your husband’s head was getting chopped off?” he murmured. Fury coiled within your stomach, as black as tar. “If your Gods are real, and if they are just… why is the world so full of injustice?”

Cat’s fingers curled tighter around the rock. “Because of men like you.”

There it was again—his hoarse bark of laughter. “There are no men like me. Only me.”

More silence stretched thin between the three of you. You thought about your original purpose for coming here, pursing your lips.

“Do you know where your sister was the morning Bran fell?” you asked him, voice hardened with steel.

His eyes met yours—bright green to a frigid storm.

“No,” he curtly responded, nose twitching as he sniffed lightly. A tell.

A lie.

“How did he come to fall from the tower?” Catelyn’s question was quiet, as if she were afraid of the answer.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaime said, “I pushed him out of the window.”

Shocked, you flinched back at his blunt confession, eyes widening. It was him. Him that put Bran in his coma, him that crippled your nephew. Was it him that sent the assassin, as well?

But… you’d found long blonde hair at the tower, undoubtedly Cersei’s. You had thought that Cersei was coupling with some nameless squire or stableboy, not her own brother. By the old Gods, that could only mean—

“Why?” whispered Catelyn, appearing like her heart had been trampled on and torn to shreds.

“I hoped the fall would kill him,” Jaime simply said.

“Why?” she pressed.

You were stunned and at a loss for words, lips parted and chest heaving.

Jaime leaned his head back against the stone wall, inhaling sharply. “You should get some sleep, Lady Catelyn. It’s going to be a long war.”

The red-headed woman glared at him with the might of a thousand suns. She relinquished her hold on the rock, which had cut into her own palm, and stormed away.

Jaime and Cersei coupling… and her children were golden-haired with no trace of Robert Baratheon within any of their Lannister-esque features…

The realization slammed against you like a tidal wave—Gods, the boy on the Iron Throne was a bastard.

You would’ve laughed at the thought if not for the dire situation at hand.

It was no wonder Ned was imprisoned and later executed. He knew, just as you now. Only, he was foolish enough to get his honor in the way of his head. You had to be smart about this. A running tongue was a dangerous one—and you weren’t too keen on losing yours.

Jaime regarded you with a guarded look. He wasn’t aware that you knew of his vile doings with his sister. “Let me ask you again. Do you still hate me now?”

Perhaps his father was right. Maybe he did care what others thought of him.

Disgust ran thick through your veins at the sight of him. The man you had once begrudgingly respected, now a boy-killer. A sister-fucker.

With quick motions, you stepped forward, curling your hand around the front of his tunic, yanking him closer just as you drove your fist into the side of his face. Over and over again you struck him, rage shadowing over your wild expression, until your knuckles split and bled and ached with each punch. Jaime put up no fight. He groaned once you finally pulled away, shoving him back against the stone wall. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his lips.

Cold steel kissed his throat when you unsheathed your dagger, slanting it just below his Adam's apple. “One cut, Kingslayer. That’s all it’d take.”

“Do it,” he challenged, baring his teeth. “Do it.”

If only you could. You still needed him… Cersei had Sansa in her wicked clutch.

“Never before have I changed my mind about a man so quickly. To hate is to care, Ser Jaime,” you bit out, words dripping with venom. “And I hate you, more than I’d ever care to.”

With that, you slipped your dagger back into its scabbard and turned on your heel to stride away, fury splayed clear as day over your features. You were going to tell Robb of your newfound knowledge as soon as morning broke.

Jaime watched you go with a soft exhale.

He found no sleep that night, but went away inside nonetheless.

Battle after battle, Robb found himself victorious.

Camp after camp, Jaime found himself stinking of his own piss and shit.

When you had told Robb of Joffrey’s true parentage, he huffed out a hesitant laugh, unsure if you were jesting or not. Then again, you were never one to jest.

And now he stood before his captive with you by his side, gazing down at the Lannister were pure contempt. This was the first time you’d seen the Kingslayer since he told you he pushed Bran out the window. And time had done nothing to mellow your anger.

“I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safe-keeping,” surmised Jaime, tongue darting out to lick at his dry lips. “But you drag me along from camp to camp… have you taken a liking to me, Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.”

Unfazed by his insults, Robb said, “If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within the fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with the message: Release my son. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.”

Jaime shook his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you to battle?”

“I trust them with my life. Just not with yours,” Robb quietly replied.

“Smart boy,” snorted Jaime. At the crinkle in Robb’s expression, Jaime piped up with a mocking frown, “Oh, what’s wrong? Don’t like being called a boy? Insulted?”

From behind you, Grey Wind stalked up to his master, a growl rumbling low within his chest. For the first time, you could see genuine fear dance across Jaime’s green irises.

“You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” said Robb. “You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a boy.”

Grey Wind lithely moved closer and closer to Jaime, snarling and pawing at the dirt.

“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros,” you said, jaw squared. “Ravens detailing that the boy King, Joffrey Baratheon, is neither a true king, nor is he a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”

Jaime scratched at the shackles over his wrists, growing restless. “If that’s true, then Stannis would be the rightful King. How convenient for him!”

“My father learned the truth,” Robb hissed out. “That’s why you had him executed.”

Frowning, Jaime pointed out, “I was your prisoner when your father lost his head.”

“Your son killed him so that the world wouldn’t know who fathered him. And you… you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen,” accused your nephew.

Swallowing, Jaime coughed out, “Where’s your proof? Or are we just trading gossip like a couple of fish wives?”

“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.”

Jaime scoffed at that. “You think my father’s going to negotiate with the likes of you? You don’t know him very well.”

Bowing his head, Robb hummed in acknowledgement. “No, I don’t. But he’s starting to know me.”

“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror,” said Jaime.

“Better than three defeats,” your nephew countered. With that, Robb rotated on his heel and marched away, trailing his fingers along Grey Wind’s pelt.

The direwolf snapped his jaw only a hair’s breadth away from Jaime’s face. His eyelids squeezed shut, bracing himself for the agonizing pain. When none came, he cracked one eye open. The wolf was gone, leaving only you standing before him.

“When you were in King’s Landing, did you see my niece?” you asked.

“Sansa?” he replied. “Yes… in court here and there with her betrothed.”

Her betrothed. The bastard boy. Jaime’s son.

“No, not Sansa,” you snippily replied. You worried for Sansa, yes, but at the very least you knew she was alive in the Keep. There hadn’t been a single word about your younger niece in any of the ravens you’d received. “Arya.”

The Kingslayer pursed his lips. “Which one was she again?” Whether he was genuinely miffed as to who Arya was, or he was just pushing your boundaries to purposely annoy you, you couldn’t tell.

“I have no taste for your games,” you gruffed, your patience wearing thin. “I’ll see to the guards forgoing your meals for the next two days. Good night, Ser Jaime.”

Not waiting to see his reaction, you promptly turned and followed after Robb.

Theon had left for the Iron Islands in hope of garnering his father’s support, along with his large fleet of ships. Catelyn, on the other hand, was off to try and obtain Renly Baratheon’s allegiance.

You and Robb planned the next battles together. The cut on your arm from the wildling, Osha, was now fully healed, leaving only a dark mark in its wake. Whilst Robb and the Northern bannermen fought, you would watch from a distance, taking down Lannister-allied soldiers with your bow and arrow.

And once the battle was done, you made your way onto the field, side-stepping half-dead men and corpses alike, plenty with your arrows sticking out of their chests. Most of the casualties were part of the Lannister’s troup, and so you bore no sympathy for their pain.

You met up with Robb just as he was parting with a pretty girl—a medic, by the looks of it. She was leaving on a cart, hands bloodied and dark hair drenched with sweat.

When you glanced at Robb, you could see the unmistakable glint of youthful curiosity and lust behind his blue eyes. With a sharp cuff to the back of his head, you growled out, “You are betrothed, boy. Do well to remember it.”

Robb scowled at you. “What are you on about? I was only talking to her.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “And my name is the Smiling Wolf.”

“I’m a King now, Aunt. You shouldn’t be disrespecting me in such a way,” warned Robb, though his words lacked any true bite.

With a huff, you patted his cheek softly. “You’ve been King for only a few moons by now. But you’ve been my nephew for your entire life. One takes precedence over the other, I’m afraid.”

Robb smiled at that, but it disappeared as he glanced around at all the dead bodies littering the hills, decorated with your arrow shafts. “You took down nearly four dozen of these men…” he said, brows raised. “And all from far away, as well. Color me impressed and a little intimidated.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you replied, walking along with him back to the tents to clean up. “I do what I can to help.”

“I’m grateful you’re here with me. With Theon and mother gone… it made me think about how you’ve always shouldered the burden of ruling with me, without complaint. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aunt.”

Not one to be very good with sentimentalities, you tugged him into a brief embrace and let him go the next second, gently shoving him off into the tent.

“Alright, alright, boy,” you said, tone rife with affection. “Go take a bath—you stink of war.”

A week later, Catelyn returned to the camps. Accompanying her was a blonde soldier, a woman taller than any man amongst Robb’s army.

“It’s good to see you, Cat,” you told her. “No battles have been lost just yet.”

The woman smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “King Renly… he’s—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Roose Bolton came running up to the two of you.

“Apologies, my Ladies,” he panted out, holding up a small raven’s scroll. “News from Winterfell.”

Initially, you were quite excited, because it’d been a while since you heard from Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin.

When you filed into the tent to listen to Robb read it aloud, however, your heart plummeted to your stomach upon hearing the news. Theon had taken Winterfell, holding Bran and Rickon hostage.

“I TOLD YOU, NEVER TRUST A GREYJOY!” yelled Catelyn to her son, face scarlet with fury and twisted with anguish.

Teeth gritted, Robb announced, “I must go North at once.”

“There’s still a war to win, Your Grace,” Roose Bolton protested.

“How can I win a war, call myself King if I can’t even hold my own castle?” spat Robb. “How can I ask my men to follow me if I can’t—?”

With firm hands, you placed them on your nephew’s shoulders. “Robb. Stop—think about this. You have thousands of men at your disposal. You needn’t do this yourself. If you loosen your grip on the Lannisters now, they’ll go scurrying back home and rally more of their allies.”

The young man appeared conflicted. In his haze of rage, he hadn’t thought about the lives of all the rest in the war, only focused on his little brothers.

“Let me go talk to Theon,” Catelyn offered, worried to death for her two youngest boys.

“There will be no talk. He will die for this,” snarled Robb.

Stepping forward, Roose offered, “Let me send word to my bastard at the Dreadfort. He can raise a few hundred men and retake Winterfell before the new moon. My boy would be honored to bring you Prince Theon’s head.”

Bowing his head, Robb blew out a sigh. He glanced at you for a moment, before returning his gaze to Roose. “Tell your son Bran and Rickon’s safety is paramount. And Theon—I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask why… and then I’ll take his head myself.”

It was the dead of night when Jaime Lannister escaped.

In the process, he’d become a kinslayer, as well. Just another name to add to the extensive list.

The golden lion. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Now a kinslayer.

He had bashed his cousin’s brains in with a stone, alerting the young guard on duty. Jaime then strangled the boy, a Karstark, and fled the camp.

The taste of freedom had never been so sweet.

And, inevitably, the taste of defeat had never been so sour.

By the break of day, he was recaptured. You had emerged from your tent at the loud commotion, fingers wrapped around the wood of your longbow. Men were jeering, yelling, and throwing rotten food and small stones. They were pushing and shoving, some unsheathing their blades with manic, greedy expressions. In the middle of the crowd was Jaime, rebound and so bloody you could barely see a clean patch of exposed skin. Strangely, he was smiling and laughing, seeming to enjoy how riled up the Northmen were.

“Die, Kingslayer!” they yelled.

“You’ll pay for your crimes!” they shouted.

“Gut him! Put his head on a spike!” they screamed.

You forcefully wove your way through the crowd, brows knitted and your bow and arrow knocked at the ready. The men had parted instantaneously upon seeing you, all of them expecting you to order Jaime’s execution on behalf of Robb, who had temporarily left to accept the Crag’s surrender. To their enraged shock, you stood between them and Jaime, the tip of your arrow pointed not at the Kingslayer himself, but at the men calling for his head.

“Back the fuck away from him,” you barked out, voice loud and commanding. “Have you all gone mad?”

“Get out of the way, Bitter Wolf!” Lord Karstark yelled, hell-bent on getting his revenge for his murdered son. “I deserve justice!”

“Or what, Lord Karstark?” you shouted back with an equivalent ferocity, teeth bared in a near snarl. “You’ll cut through me to get to him? Need I remind you that if you were to lay a hand on me, you’d be laying a hand on the King’s blood.”

Reluctant, a few of the lords lowered their weapons, stepping back slightly. Some held guilty expressions, looking like children being scolded by their mother. Most stayed their ground, angry that you were stopping them.

Your countenance hardened. “If Jaime Lannister is dead, we lose any leverage we have over Tywin’s army—over Cersei, who has hold of my nieces! What good do you think would come of this? We put his pretty head on a spike, hoo-fucking-ray! Has it not occurred to you that we keep prisoners for a reason? That they’re not toys to toss about as we see fit?”

“You’re right, Bitter Wolf,” growled Karstark. “He’s not a toy. This monster killed my son. He deserves worse than a slap on a wrist and a few measly chains. He deserves death. Slow and painful, just as he did to my boy!”

It was then that Catelyn came rushing through the crowd, her pale features gaunt and eyes widened with fear.

“I understand your pain, Lord Karstark,” she assured, exhaust lacing heavy with each of her words. “He crippled my boy. He will answer for his crimes, in due time, I promise. Just not here.”

“If you try and stop me—!”

“I am the mother of your King!” Catelyn yelled.

Rearing back with frustration, Karstark bit out, “And where is our King now? Gone to the Crag, sure, but not to negotiate. He brought that foreign bitch with him!”

Your brows raised in surprise. The medic girl.

Steel sang out as Brienne unsheathed her sword. “Threatening my Lady is an act of treason!”

“Treason?” barked the Karstark. “How can it be an act of treason to kill Lannisters?”

“In the name of my nephew, the King in the North,” you lowly spoke, bringing his attention back to you. The tip of your arrow was pointed right at his chest. “Stand down.”

With a squared jaw, Lord Karstark bowed his head. “When the young wolf returns, I will demand for the murderer’s head.”

“Wise men do not make demands of Kings!” protested Cat.

“Fathers who love their sons do.” With that, Karstark turned to stomp away, back into his tent.

The crowd slowly began to disperse. Only then did you put down your weapon, relaxing the drawstring.

“Thank you for fighting for me, Bitter Wolf,” snarked Jaime, an infuriating smile plastered over his filthy face. “I’m surprised you would have put down one of your own men just for me. Growing rather fond of me, eh? Tell me, you haven’t lost your maidenhood yet, have you? It would be an honor to be your f—”

Gnashing your teeth, you swiftly knelt down in front of the Kingslayer, grabbing his grimy cheeks with one hand, squeezing uncomfortably tight, nails digging into his skin.

“I said we’d have you alive, Kingslayer… not whole. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t carve your eyes out with a hot spoon,” you hissed, eyes cold as winter.

To your fury, Jaime merely laughed, a roguish grin dancing across his bloody lips.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Take them. Take every part of me, until nothing is left. Let’s see what my father would think about having another crippled son.”

You released your hold on him, shoving his face back.

“Gag him tight,” you told one of the guards. “Mix in shit with his food. Piss in his water. Make noise every time he falls asleep. It might very well be his last night amongst us—see that it’s spent in agony.”

With that, you stepped back, nodding at Catelyn, before retiring into your tent.

The later the night grew, the more drunk the men became, and the angrier they got.

“He won’t last the night,” commented Brienne, her hand resting comfortably and cautiously over the hilt of her sword. “Won’t be long until the Karstarks draw their swords. And when they do… who wants to die defending a Lannister?”

With pursed lips, Catelyn bowed her head. “If he dies, my girls die with him.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable.

“We need to release him,” your good-sister whispered. Her words made your eyes snap to her, lips parting. “We need to exchange him for Sansa and Arya.”

“Cat…” you began, about to protest, but the words lodged in your throat. She was right. The men were going to kill him if he wasn’t released—and Jaime Lannister was of no use to you dead.

A glassy film of tears layered over Catelyn’s blue irises. “I need my girls back, Y/N. I need them back, I need—” She covered her quivering mouth with a shaky hand. “If we give Jaime back to Cersei, we’ll make him swear to return the girls to us.”

You shook your head, frowning. “Jaime is a man with no honor—an oathbreaker. We cannot rely on his word. I’ll take him to King’s Landing to barter with Cersei. Threaten to put an arrow in Jaime’s head if Sansa and Arya aren’t handed over to me. I do not trust anyone else with the job but myself.”

A shiver danced down Catelyn’s spine and she tugged her furs closer to her. “You’ll need protection. At least bring Brienne with you. I trust her with my life. She can escort both you and the Kingslayer to the capital.”

Wistful, you blew out a long breath. “Robb won’t be happy about this, Cat. He’ll hate you for letting Jaime go. He’ll hate me for abandoning him. He’ll send a hundred men after us. We won’t be able to outrun them.”

“Not on foot, no,” said Brienne, stepping forward. “We take a boat down the river. We’ll put more distance between us and them that way—but only if we leave now.”

Conflict warred within you. Was this really the smartest decision? Letting go of the Kingslayer?

And if you were to leave now… you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Robb. The dark thought of never seeing your nephew again crossed your mind, but you shoved it away. You’d see him again. He was a strong lad.

“Alright… but Tywin will then have reason to march his army and slay Robb’s if they no longer hold his son,” you said, tentative.

Catelyn clutched your hands within her colder, quivering ones. “We are so close to winning this war already. This is a risk we must take for Sansa. For Arya. Please, Y/N. Please.”

With a determined nod of your head, you whispered, “I won’t let you down.”

The Kingslayer smiled lazily when he saw you approaching, Catelyn and Brienne in tow. To his muted interest, the red-headed woman ordered the guards to leave with a sharp tongue and a hardened glint to her eyes.

“Come to say goodbye?” he crooned. “I believe it’s my last night in this world. I could think of no one better to spend it with. You sure are the life of the party.” His tone dripped with sardonic mockery, to which you supplied no reaction. If Jaime wanted to provoke you, he would find himself sorely disappointed.

You had a mission tonight—and there was no time for jesting.

“They want your head, Ser Jaime. Do not make me hand you over to them,” you quietly said, just loud enough for him to hear. It was an empty threat, one that you couldn’t follow through, but Jaime didn’t know that. You were completely serious, for all he knew.

With a huff, Jaime said, “No, no, Bitter Wolf. You like me too much to give me away. Lord Karstark, however… he doesn’t seem very fond of me, does he?”

Scowling, Catelyn hissed out, “You strangled his son with your chains!”

“Oh,” Jaime simply said. There was no remorse in his tone. None at all. “Was he the one on guard duty? He was in my way—any other knight would’ve done the same.”

“You are no knight!” spat Catelyn. “You have forsaken every vow you ever took.”

Rolling his bright green eyes to the side, Jaime snorted in contempt. “So many vows. They make you swear and swear! Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? Like Rickard Stark, eh, Bitter Wolf?” A part of you seized up at the mention of your father. Jaime lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s just too many rules. They make sense alone, sure… but together? It’s a load of shit. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking a vow for another.”

There was a long pause. Jaime grinned sharply, feeling as if he had won the argument—if it even was one to begin with.

“Is that a woman?” he asked, changing the topic, eyes drawn to Brienne. “Where in the seven kingdoms did you find such a beast?”

“She is a truer knight than you will ever be, Kingslayer,” Catelyn replied, tone as hot as ever.

At the offensive name, Jaime narrowed his gaze. “Kingslayer. And what a King he was! Here’s to Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm… and to the sword I shoved into his back. What did you say about me before, Wolf? That you were grateful that I did it?”

You could feel Catelyn’s eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t grace either of them with a response.

“You are a man without honor,” said Catelyn.

“Hm.” Jaime tilted his head. “You know… I’ve never been with any woman but Cersei. So in my own way, I have more honor than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”

Jon.

“Snow—a bastard from the North.” Jaime smirked in a rogue manner. “Now when good old Ned came home with some whore’s baby… did you pretend to love it? No, I don’t think you’re very good at pretending, Lady Catelyn. You’re an honest woman. You hated that boy, didn’t you? How could you not? The walking, talking reminder that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark fucked another woman.”

You were no stranger to Catelyn’s grievances with Jon, but it sounded all the worse coming from the Kingslayer’s tongue.

“That’s enough,” you said, heavy with finality. “Your sword, Brienne.”

This is it, thought Jaime. This is how I’m going to die. Covered in filth and looking up at a snarling she-wolf. It isn’t so bad. At least she’s pretty—even if she never smiles.

Instead of the steel striking his head, it struck at his chains. They gave way after the third lumbering hit. His green eyes snapped up to you when you reached out to grab his arms, hauling him onto his feet.

“Come, Kingslayer. We have a long way to go.”

It was quite an amusing sight, Jaime Lannister falling off the horse with a sack on his head. He grunted through the fabric and you tore it off, shoving it into the pack slung over your shoulder. Brienne urged the horse to ride away, back to camp.

Jaime blinked up at you, vision still adjusting to the sudden brightness. “Ah, Lady Stark. You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.” He glanced at Brienne. “Oh, the big lady-knight came with us, as well? She is much uglier in daylight! Damn—and here I was hoping we’d spend more time alone together, Bitter Wolf.”

“Shut up,” you told him, stepping back to allow Brienne to haul him up to his feet and shove him towards the small boat.

“Ooh, cranky today, are we? You want to turn around and go back home? I’m sure your little King nephew will welcome you back with open arms—or maybe not. Maybe he hates your guts now. Care to find out?” he goaded, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He sat down in the boat, Brienne following suit.

You eased yourself in last, taking a seat behind her.

He’s right, a voice snarked inside your head. Robb is probably furious with you. He’d never forgive you.

“And what might be your name?” Jaime asked the large blonde woman, tilting his head.

With a stony countenance, Brienne replied, “Brienne of Tarth.”

“Mmh, crescent moons and starbursts. Lord Selwyn Tarth is your father, no? You have any brothers and sisters?”

Silence. Brienne began to row the small boat, taking the three of you downstream.

“Come on, it’s a long way to King’s Landing—we might as well get to know one another. Have you known many men? I suppose not—perhaps women? Horses?”

At the last question, Brienne purposefully struck the blunt end of the oar against Jaime’s knee, which made him grunt out in pain.

“I didn’t mean to offend, my Lady,” he said, looking none too sorry. “How unlikely it is! It seems you’re not the only virgin amongst us.”

He fixed his stare on you, though your eyes were trained on the river banks, cautiously watching in case anyone had followed your trail yet. So far on your journey, you haven't come across a single soul. The Gods were on your side, for now. At his words, however, you curled your hands into fists.

“Tell me, Bitter Wolf, did any man in Winterfell ever dare to court you? Were they all intimidated by you? Or did you just bite off their heads as soon as one tried?” Jaime seemed genuinely curious, having known little of your childhood.

With a squared jaw, you replied in a steely tone, “They tried. The nice ones were politely declined. The more… pushy ones were stripped naked and thrown into cells of ice. The winter took their souls whilst their bodies froze.”

Jaime blinked, smiling in a fox-like manner. “Now that is a fine tale! Why did you turn away the nice ones? Are Northerners too ugly for you? They’re too solemn for my taste, I’d say… no offense.”

You didn’t grace him with a response.

For the next half an hour, Jaime chattered on and on about the most trivial topics. He’d ask the both of you questions, to which he was often met with dead silence.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re as boring as you are ugly?” Jaime asked Brienne.

With a roll of her eyes, Brienne rowed the boat harder. “You will not provoke me to anger.”

“I already have!” countered Jaime, excited that she was finally retaliating. “You look ready to slice my head off my shoulders. Do you think you could? Could you beat me in a fair fight?”

“I’ve never seen you fight,” Brienne replied in a leveled tone.

As if it were obvious, Jaime said, “The correct answer is no. There are only three men in the entire Seven Kingdoms that might have a chance against me—you’re not one of them.”

“All my life men like you have sneered at me,” the blonde woman stated. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”

“Unlock my chains, then,” said Jaime. “Let’s see who beats who.”

To his disappointment, Brienne spared him no more words.

His gaze landed on you once more, and to his surprise, you had dozed off to sleep, having gotten none the entire night while helping him escape. By the side of the boat, your hand was curled tightly around the longbow you had taken along with you.

Funny, he thought with a slight, huffy laugh. Even in slumber you were scowling.

Brienne had pulled ashore for a short break, and you were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs. She helped you out of the boat and over the large, slippery rocks it was slanted against.

“Five minutes,” she told you kindly. Then, she looked over her shoulder at Jaime. “Five minutes!” she parroted, much colder this time.

You were really beginning to like Brienne.

Rolling his eyes, Jaime hobbled out of the boat as well. “Childhood must’ve been awful to you,” he commented to Brienne. “Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They probably laughed at you, called you names. Some boys like a challenge—one or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne!”

Brienne frowned.

“Ah, did you fight them off? You probably did. But maybe you wished one of them would overpower you… fling you down and tear off your clothes. None of them were strong enough, were they? I’d be strong enough.”

“Stop it,” you calmly told Jaime. “Or would you prefer I gag you?”

With a smile, Jaime cocked his head to the side. “Oh, are you jealous? Don’t worry—there’s enough of me to go around.”

But you weren’t paying attention to Jaime anymore. Instead, your eyes were trained up to the creaking branches, where three women were hanging. They were discolored and slightly bloated—the bodies must’ve been up for around a day by now. A sick feeling twisted within your gut.

Around the neck of the woman in the center was a sign that said—

“They lay with lions,” read Jaime. “Tavern girls, most likely. Probably served my father’s soldiers. Maybe one of them gave up a kiss and feel—that’s how they earned this.”

“They earned nothing,” you coldly replied, stepping back slightly. “These are victims of war.”

Jaime barked out a laugh. “How hypocritical of you. This was done by your men, Bitter Wolf. The glorious work of Northern freedom fighters. Must make the both of you proud to serve them.”

Before you could spare him a response, Brienne gruffed out, “I don’t serve the Starks. I serve Lady Catelyn.”

“Hm. You tell yourself that,” said Jaime, allowing himself to be pushed around when Brienne shoved him towards a tree, ordering him to stay put. You moved to stand beside him, making sure he wouldn’t flee as Brienne made towards the thick rope tied around the tree trunk keeping the women hung up.

Confused, Jaime asked, “What are you doing?”

“Burying them,” she replied.

“We shouldn’t stay here, we should get back on the river!” said Jaime.

Scoffing, you retorted, “Eager to get home? I’m sure your sister would be delighted to have her fuck-toy handed back to her.”

“In exchange for you darling niece, is it?” Jaime immediately snarked back. “Oh, turns out I’m of great value after all, Bitter Wolf. Admit it. I’m important to you—”

Just then, a few men’s voices echoed through the woods. You pressed yourself closer against the tree, pulling the hood of your cloak up over your head so your face would be obscured by shadows.

“Untie me!” said Jaime.

“Shut up,” you replied. “Keep your head down, and pray they won’t recognize you.”

The voices were growing louder.

“Woah!” one of them said, having spotted Brienne. “What’s your business here?”

“Traveling prisoners,” she hastily responded.

The three men burst out into raucous, incredulous laughter.

“You? But you’re a woman!” exclaimed another one with a pig-nose and blackened teeth. “Well, fuck me! They’ve really gotten desperate for soldiers, haven’t they?”

Clearing her throat, Brienne started to say, “If you’ve quite finished—”

They began cackling at her again. You frowned, fingers curling around your longbow, which you had stealthily covered within your cloak. If you were to play the part of a prisoner, you had to look like it, as well.

“We’ll be going,” Brienne curtly said, in no mood to deal with the oafish men.

The men immediately halted in their laughter. “Now, hold on there. Who do you fight for?”

“The Starks,” said the blonde woman. She briefly glanced at you, nearly hidden behind Jaime. Good.

One of the last men, a red-head, pointed at the two of you. “What did they do?”

After a momentary pause, Jaime spat out, “Apparently eating is now a crime. My friend and I were merely trying to get some food.”

Hm. A good actor.

“By stealing it—which, indeed, is a crime,” Brienne added on.

“It’s not a crime to starve, that’s justice for you,” Jaime murmured. You dared not speak, worried they would recognize you by your voice alone.

The pig-nosed man stepped forward, narrowing his beady eyes at you. “Where are you taking them?”

“Riverrun,” said Brienne.

“Why?”

“Steal from the Tullys, it's their dungeons you’d rot in,” she quickly responded.

“No. I mean why not just kill him?”

A thrill of adrenaline and a twinge of fear shot through you, nestling within your feet, as if preparing yourself to act.

“For stealing a pig?” scoffed Jaime.

One of the men lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve killed for much less. Alright—have it your way… m’lady.”

The red-head squinted at Jaime. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

You were grateful that Jaime’s usually lighter hair was dirtied with mud and soot and appeared far darker than it actually was. “Have you been to Ashemark?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you don’t know me.”

Just as the three of you were about to stride off, pig-nose queried in a disgustingly prideful manner, “What do you think of these beauties?”

“I hope you gave them quick deaths,” Brienne reluctantly told him.

He smirked maliciously. “Two of them we did, yeah.”

White-hot anger coiled within your abdomen.

“Wait!” exclaimed the red-head. “I do know you! That’s Jaime Lannister!”

With a hoarse chuckle, Jaime said, “Well, I wish you’d have told me, I wouldn’t have had to steal that pig!”

“If this is the Kingslayer, I think I’d know about it,” said Brienne, urging you forward.

Noticing this, the red-head barked out, “And who’s the one in the cloak? Another Lannister?”

Couldn’t be more wrong.

“I was at Whispering Wood,” he vehemently said. “I saw him! They dragged him out of the woods and threw him down before the King!”

The King. Your boy, Robb.

“I have a question for both of you. And I want you to answer at the same time,” pig-nose snarled, hand on his sword’s hilt. “I count to three, you both answer. What’s his name?” He pointed accusingly right at Jaime’s chest.

“One.”

You discreetly lined an arrow up to your bow.

“Two.”

You pulled against the string.

“Three.”

You brandished the bow from out of your cloak and sent the arrow whistling through the air, straight into one of the men’s heads.

Unsheathing her sword, Brienne quickly slashed the throat of the red-head.

“Two quick deaths,” she hissed, before knocking pig-nose down onto the ground. Slow and painful, she drove the blade into his stomach and twisted, gutting him like a pig.

Jaime’s brows were raised, impressed at the both of you.

“Those were Stark men,” he said, surprised that you had willingly killed a man of your nephew’s army.

“There are always a few rotten apples in an orchard,” you easily replied, lowering your bow and knocking back the cowl of your cloak. “And rotten, they were.”

Brienne nodded, before heading off to bury the tavern girls.

“Do you know how long it’s going to take us to get to King’s Landing by walking through fields and forests?” Jaime just about whined, growing tired of the journey.

Without sparing him a glance, you asked, “And what do you propose we do instead?”

“We could take horses.”

“Too noticeable.”

“Take a ship, then.”

“And how will you pay the ship-keepers? Will you pay them with your own gold? The gold you currently do not have?”

Jaime frowned. “Walking, it is. How ever will we pass the time?”

Both you and Brienne glanced at each other, exasperated.

“By putting one foot in front of the other,” the large woman told him, shoving him along.

Stumbling from the impact, Jaime blew out a sigh. “It’ll be such a dull walk.”

“I’m here to escort Lady Stark to King’s Landing and exchange you for her nieces. Dull is fine,” Brienne snapped.

Lolling his head over to you, Jaime spoke, “Is dull fine for you, Bitter Wolf? I’m sure you have so many interesting stories hidden behind that scowling exterior of yours. Tell me one!”

Deciding to indulge him for only just a little bit, you said, “What would you want to know?”

Jaime smiled triumphantly. “Tell me about Winterfell. I overheard one of the guards speaking about it—that Greyjoy pup claimed it as his now, has he?”

Stiffening, you shot Jaime a glare. “I will not be discussing such matters with you.”

His shackles clacked against each other as he raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk about something else.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “Tell me about your sister.”

Anger flooded across your features. “Shut up.”

“Why? Have I struck a nerve—?”

“Shut up!” you barked again, which made Jaime fall silent, though there was still a slight smile to his grimy face.

Sensing that he wasn’t going to get anything of value from you, Jaime looked back to Brienne. “What about you? How did you come into Lady Catelyn’s service? That’s something we can talk about, no?”

The blonde remained as sour-faced as ever. “Not your concern, Kingslayer.”

“It had to be recently. You weren’t with her at Winterfell… I would’ve noticed your dour head smacking into the archways.”

The memory of Jaime’s visit to your home flashed across your mind. Things had been so much simpler then. Until he pushed your nephew out of a window with the intent to kill the boy, of course.

“If you don’t serve the Starks… did you pledge yourself to Stannis?” the knight asked.

“Gods, no,” Brienne quickly responded.

Brows raising, Jaime exclaimed, “Ah, Renly, then! Wasn’t expecting that from you. He wasn’t fit to rule over anything more important than a twelve-course meal.”

“Shut your mouth,” Brienne hissed. It seemed Jaime had a particular talent for irritating the life out of both of you.

“Why? I lived with him at court since he was a boy, don’t forget. Could hardly escape the little tulip… skipping down the corridors with his embroidered silks. I knew him far better than you,” Jaime bragged, taking pleasure in getting beneath her skin.

Frowning, Brienne spat, “I knew him just as much as anyone else. As a member of his Kingsguard, he trusted me with everything. He would’ve been a wonderful King.”

Would he? From what you could recall, he never really cared much for the wellbeing of the realm. Nonetheless, you remained silent.

Jaime, however, cackled gleefully. “Sounds like you quite fancied him.”

“I did not fancy him,” she gritted out, a tad too fast.

“Gods, you did! I can see it all over your brutish face! Did you ever tell him? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being a part of his Kingsguard and whatnot… well, I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t quite Renly’s type. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell. You’re far too much man for him.”

How ironic, you dryly thought. “I didn’t take you one to gossip,” you said, sensing Brienne’s uncomfort. “Neither of us have quite the appetite for your foul rumors.”

“Oh, but it’s not gossip, Wolf,” said Jaime. “It’s very much true. His proclivities were the worst-kept secret at court!”

“Who gives a shit about what he used to do with his free time? It’s not like he was hurting anybody,” you retaliated. Truthfully, you bore no love for Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother, but since Jaime made it his mission to antagonize him, you couldn’t help but want to defend the late Prince.

Jaime dryly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. He wouldn’t quite like you much, I’m afraid. He liked his affairs brainless and sweet-faced—two traits you sorely lack, Bitter Wolf. Hm… it’s a shame the throne isn’t made of cocks. They’d have never gotten him off of it.”

Snapping, Brienne grabbed at Jaime’s hair and yanked him back, her sword against his throat in a blink of an eye. You calmly watched, not moving to stop her just yet. She was a loyal, honorable woman, and you were confident Brienne wouldn’t actually kill him if it came down to it.

“Shut your mouth!” she just about shouted, baring her teeth in a snarl.

Jaime winced at the pain of her hand yanking his hair. “I don’t blame him,” he said, tone considerably much softer. “And I don’t blame you, either. We don’t get to choose who we love.”

The insinuation behind his words was as clear as day.

You bitterly scoffed. “But we do get to choose who we have sex with, don’t we, sister-fucker?” Rolling your eyes to the side, you gestured for Brienne to unhand him. “The journey is still long—let’s save our energy by spending it in silence.”

Brienne reluctantly relinquished her hold on him, but before either of them could say anything, the clopping of hooves pulled your attention away.

It was a simple tradesman, tugging along his packhorse, who had bundles of wheat and hay strapped to its back. He waved at the three of you, a smile to his innocent face.

“Hullo. Where are you lot headed?”

“South,” said Jaime. “You?”

“Riverrun,” the man said. “Stayin’ off the Kingsroad, are you?”

The three of you nodded.

“They get you no matter where you go,” he advised. “You can’t run.”

Ominous were his words, but he could simply be speaking of the road tax they were imposing amongst the common folk. Nothing more than that.

Right?

“Looks like you two are safe enough. Meaning no offense, of course… I wouldn’t want to tangle with you lot,” he said with a chesty chuckle. “Seven blessings to you.”

Off the tradesman went, his horse in tow. You briefly wondered if he had recognized you or Jaime. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t.

“He knows who I am,” Jaime muttered under his breath.

“He doesn’t,” said Brienne.

“Maybe you’re right. But what if you’re not? What if he tells someone? We have to kill him,” Jaime pressed.

Blowing out a breath, you turned to him. “We’re not killing him. Unlike you, Kingslayer, I wouldn’t take innocent lives for no reason.”

Your words seemed to strike him in the face and he reared back with a sneer.

“And you wouldn’t risk his innocent life for your innocent nieces?” Jaime countered.

A beat of silence. You could feel a lump growing in your throat.

Wordless, you beckoned Brienne to push Jaime along your path. There would be no more bloodshed than necessary.

The three of you had stopped for a break by the river. Brienne had told you to get some sleep, that she’d keep watch for a few hours.

Body aching and weary with the long journey, you gratefully nodded, leaning against a tree trunk and pulling your cloak up over your head, slipping into a dreamless slumber.

It seemed that luck was not on your side, for you were startled awake by the clashing of steel not even two hours later. You scrambled onto your feet, blinking away your grogginess, and grabbed the bow you had kept by your side.

Jaime and Brienne were by the river, yelling at each other so quickly that you couldn’t make out anything they were saying. When you rushed closer, your eyes widened upon seeing one of Brienne’s longswords clutched between his grimy hands.

Quiet as a shadow, you nocked an arrow to the drawstring, silently creeping up to the dueling two. Jaime was breathing in a haggard fashion, clearly exhausted by the fight. Brienne, on the other hand, had yet to break a sweat, but her movements were rough and lacked calculated grace.

“That’s enough,” you commanded, tone steely, raising your bow so the tip of the arrow pointed straight at Jaime. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, Kingslayer, we are doing you a favor by taking you back home.”

Before he could reply, a dozen clopping horses resounded from over the bridge, and you swiveled your gaze over to the group with baited breath as they drew closer.

They were carrying Bolton banners of flayed men. And riding on one of the horses was the tradesman you had let go. You squared your jaw. Mercy was to be your downfall.

“Looks like the Bitter Wolf has gotten the better of you, Kingslayer,” said Locke, the man leading the group crooned, thick brows raised.

You exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who still had her sword raised.

“Let us go,” you said, raising your chin. “As your liege lord’s blood, I order you to let us go—!”

Locke barked out a laugh. “Let you go? If the King in the North hears I had the Kingslayer and his precious aunt and let you go, he’d be taking my head right off. I’d rather he takes his.” The man jutted his head towards Jaime, who began to slowly step back, your arrow grazing against the base of his neck.

There was no way you and Brienne could fight off all these soldiers.

With a scowl, you loosened your hold on your bow as Brienne simultaneously sheathed her longsword in surrender.

One of the men grabbed your bow and arrows, breaking them over his knee with a cackle before he bound your wrists together with rope and roughly tossing you onto a horse. He moved to do the same with Jaime, who had tried to fight off with his sword, but easily batted to the ground in his already-fatigued state, shoved behind you. Brienne was forced onto another horse.

“Never thought I’d see you as a prisoner… for your own nephew, no less,” Jaime leaned forward to murmur into your ear. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it after a while.”

“It looked like Brienne had the upper hand on you,” you coolly said.

Jaime frowned. “She did not. I was in chains. Had I not been shackled, I would’ve easily beaten her.”

You gave him no reply, staring straight ahead with a cold, distant stare. The group began moving, and you swallowed down the urge to puke over the side of the horse.

“When we make camp tonight, there is a great chance those men will take you and Brienne and have their way with you.”

A moment of silence passed before you firmly replied, “They won’t. I am their King’s—”

“Their King believes you to be a traitor for helping me escape,” countered Jaime. “They’ll rape you, and they’ll call it justice. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman, much less the Bitter Wolf herself.”

There was a thickness to your throat, as if you’d swallowed a mouthful of cold honey.

“It’d be wise if you didn’t resist,” Jaime said, voice lowering. “They’ll hurt you more if you do.”

“You want me to just let them rape me?” you asked incredulously, loathing the way your voice tremored ever so slightly. You were afraid.

Jaime blew out a sigh. “I stood guard outside the Queen Rhaella’s chambers as the King raped her. Night after night, I could hear her screaming. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked Jonothor Darry once, ‘Are we not sworn to defend the Queen, as well?’ He didn’t even look at me when he replied, ‘We are… but not from him.’ And so I had no choice but to stand and listen. Listen to her pleading, crying, trying to fight him off—which only made the Mad King angrier. The maids said she looked as if she was mauled by a wild animal by the time he was done with her. Scratches, bruises, and bites littered her body.” There was a long stretch of silence before Jaime bowed his head. “It is better you let them get it over with. Let them have what they want, and they’d have no reason to hurt you anymore.”

“You said you had no choice,” you hoarsely said, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “You always have a choice, Jaime. Always.”

Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could imagine the way he would grimly chuckle. “I realized that right before I put my sword through his back.”

Your nose stung as you sucked in a chestful of air. “They’ll kill Brienne if she fights them. They can’t kill me, but they can and would kill her if she fights back—which she will.”

This time, Jaime was the one who didn’t grace you with a response, brows furrowed and his thoughts far, far away.

The chains around your wrists were cold. There was an itch on your back, but with your hands tightly bound together, there was little you could do about it. And so you slumped against the tree, stomach cinched with hunger, and back itchy as you watched the Bolton men eat their roasted meats over the fire, drinking fresh river water that your throat ached for.

Jaime and Brienne were bound to other trees across the camp. From this far, you couldn’t quite see Brienne, but you could see Jaime as clear as day—and he was staring out into the distance, not a single thought behind those green eyes of his.

Once the men had had their suppers and were mildly drunk on the wine they brought along with them, they stumbled onto their feet.

“I’ll take the big bitch first,” you overheard one of them proclaim. “You lot… can tame the Bitter Wolf. We can switch after.”

They burst into raucous cheers. Fear coiled within the bottom of your chest.

Let them have what they want, you could hear Jaime’s voice say.

His green eyes were on you now, watching you with furrowed brows.

“My Lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to King’s Landing—!” Brienne began to protest when four men began dragging her up onto her feet, but was quickly cut off.

Grinning maliciously, Locke interrupted, “Catelyn Stark is a treasonous cunt. Orders were to take the Kingslayer and the Bitter Wolf alive. Nobody said shit about you.”

You didn’t see it when it happened. Sickening thuds, cracking bones, and a resounding slap. Brienne’s screams as they began beating her. From what you could hear, she put up quite a fight. Tears filled your eyes, and you yanked on your chains, knowing it would do absolutely nothing.

“Take her over there where it’s dark. I’d like a little privacy,” said Locke. “The Wolf can go over there—behind the bushes.”

Two men seized you on each side. Though you didn’t fight as wildly Brienne did, you were more calculated in your retaliation, allowing them to think you weren’t going to resist. But after the first few steps, you jerked away, shoving one of the men down onto the ground and using the cold metal of your shackles to wind around the other’s throat. Gurgling chokes erupted from his purpling lips.

You pressed, and pressed, and pressed—

Until another man came and hauled you off, striking you twice across the face, both of your cheeks stinging with the impact. You were bleeding—you could feel it dripping down your jaw, but you didn’t quite feel the pain just yet.

In the distance, you could hear Brienne’s yells echo through the trees.

You bared your teeth in a snarl when the man yanked your head back by your hair, eliciting a tear to fall from one of your eyes. “I’m going to have fun with you, Bitter Wolf. You’re a pretty little thing when you cry—maybe I’ll ask your nephew if I can keep you.”

“You think my nephew would want me to be raped?” you growled as he began dragging you away.

“He doesn’t give a shit what happens to you… fucking traitor,” he snarled, brandishing a dull knife gleaming with the reflection of the fire. The blade tore through your tunic and smallclothes, and you struggled to keep yourself covered with the few remaining scraps clinging onto your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat when he began undoing his own pants, a scream tearing from your chest when he held you down with his free arm.

“No!” you shouted, so loud it felt like the ground beneath you rumbled. “ROBB WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”

The man’s hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb digging into your airway. You were beginning to grow lightheaded

Without thinking, you garbled out a cry, “BRIENNE! JAIME! JAIME, PLEASE!”

Please what, you fool? you thought. Brienne can’t help you. Jaime can’t do anything. Nobody can save you.

You kicked out against the captor, landing a solid punch to his face as you tried to crawl away.

From the camp, Jaime’s jaw twitched upon hearing you cry out his name, heavy and broken with desperation. The Lannister glanced up at Locke.

“You know who she is, right?”

Locke smiled. “Some big, dumb bitch from who knows where? Hm… never been with a woman that big.”

“Brienne of Tarth. Her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Ever heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle… every sapphire in Westeros was mined in Tarth. I’d bargain that Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him,” said Jaime, trying to appear nonchalant. “Only if she’s alive, though. Don’t think he’d pay you much if you brought him his dead, defiled daughter.”

After a long moment of consideration, Locke turned and called out, “Bring the big one back here!”

From the distant dark, Jaime heard you scream out again. You were still fighting.

“I don’t think it’s wise for you to handle the Bitter Wolf in such a way. It’s better to leave her honor unbesmirched. See, if you’re going to sell her off to Robb Stark… he loves his aunt very much. I saw it myself, during the year I was their captive. He wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being tossed around and raped in such a fashion,” he said.

Narrowing his dark eyes, Locke stepped closer to Jaime. “Unbesmirched?”

“Not defiled,” Jaime clarified.

Much more reluctant, Locke huffed out a sigh, before calling out to his men. “Bring the Bitter Wolf back here!” He fixed his gaze back on Jaime. “Fancy word for a fancy man.”

“I hated to read as a child. My father forced me to study the books every morning before I could practice with my sword or horse. Two hours, every day, holed up in the maester’s chambers,” replied the knight. He caught sight of you being dragged back to the camp, your face bloody, leaves and foliage clinging to your hair, and your tunic torn off of you. “For God's sake, get some clothes on her! She’ll catch a cold and freeze to death in such weather! Little Robb Stark wants her alive, doesn’t he?” Jaime urged, cocking one of his brows upward.

With a haggard sigh, Locke undid his cloak and shoved it onto your shivering, horrified form, your arms crossed over your chest in an effort to salvage what little dignity you had left. Jaime’s loose, running tongue had saved you from being raped. You grabbed at the cloak and wrapped it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around you.

Brienne, on the other hand, was brought back fully clothed, still struggling. Blood dripped from her nose, but she seemed otherwise physically fine.

“Your father…” said Locke, “he’d pay your weight in gold to get you back?”

“You’ll be a rich man till the end of your days,” he responded. “And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands, titles… you’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man, you understand that, don’t you? We have the numbers, and we have the gold. Fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable—but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding.”

Locke nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”

Jaime momentarily glanced over at you, staring at him with wide eyes.

He looked back at Locke. “Now that we’re speaking man to man… I wonder if you really need to keep me chained to this tree. I’m not asking to be freed from my constraints, but if I could sleep lying down, my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and spritely as I once was.”

The man in front of him smiled. “None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat.”

“Hm, I’m famished, actually,” said Jaime, his stomach giving a loud rumble at the enticing thought of hot food.

“Famished—another fancy word,” mused Locke. “We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire.”

“Splendid. I do like partridge.”

Now free to stand, Locke led the Lannister closer to the fire—closer to you. You watched with narrowed eyes, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the fact that you were nearly raped.

“Bring the bird here, and a carving knife.” There was a dark glint to Locke’s eyes that you misliked. “Any other fancy words you want to tell me, Ser Jaime?”

Before the blonde could reply, Locke had kicked out at Jaime’s leg, shoving him against a wooden log, his cheek painfully pressing against the dry bark. Two other men came forward to hold him down, and a third brought the knife.

Locke took it from him, pressing the blade just below Jaime’s one of eyes, squeezed shut. “You think you’re the smartest man there is… that everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots.”

“My father—”

“And if you get in any trouble, all you have to do is say ‘my father!’ and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Hm? You got something to say? Want to tell me more about your rich, fancy childhood of books and horses? Careful, Kingslayer. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy. But your daddy ain’t here! Never forget that.”

The blade Locke was holding came away from Jaime’s eye.

You blew out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

And it came down onto his right hand, cleaving it right off his arm.

Jaime screamed so loud you flinched back against the tree in shock, eyes wider than saucers. Dark blood spurted from the amputated limb. You yelled out his name, chest rising and falling unevenly with rapid, panicked breaths.

Locke turned his greedy eyes to you, slanting the crimson-slickened blade against your cheek, smearing Jaime’s blood all over your face.

“You keep silent, Wolf,” he snarled, grabbing at your face so you would be forced to stare at Jaime writhing in raw, undulated pain. “Listen to him… listen to his screaming. Music to my fucking ears.”

And so you did.

For the rest of the night, you could do nothing but listen to Jaime’s agonized yells.

In the next hour, he had passed out from the pain, clutching his severed hand to his chest.

“Jaime,” you whispered, trying to nudge his unmoving body with your foot, worried he was dead. “Jaime.”

He never replied.

The hand thumped against his sternum with each step the horse took. It smelled rancid: of rotting flesh and dried blood, accompanied by the stench of shame.

Shame.

That was all Jaime could feel for himself.

He was ashamed.

He could feel your eyes on him. Those pretty eyes of winter, usually cold and hardened… now gaunt with trauma and exhaust. If he looked closely, he’d be able to see the concern behind your irises, as well.

But he didn’t look closely, because he was too ashamed to. His own gaze was rooted to the moving ground, watching the foliage pass by. He felt like he needed to puke, but his stomach bore nothing for him to retch. The woodsy dirt seemed to grow closer and closer with every blink…

“How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?” one of the Bolton men jeered.

Locke coughed out a laugh. “Depends on if he’s had any practice. Is that the kind of thing you and your sister go for, Kingslayer? Did she loosen you up for us?”

The knight teetered on his horse. Your gaze flickered from him to your captors, brows furrowing.

“He’s going to fall,” Brienne called out, her voice rattling through the trees. The men paid her no mind, going on with their sneers and their crude japes. Again, she exclaimed, “He’s going to fall off the horse, someone help him!”

They all watched as Jaime slid off the poor creature’s back, falling face first into a schlop of cold mud. He groaned at the impact, weakly squirming in a fruitless attempt to try to push himself back up.

“Water. Please, water,” he croaked just as the group came to a grueling halt. Locke swung himself off his horse to stand in front of Jaime.

In a cruel manner, he unstoppered his leather water pouch, only to pour its contents over the top of Jaime’s head.

“Just give the bloody man some water,” you snarled. “It’s been days. He’ll keel over without it.”

Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough.” With a smirk, he shoved another waterskin into Jaime’s single quivering hand.

Greedily, Jaime ripped it open with his teeth and tipped the pouch bag to chug down what was inside.

“Hm. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a man drink horse piss that fast,” Locke observed.

Jaime doubled over, gagging, puking out everything he had just gulped down into the filthy mud. Two cackling men seized him on each side, but Jaime was quick to react, elbowing one in the stomach and grabbing his sword.

It was one against a dozen… Jaime when he had two hands would’ve beat the lot of them in a blink of an eye. But he was no longer Jaime with two hands. Just the one.

A man kicked out at the back of Jaime’s knee, sending him sprawling forward.

“Stop!” Brienne yelled, jumping off her horse. More men surrounded her, beating her down to the ground, as she was tied and weaponless. They placed the tips of their blades to her throat, telling her she had gone far enough.

You wisely stayed up on your horse, watching as Locke landed several kicks into Jaime’s stomach and chest. A sickening crack sounded out through the woods. You weren’t really sure what broke, but it didn’t sound good.

“Stop! Stop hurting him,” you gruffed. “You’ve already taken his hand. He poses no more of a threat to you than I.”

“And what are you proposing, Bitter Wolf?” Locke asked, spreading his arms out. “That I beat you, instead?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you spat out in a steely manner, “Yes. Go ahead. Beat me until my skin turns purple and blue. It won’t change the fact that you’d simply be wasting your time.”

Locke’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking traitor.” He glared down at Jaime. “Be grateful the Bitter Wolf has decided to abandon her family for the side of the enemy. If I had it my way, I’d cut off your other hand and stuff it down your throat.”

A breath of relief slipped from your lips when Locke stepped away, leaving Jaime to lie in the mud for a few more seconds. The men eventually tossed him back onto his horse as if he were a sack of potatoes.

He wheezed every time he inhaled, still refusing to meet your gaze.

“Thank—” wheeze, “—you.”

“You did the same for me,” you quietly replied.

Neither of you spoke after that, continuing the journey on in a mutual, respectable silence.

Harrenhal was much larger than you’d remembered. Then again, you were only a small child last time you came, hyper-focused on all the food and fighting.

The Boltons hauled you off your horse, shoving you onto the ground, followed by Brienne and Jaime.

From in front of you stepped Roose Bolton.

Locke kicked Jaime to the muddy ground. “I give you the Kingslayer, Lord Bolton.”

“Pick him up,” he said with a dour expression. “He’s lost a hand.”

Cackling, Locke shook his head. “No, my Lord. He has it here!” He pointed at the severed limb tied loosely around his neck.

Roose scowled, stepping forward to rip the hand off of Jaime. “Take this away.”

“What? And send it to his father?” asked Locke, slightly miffed.

A muscle jumped in Roose’s jaw. “You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it. This is the King’s uncle.”

The realization of the Bolton’s betrayal to Robb dawned upon you like a sharp strike to your cheek. “You… you fucking traitor!” you snarled, chest heaving with anger. “Fucking traitor!”

Roose arched a sharp brow. “Look who’s talking, Bitter Wolf. We’re on the same side now, you and I.”

You wanted to snap back, tell him that you’d never be on the side of the Lannisters. But you held your tongue—perhaps if you could play the part of a traitor to the North, they would treat you less harshly. Maybe even allow you to integrate into their group after long enough. You’d be a spy of sorts. You’d have to be patient… and play the long game.

“Cut them free. Apologies, my Ladies. You’re both under my protection now,” Bolton ordered. Someone sliced through your ropes, and you struggled to push yourself onto your legs, weak with exhaustion. “Find suitable rooms for our guests. We’ll speak later.”

Just as Roose was about to stride away, Jaime croaked out, “Lord Bolton. Has there been word from the capital?”

“You haven’t heard?” he said. “Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing… sailed into Blackwater Bay. Stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your sister, how can I put this…?”

Fear danced clear as day across Jaime’s features.

“Your sister is alive and well. Your father’s forces prevailed,” Roose hummed. Overcome with a sudden barrage of overwhelming sensations, Jaime jerked forward, falling to his knees with a pained groan. “Ser Jaime isn’t well. Take him to Qyburn.”

You watched as they led Jaime away, somewhere inside the castle. Another man nudged you and Brienne forward, taking the both of you to the baths, where you were to clean yourself up.

When the hot, steaming water kissed your skin, you couldn’t help but moan out in relief. It’d been months since you bathed in anything but cold, frigid river water. Brienne sank into the waters across from you, blowing out a sigh and respectfully avoiding her gaze to give you a bit of privacy.

“I never had the chance to thank you for taking me so far. Or trying to, at least,” you quietly said as you began scrubbing the dirt away from your skin. “Thank you. You’re a good woman.”

An indiscernible look flickered over her expression. “I failed you. I failed Lady Catelyn. You shouldn’t be thankful for that.”

“You kept me alive. You saved my life several times. You helped me during a long, rough journey. If that doesn’t warrant my gratitude, I don’t know what does.”

The two of you were silent for a while longer. You leaned back to wash all the accumulated dirt and oil away from your hair, lathering your body with fresh soap by the stony bathtub’s edge.

“May I ask you a question, Lady Stark?”

“You may.”

“Why does everyone call you the Bitter Wolf?”

You let the question soak in for a few seconds as you rinsed away the soap. “I haven’t smiled since the Mad King killed my father and my brother. Not much to smile about, anyway. I suppose they also call me that because I’m none too friendly around people.”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”

“Sorry for what? Sorry for asking or sorry that it happened?”

“Both.”

“It’s alright.” Another long moment of quiet. Then, you asked, “Do you ever miss home, Brienne?”

The blonde tilted her head. “Sometimes. My father is a good man, and Tarth is beautiful. I often wonder what my life would be like if I never left. If I stayed and married a nobleman, like my father wanted.”

“But it’s not what you want,” you quietly said.

“No, my Lady. It’s not.” Brienne scrubbed away the dried blood on her bare shoulders with a brush. How it had even managed to get there, she wasn't sure. “Do you miss home?”

The thought of home made your chest ache. The fluffy snow, the direwolves, your comfortable bed. “Yes. More than anything, I miss my family. I miss my brothers, all of whom are gone now. I miss my sister, dead long ago. I miss my nephews, two of them may very well be long gone by now. I miss Robb and Catelyn, and I can only hope he’s not giving her too hard of a time. I can only hope he doesn’t hate me, that he can find it within him to forgive me. And I miss my nieces. It seems our little quest to save them has come to an abrupt end.”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The idea of failure still hung heavy over her broad shoulders.

After another ten minutes, Brienne had found that her fingers were beginning to prune, and so she slipped out of the tub, wrapping a thin linen towel about her tall, dripping figure.

She bid you adieu, but not without first saying, “I’ll protect you, my Lady. I may have failed in bringing you to King’s Landing and escorting your nieces out, but I will protect you with my life.”

Though you didn’t smile, Brienne could catch the faint look of fondness behind your usually frigid irises. “Thank you, Brienne. Truly.”

The big blonde exited the bathroom, having a guard lead her to her chambers.

You sank further into the tub, wishing to just stay there for a little while longer and forget. Besides, you didn’t know when the next time you’d be offered a bath would be, and you wanted to savor it for as long as you possibly could.

You grabbed a scrubbing brush, lathering it with soap before running it up and down your body, still feeling immensely dirty despite washing it all away. The bristles scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t stop, memories of men touching and shoving you flashing across your thoughts.

“Not so hard,” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, thinking Brienne had come back for a moment, before your eyes met Jaime. He was tired and weak, tugging his dirty clothes off. “You’ll scrub all your skin off.”

Brows furrowing, you sank lower beneath the water to make sure he wouldn’t see anything. You remained silent, simply watching as he made his way to the bath, nude as the day he was born.

It seemed Qyburn had done quite a number to his stump, which was cleanly bandaged and no longer bore the coloring of rotten flesh.

When he lowered himself into the tub, he let out a long groan of relief. The feeling of hot water kissing his body was a simple pleasure he missed dearly. Jaime noticed you shifting farther away, until you were pressed up against the opposite edge.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice gravelly. “I told you before, haven’t I? I would never… not unless you invited me, of course.”

Those were his very same words from all those moons ago, when he was standing in front of your chambers in Winterfell. You looked at him, expression softening.

“Your hand. What did Qyburn do?” you quietly asked.

Jaime waved the bandaged stump just above the water’s surface. “Want to see?”

Apprehensive, you slowly crossed the tub until you were only half an arm’s length away from him. With gentle hands, you reached out to take his arm, inspecting the wrappings and the visible outline of the stitches beneath it.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes. More than when it was lopped off, actually,” Jaime admitted, surprised at himself for being so honest with you.

“And does it hurt now?”

“I was given milk of the poppy,” said the knight. “Numbs the pain.”

A shadow of disappointment danced across the green of his irises when your hands fell away from him.

You were entirely aware that the both of you were naked, and he was so close you could feel his leg brushing yours. You’d never been this close to a man in the nude before. Clearing your throat, you stepped back just a bit.

“If I faint, pull me out,” said Jaime. “I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”

“I should let you drown,” you murmured.

The blonde man tilted his head to the side. “But you wouldn’t.”

“No, Ser Jaime. I wouldn’t.”

“And why is that? You’ve grown fond of me?”

The quiet that stretched between you felt heavy and tense, thick enough to cut through with a knife.

“I don’t know,” was all you said.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Jaime said, a mild grin to his cracked lips. “You’re fond of me. When we spoke at Winterfell, you had the same look. Then it was gone when I was your nephew’s prisoner. And now it’s back… not many look at me in such a way.”

You paused in your scrubbing for a moment to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re the Golden Lion. Everyone loves you.”

“No. They all want me to think they love me, because they’re scared. I know how they really feel. I’ve seen their hatred for seventeen years, face after face. They all despise me. Judge me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. Your law-sister, Lady Catelyn, had that face. Brienne of Tarth, too. Hell, even Roose Bolton, who betrayed his King in the North… he still looks down upon me. Everyone but you.”

You blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. What were you supposed to say to that?

Before you could think up a response, Jaime continued on, “Have you ever heard of wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. Each time he burned a victim, he’d drag his Queen to the chambers and rape her until she passed out, then do it again and again, until he’s had his fill. He burned lords he didn’t like… Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city… beneath the Sept of Baelor, and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, and taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. He burned your father during a trial by combat, claiming fire to be his house’s champion. Your brother was put in a Tyroshi strangling device… forced to watch as your father cooked in his armor, and choked himself to death trying to save him.”

The corners of your eyes stung with a warbling film of tears. You knew Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed by the Mad King, but not like this. Not in such a miserable, painful way. You ducked your head as you furiously swiped the stray water away from your cheeks.

“Finally, the day of reckoning came—Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory on the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that… he’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn’t listen to me, nor did he listen to Varys, who tried to warn him. Hm, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle… that grey sunken cunt.”

A long pause. You took a step closer when you noticed Jaime slumping back with a haggard sigh, the rims of his eyes red as he recounted the story. He was tearing up, just as you were. This was equally as traumatizing for him as it was for you. You had reached out, but didn’t touch him, stopping yourself before you did.

“‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. The blood everywhere, the dead bodies… it was a massacre, Lady Y/N. In response, Aerys told me to… he told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said.” A tear fell down Jaime’s grimy cheek. “‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ If you were commanded to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”

Your lips parted. “No,” you hoarsely whispered.

Jaime blinked away the tears, inhaling sharply. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then when the King turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. So I slit his throat. I don’t think he expected to die. He… he meant to burn with the rest of us, and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies into ash. That’s where your brother, Ned Stark, found me.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” you whispered. “Ned would’ve listened—”

“You think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.” Jaime’s chest started to stagger with heavy, uneven breaths. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”

“No, Ned would have heard you out if you explained—”

Jaime’s face twisted into one of frustration. “Your love for your family blinds you, just as mine does for me. You were the only one, Lady Y/N… the only one…”

A wheeze and a puff. Jaime teetered forward, eyes slipping shut.

Quickly, you darted forward just before he could fall into the water, holding him slightly upright within your arms. His face pressed against your shoulder and he groaned out something incoherent.

“Guards!” you called. “Help!”

“The only one who called me Ser Jaime before calling me a Kingslayer,” he muttered against your skin, just before the guards rushed in to help him out.

The dress they had given you to wear was an ugly shade of yellow. It was not at all akin to the type of dresses you would wear up in the North, which were thick and voluminous with high collars. No, this one had a tight bodice with a flowing skirt, its neckline square and plunging. It was a dress Southern ladies would be quite comfortable with, you were sure, but you were no Southerner.

Jaime’s green eyes had shimmered with slight mirth upon seeing you uncomfortably amble into Harrenhal’s mess hall, two guards forcing you out of your chambers so you would speak with Roose Bolton. In front of the knight was a generous plate full of roasted meat, along with a heaping of creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. It was a most appetizing meal, especially to a man who hadn’t had proper, hot food in longer than a year, but it proved to be hard to cut into the meat with just one hand.

“Lannister gold,” said the knight, glancing at your dress as you took a seat next to him, before fixing his stare on your sour expression. He then went back to trying to cut his meat with his one hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not as bad as hers, anyway.”

To his other side sat Brienne, who was forced into a frumpy pink dress, the collar rimmed with brown fur. Somehow, she looked even more out of place than you did.

“I see my men have found you both appropriate attire,” said Lord Bolton, smirking at your clear uncomfort.

“Yes, most kind of them,” Brienne replied, though it lacked any true sincerity. “You’re a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Stark’s orders to accompany Lady Y/N and Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing.”

With a scoff, Roose rolled his eyes. “If Catelyn Stark wasn’t the Wolf-King’s mother, he would have hanged her for treason.”

Growing frustrated at Jaime’s obvious struggles, Brienne reached over for a fork and stabbed it through the meat, allowing for him to cut through it easily.

“I should send you back to Robb Stark, Kingslayer,” said Roose.

You narrowed your eyes. “And here I assumed you already betrayed my nephew?”

“Gold is a tempting wealth, one that the Lannisters have in abundance,” Roose said, words sharp. “But it is easier to offer it than to dole it out.”

With raised brows, Jaime popped a piece of tender meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “And here you sit, watching me fail at dinner rather than tossing me into the back of a carriage and dumping me in front of Robb Stark. I wonder why that is.”

“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,” Roose told Jaime. Then, he looked at you.

“And we both know who would pay the most. Or who would make you pay the most if he found out you captured me and sent me back up North for a summary execution.”

A set of cutlery was placed out in front of you, and you trained your stare onto a dull butter knife. Not as sharp as you would’ve liked, but it’d do.

“Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill all three of you and burn your bodies,” said Lord Bolton.

You wrapped your fingers around the butter knife, but, to your surprise, Jaime’s hand let go of his fork to gently rest over yours, as if to stop you from doing anything rash. This didn’t go past Roose’s notice, and he narrowed his cold, pale grey eyes.

“It would be, yes… if you truly believed my father would never find out about it.”

His hand slipped off of yours.

“King Robb is keeping him quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”

Humming Jaime, bobbed his head. “He’d make time for you.”

It seemed that Roose Bolton was convinced. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing… as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth—that I played no part in your maiming.”

“Very well,” said Jaime, seeming satisfied. It dawned on you that he thought both you and Brienne were to go with him. “My Ladies, may our journey continue without further hindrance.”

You bit down on your tongue when the Bolton simply smiled cruelly. “Oh, they won’t be going with you. They’re charged with abetting treason.”

Incredulous, Jaime said, “I’m afraid I must insist.”

“You’re in no place to insist on anything,” Roose scathingly replied. “I would have hoped you’d learned your lesson about overplaying your position.”

“Then let me insist. Send me back to my nephew,” you barked, brows knitting. “He can deal with me as he sees fit. I’m not going to be your prisoner.”

With a wide smile, Roose Bolton pushed away from the table to stand. “Oh, but your nephew doesn’t know you’re here, Bitter Wolf. And I intend to keep it that way. It seems like you don’t have a choice.”

Before you could ask him anything else, Lord Bolton was already striding away. You exchanged a worried glance with both Jaime and Brienne, fear clutching around your heart.

They’d put you in chains, and tossed you into a dark room, Brienne in another far, far away from you to prevent an elaborate escape scheme from forming between the two of you. The one they put you in had little to light the space other than a single lonely torch hanging by the doorway, and a small, rectangular window that filtered pale moonlight through the glass. You sat on one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs, arms wrapped around yourself as you shivered. The dress they’d given you wasn’t one fit for the cold. You supposed they were probably aware of that.

The door on the other end of the chambers creaked open. In strode Jaime, his arm in a sling, a guard following close behind.

You rose to your feet, face solemn.

“I thought you’d left already.”

“Tomorrow,” replied Jaime. He stepped closer. “I tried to bargain with Roose. He’s adamant on keeping you here. I’m sorry. I’ll convince my father to buy you out. No man can deny the gold when it’s presented right in front of him.”

You wrenched your gaze away, fixing them upon the torch’s warbling flames. “Why?”

The blonde knight tilted his head. “What do you mean, why? I’m going to get you out.”

“Yes, I got that,” you softly said. This time, your eyes met his inquisitive green ones. “But why would you want me to get out?”

“Because I… I owe you a debt. You released me from my imprisonment,” he replied.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you strode forward the rest of the way, until you stood only inches from Jaime. You lowered your voice as you said, “I did it for a reason, Ser Jaime. Please… when you get to King’s Landing, swear you’ll send my nieces back to Robb. Send the girls to him, and consider the debt repaid.”

Jaime nodded. “I swear it.”

You studied him for a moment longer, eyes watering and nose stinging. “I wish there’s more you could do than simply swear. But I trust you, Ser Jaime. I trust you.”

Something within his expression changed, as if crumbling apart, piece by piece. He could see the anguish written across your complexion, clear as day. “Lord Bolton is traveling tomorrow. He’s going to the Twins for Edmure Tully’s wedding.”

Your eyes widened. “Edmure Tully? So… Robb isn’t the one marrying the Frey girl? It’s Edmure?”

“Your nephew married a foreign girl,” said Jaime with a hint of a smile. “Stirred up quite a scandal amongst your people.”

“Oh, Robb. Foolish, foolish boy. The Freys couldn’t have taken that kindly,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, remembering the medic he was making heart-shaped eyes at. “But if Roose isn’t loyal to Robb anymore… he must be scheming something. What it is, I’m not sure.”

After a second, Jaime cleared his throat. Guilt splayed over his striking features. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll be left alone in this castle with Locke and his men. Without Roose, and without me.”

“Not another rape speech, Jaime,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Suddenly, Jaime’s hand darted out to grasp one of yours. Your eyes snapped up to his again, lips parting at the unexpected touch.

“Offer them money. As much as they might want. Even if you don’t have it, offer it. These men are greedy, sniveling creatures. Offer it to them, and they might just leave you alone,” said Jaime, deadly serious.

You looked away again, squaring your jaw and nodding. A second passed before Jaime let your hand go.

“Jaime,” you whispered, fear suddenly shadowing over your chest. “If your father buys me out, I’ll simply be moving from captive to captive. I won’t be returning home, will I?”

The blonde man’s features softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t be your captor,” he said. “I could never find it within me to stand back and watch you suffer just the same as I did.”

“I wouldn’t be your captive. I’d be your father’s. All my options seem to be dead ends for me,” you responded. Utter hopelessness flooded your features. “Thank you for trying, nonetheless. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

It might have just been a trick of the quivering fire’s light, but you could’ve sworn there was a whisper of tears in the corner of Jaime’s eyes. “Goodbye, Lady Stark.”

He held his hand out for a handshake, and you took it firm and steady. With a dip of his head, he turned and left your chambers.

And then, you were alone.

“Qyburn hopes your father will force the Citadel to give him back his chain,” said Roose, striding up behind Jaime as the knight mounted a horse, struggling with only his one hand to aid him.

Snorting, Jaime retorted, “My father will make him Grand Maester if he grows me a new hand.”

Roose hummed with thought. “You’ll give my regards to Lord Tywin, then, I trust?”

A nod, and a slight smile. “Tell Robb Stark I’m sorry I couldn’t make his uncle’s wedding. And that his aunt dearly misses him. The Lannisters send their regards.”

There was a malicious sort of glimmer to Roose’s pale eyes. He bowed his head.

And off Jaime went, his horse walking slowly out the gate, a few Bolton loyalists accompanying him. There were eyes on him from every point of the castle, burning into him. Locke awaited by the gate a sneer to his lips. “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Ooh, nothing to say? I liked you better before… I don’t remember chopping your balls off, too!”

Jaime remained wisely silent, jaw clenching.

“Don’t you worry about your companions. We’ll take good care of them. I’ve never had Wolf before, you know?”

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It settled heavy within Jaime’s stomach.

He rode out of the castle without looking back.

They took a pause on their journey around half a day later. His legs were weary and numb, but his stub throbbed. Qyburn took care of that, placing a strange sort of white ointment over the stitches before rebandaging them. In no time, the pain seemed to ebb away.

After a bit of smalltalk on Qyburn’s rather disturbing confession to performing experiments on diseased men, Jaime swallowed uneasily and said, “You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, no? Did you get a bird off to Brienne’s father in Tarth?”

Even if there was nowhere for you to go, Jaime surmised that at least Brienne would be able to return home with a proper ransom, right?

“A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” said Qyburn. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred gold dragons for his daughter’s safe return.”

“A fair offer,” hummed Jaime as he stood up to his feet to head back to his horse.

“Yes. An offer Locke won’t take.”

Jaime faltered in his steps. “Why not?”

Qyburn frowned in thought. “He’s convinced Lord Tarth owns all the sapphire mines in Westeros. He feels he’s been cheated.”

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Jaime blew out a long breath. “They’d be fools to kill her.”

“Hm. These men have been at war for a long time. Most of them will be dead by winter, and they’re well aware of this. Both she and the Bitter Wolf will be their entertainment for tonight. Beyond tonight, I don't think they'd care very much what happens to her. They’ll have to keep the Stark alive for Lord Bolton, however. Use her as they see fit until he returns.”

Brows knitting together, Jaime shook his head. There was no chance he’d be able to live with himself knowing he condemned Brienne to her death, knowing you’d be raped and tortured and beaten when he could’ve put a stop to it.

He turned to one of the men accompanying him. “We have to return to Harrenhal,” he said.

“Why?” asked the soldier, upper lip curling with contempt.

“I’ve… left something behind.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got orders from Lord Bolton to take you to your father in King’s Landing, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Cocking his face, Jaime narrowed his keen green eyes. “You think you’ll get a reward?”

“I serve Lord Bolton. Any appreciation from your father—”

Cutting him off, Jaime hissed out, “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he’s going to ask is what happened to my hand. And I’ll be telling him that you were the one that chopped it off.”

“I had nothing to do with—!” “Or,” Jaime interrupted once again, lifting a finger, “I could tell him this man saved my life, and he’ll reward you greatly. We’re returning to Harrenhal. Now.”

The man in front of Jaime considered his words for a moment, before reluctantly nodding, ordering the rest of the men to get ready to turn back.

He was going back to get you, one way or another.

Jaime hurriedly leapt off his horse once he was within the dreary confines castle. From afar, he could hear drunken singing and chanting. With quick feet, he rushed up several creaking stairs, up and up and up he went, before he came up onto an elevated platform more than twice his height, where hundreds and hundreds of men were gathered. He could barely hear anything over their loud song about a bear and a maiden.

To his horror, as Jaime pushed through the crowd, he caught sight of a large arena. And within it… was a large brown bear.

Brienne was down there as well, in her tattered pink dress, her hands wrapped around a rather useless wooden training sword. And behind her, she was shielding you. Your expression was wild with terror, eyes darting every which way in an effort to search for a way out. The golden dress you were wearing was soaked with mud, torn in several places, and hanging haggardly off of one shoulder. Brienne was no better, with deep claw marks running along her neck down to her clavicle, blood dribbling down from the wound and staining her dress’ neckline crimson.

“Don’t spare her!” one of the onlookers yelled.

“Let the Wolf fight! Fucking coward!”

“Get on with it already!”

The bear roared angrily. Jaime could hear Brienne yelling, “Stay behind me, my Lady! I’ll protect you!”

“Well, this is one shameful fucking performance. Stop running and fight!” exclaimed Locke. Jaime’s eyes snapped up to him.

“You gave her a wooden sword?” he asked, nose wrinkling with disgust.

Locke glanced at the Kingslayer, thick brows raising in surprise. “Thought you’d gone.”

“You gave her a wooden sword!” he gritted out.

“We’ve only got one bear,” scoffed Locke.

Shoving people out of the way, Jaime stormed closer to the rotten man. “I’ll pay their bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get her out of there!”

With a smirk, Locke shook his head. “All you Lords and Ladies still think that the only thing that matters is gold.” He grabbed Jaime’s bandaged stub. “Well, this makes me happier than all your gold ever could! And that makes me happier than any of her sapphires! I’m sure taking the Bitter Wolf’s cunt for myself is going to be more pleasurable than winning the fucking war myself. So go buy a golden hand and fuck yourself with it!”

Furious, Jaime shoved Locke away, turning back to watch the fighting pits. The bear had swiped out at Brienne, causing her to fall back with a yell as one of its claws snagged against her jaw. You had yanked her to the side, effectively saving her from a deathly blow from the bear.

And without another thought, Jaime clambered over the railings, and jumped down. He had no idea what he was doing. His heart was racing within his chest, thumping an irregularly quick pace. All he could think was to stand in front of you and Brienne.

“Get behind me!” he yelled.

“I will not!” Brienne spat out a wad of blood as she struggled back onto her feet.

Just as the bear was about to strike again, an arrow shot out from the stands. You looked up to see one of the men Jaime had left with, clutching a crossbow.

“What the fuck are you doing to my bear!?” Locke yelled, incredulous.

“Lord Bolton charged me with bringing him back to King’s Landing alive, and that’s what I intend to do!” he gruffed in response, loading another arrow.

The next one missed its target, landing into the large bear’s shoulder. Jaime took its distraction to his advantage, grabbing your hand and shoving you towards one of the tall walls.

“Pull her up!” he ordered the people above. “Climb on my back!”

You did as he told with little complaint, hurriedly taking one of the offered hands and rolling onto the platform, breathless. Wasting no time, you got onto your feet and stormed to Locke, shoving him aside. You blew out a breath of relief as Brienne was also hauled up, leaving just Jaime in the pit.

Terror clawed within your ribcage. Another bolt went flying to the bear, but it missed completely, skirting off to the side. Frustrated, you grabbed the crossbow from the man, loading another arrow and aiming with narrowed eyes.

Before the bear could maul Jaime in one strike, you let the bolt flying loose, and the sharp arrowhead pierced the bear clean through the skull. It fell down with one large thud, mud flying every which way at its collapse.

“Help him up!” you told Brienne, placing another arrow into the crossbow and aiming it straight at Locke. “Put your hands on me, and I’ll have your eyes shot through the back of your head.”

To your relief, Brienne had helped Jaime back up onto the platform.

The men all around you booed, upset their entertainment was ripped away from them.

“You’re staying here. The big bitch, too,” said Locke, infuriated.

“If I stay, you’ll be dead. If Brienne stays, you’ll be dead. Is that a deal, or are you going to let me go?” When Locke found himself at a standstill, you growled out, “I’ll put a bolt through Jaime Lannister’s fucking head right now if you don’t let Brienne and I go. Do you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with his son dying by a Bolton arrow?”

There was a tense moment of silence. Locke stepped back, defeated.

Jaime and Brienne both made their way to you, escorting you out of the castle.

“Sorry about the sapphires,” remarked Jaime just before he went down the steps, his smile sharp.

He caught up to you, still gripping the crossbow tightly.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fucking peachy,” you spat. You casted a worried look to Brienne, quietly asking if she was too hurt to travel. When she expressed that she was fine, you finally turned your eyes back on Jaime. Your expression softened as you studied him. “You came back.”

“I came back,” he echoed, tone equally gentle. “Though, did you just threaten to have me killed up there, or—?”

“You know I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Do I?”

“You do.”

“Hm.” Jaime smiled. “I guess I do.”

The journey to King’s Landing was going by quicker than you expected. Perhaps it was because Jaime had become less of a thorn in your side, and more of a respectable companion. Most of the time, anyway. He was still quite an annoyance, pestering you for stories of your past and never failing to jest about your infamously stoic disposition.

The Kingslayer was not your friend, no… but he certainly seemed to be treating you as one. Were you treating him as a friend, as well?

You were resting against a tree, arms crossed over your chest as you tried to find sleep. The crossbow you had taken with you was propped up against your leg. Brienne was on watch, sharpening her sword a few meters away from you.

To none of your surprise, Jaime had come ambling past, dropping beside you with a mild grunt. You didn’t spare him a glance, simply humming in acknowledgement.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, lolling his head against his shoulder so he could look at you. The green of his eyes glinted with the pearly moonlight, sharp and curious. “You’re free to go if you’d like. I told you I wouldn’t be your captor.”

Freedom. Something you hadn’t tasted in a long while.

Slow, you turned your head to face him, startled to see how close he was. Nonetheless, you didn’t pull away.

“I need to find my nieces and bring them back to Cat. To Robb. This… all of this… it can’t have been for nothing,” you murmured. “I can’t give up now.”

The man nodded. “I’ll help you, then. I swore I would.”

“I know,” you whispered in return. Jaime studied your features. Tired and weathered, broken and determined. Your eyes, however, read nothing but gratitude. “I still can’t believe you jumped into a pit with a bear in it. It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Yes, well, it saved you from a gruesome death. Some would say it was brave rather than foolish.”

“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand,” you mused, with a slight scoff. After a lengthier silence, you croaked, “Thank you, Jaime.”

The blonde smiled. You didn’t see, for you had already turned your head away from him to gaze upwards, to the hazy stars in the night’s sky.

Not ten minutes of amicable silence later, Jaime felt a weight drop upon his shoulder. You had slipped into a peaceful rest, accidentally resting your head against the knight. For a moment, he considered moving, giving you more space to sleep for longer. Your hair tickled his cheek, and your chest rose and fell with unencumbered breaths. You looked so much younger when you were asleep, free of the waking world’s burdens and tribulations.

And so Jaime stayed still. Jaime couldn’t quite understand why he began grinning. He didn’t even notice that he was smiling like a damn fool, even after the sun had long risen and you had jerked awake when light rays danced across your irritated eyes, murmuring flustered apologies and stumbling onto your feet to hurry away with a lame excuse of checking on Brienne. No, the smile stayed for a long, long time.

King’s Landing was smaller than Jaime remembered. Much smaller.

When Jaime stepped foot into the Red Keep, the first thing he did was go to see his sister. His beloved sister. Her door creaked open. Her back was to him. Golden hair shimmered beneath the sun’s waning light.

“Cersei,” he said.

She turned, startled at the sound of her twin brother’s voice. Those sharp eyes of hers caught sight of his filthy state. Of his handless arm.

Disgust flickered over her expression.

Hot shame washed over him. You didn’t look at his stump with that kind of disgust. No, you had looked at it with a certain kind of soft curiosity. Cersei looked angry, almost. Affronted that he would show up in such a broken, weak state.

Why wasn’t Cersei happy to see him? After all this time?

A few hours later, you were tossed down in front of King Joffrey, still in that disgusting, ripped golden dress the Boltons had given you. In contrast, Jaime had already been bathed, donned in golden armor and a white cloak. He hadn’t been able to speak with you since the three of you had arrived at the Keep.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“And what are we to do with you?” his nephew, his son, crooned, smiling wide as if he’d caught himself a prize. “Sister to a traitor. Aunt to a traitor. Bitter Wolf, indeed.”

You refused to meet Joffrey’s burning gaze. Instead, you were looking at Sansa, off to the side of the courtroom, her blue eyes wide and tearful. Youthful hope was plastered clear as day across her pale, beautiful features. Relief.

“Maybe I should put your head on a spike,” Joffrey mused.

At his words, Jaime stepped forward. “Your Grace, Lady Stark saved my life several times. She was the one who helped me escape. She is the entire reason I’m here now.”

It looked as if Joffrey wanted to spit at his uncle for ruining his fun. Before he could say anything, however, Tywin Lannister interrupted, “As the Hand, Your Grace, I’d advise to exercise compassion for the Bitter Wolf. We should be grateful to her for returning one of your Kingsguard back to you.” He thought it wise to make allies with you—after all, you were now technically the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with all the Starks dead except your nieces. The rest of the North would be keen on following after you, rather than Roose Bolton.

“What good is a Kingsguard with just one hand?” snarked Joffrey. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. “She helped you escape, then, Uncle? Did she play a part in the Red Wedding? She must have, if she was so willing to betray her nephew!”

Wedding…?

You finally tore your eyes away from Sansa, looking up at Joffrey. Confusion clouded your expression.

The blonde King raised his brows. He grinned so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split into two. “Oh, Gods, she doesn’t know!” He began laughing. It was a cruel and calloused sound. “Robb Stark is dead. The traitor wolf died at his uncle’s own wedding! His pregnant whore of a wife and his bitch mother, as well.”

At the news, your lips parted, and your hands came up to cover them. Tears were quick to sting the corner of your eyes, and burn the bridge of your nose. Roose fucking Bolton did this. You didn’t want to cry in front of the monster of a boy, you really didn’t. But you couldn’t help it—your nephew was dead. Your good-sister was dead. And you weren’t there for them.

Did Robb die hating you?

A silent sob wracked your entire body and your knees buckled. Sansa took a step forward, but stopped when one of the Kingsguard snarled at her.

The rest of the court had fallen into a hushed silence. It was only broken when Joffrey stepped down from the Iron Throne, smirking maliciously.

“Welcome to court, Lady Stark. We are… forever indebted to you,” he chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he was the one to break the tragic news. Then, he walked straight past you, humming as he left the throne room. The rest of the whispering Lords and Ladies trickled out after him.

Jaime watched, brows furrowed in concern, as Sansa finally was able to run forward and envelop you into a tight hug. You gripped your niece and cried harder against her. It shattered your heart in a million pieces when she began to quietly cry into your neck, as well.

Lips pursed in a tight line, Jaime spared you one last glance before he turned to head after the King.

They’d put you in a large chamber, with large, arched windows giving you a perfect view of the ocean. Warm air billowed through, the breeze tousling your just-washed hair and cascading a heated flush down your face. You weren’t fond of hot weather—you were a Stark through and through, made of ice and snow.

The handmaids laid out a dark grey Southern dress for you to wear. It was loose and lightweight, with a neckline that plunged far too low for your liking, wide enough to only barely hang off your shoulders. The sleeves were long and drooped far past your hands. You narrowed your eyes, shifting the fabric around your waist, frowning at how it cinched uncomfortably. Damn Southerners.

There was a knock on your door just as you had finished readjusting the dress to the best of your abilities, and you turned to see Sansa quietly slide in, her handmaiden following after her.

“My dear girl,” you whispered, reaching out to her. When Sansa stepped closer, you gently cupped her heart-shaped face with one hand. Her red curls were twisted into an updo, blue eyes scared and wide.

She looked so much like her mother… her mother who was now gone…

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you roped her into an embrace. She was crying again, pulling away to hastily wipe her tears away, sniffling.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Though you’d never been too close to Sansa back when you were in Winterfell, as she wasn’t a fan of your cold nature, you still loved her, nonetheless. Sansa had lost her entire family in such a short span of time, she was immensely grateful to see you alive and well. A naive part of her hoped that you would whisk her away. Away from Cersei, away from Joffrey, and away from King’s Landing.

“Where’s Arya?” you asked.

“I don’t know. She disappeared when… when father…”

You nodded. Disappointment danced over your irises. Hopelessness. “She must’ve run out of King’s Landing. No doubt tried to make her way back home on her own. She could be anywhere from here to Winterfell by now.” Biting your lip, you encompassed her hands within yours. “Sansa, tell me. What’s happened here? Have they been treating you well?”

She shifted uncomfortably at the question. She hesitated for a moment, but quietly spoke upon remembering that you were her aunt, and that she could trust you. You were family. “No. Joffrey’s a monster. He’s cruel, and he likes hurting people. He’s pursuing Lady Margaery Tyrell now… and I’m married to Tyrion.”

“What?” Horror flickered over your expression.

Quickly, she added, “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, though… he’s not like Joffrey.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see Sansa’s handmaiden shift from foot to foot.

“That’s a relief. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes once more. “Better, now that you’re here.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that all on your own,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You poor girl.”

“What happened to you? Why did you leave Robb?”

“I wanted to save you and your sister. I thought that if I traded Jaime for you and Arya, I could… I could bring you back. It’s a long story, but… it didn’t work out. Your sister is gone, and Robb is gone, as well. Winterfell is not ours anymore. There is nowhere safe for us to go.”

Fear made her lips warble. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… we must stay here for a while. It’s safest here. For now. But when we find an opportunity, we must take it.”

She looked like she wanted to protest for a minute, but she blew out a shaking breath. “Alright. I trust you.”

The weeks passed by in a breeze. A warm breeze. Jaime had grown rather accustomed to the cold of the North during his year of imprisonment. The heat down here was sticky and uncomfortable—especially beneath his golden armor.

He never would have thought that he’d miss the sight of snow.

He was rarely given the chance to speak to you or Brienne, busy with his duties as part of the Kingsguard. But he would see you in the distance, hovering protectively over your sweet-faced niece, walking the gardens, staring out at the oceans, as if planning out an escape. It was a strange thing seeing the two of you together. The little dove and the bitter wolf.

Exactly four weeks after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing his father called for a meeting with him. Apparently, Tywin had something to give him.

“It’s magnificent,” Jaime said in awe, slowly swinging the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, testing its balance. “Fresh-forged?”

“Yes,” said Tywin, stoic-faced.

Jaime turned to look at his father. “No one’s made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” the knight commented, brows raising.

With a nod, Tywin sank into his seat with seamless grace. “There are only three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis. He came here to King’s Landing at my invitation.”

Jaime hummed. “You’ve wanted one of these in the family for a long, long time.”

“And now we have two.”

“Two?”

“The original weapon was absurdly large. Eddard Stark’s. It provided more than enough for two swords.”

There was a long pause before Jaime stepped forward. “Well, thank you. It’s glorious.” As Tywin nodded, whatever small glimmer of pride in his eyes waned away when Jaime struggled to sheath the sword, with his only one hand to aid him.

“You’ll have to train your left hand,” his father gruffed.

Frowning, Jaime replied, “Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands.”

“You’ll never be as good.”

A pause. Even with both his hands, Jaime was never good enough for his father.

“As long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Narrowing his keen eyes, Tywin sternly said, “You can’t serve in the Kingsguard with just one hand.”

“Where’s that written?” Jaime snapped back. “I can and I will. The Kingsguard oath is for life.”

“The war is over. The King is safe,” said Tywin.

Jaime scoffed. “The King is never safe! How many people in this city alone would love to see his head on a pike?”

You, for one. Jaime knew you would snap Joffrey’s neck if you were ever given the chance to.

Damn it. There he went, thinking of you again. It was as if you were some sort of disease festering in his mind.

“The King was protected by other knights while you were a prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home.”

Ah. So that’s what this was about.

“Home?” Jaime echoed.

“You’ll return to Casterly Rock… and rule in my stead.”

Tywin wanted him to go back and abandon all his duties. Find a wife from a noble house, bear children—preferably sons, and secure heirs for the Lannister household. But that was not who Jaime was. No, Jaime wanted… he wanted…

“You are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” reminded Jaime, studying his father as if he’d gone daft.

Face ever so stony, Tywin replied calmly, “I am the King’s Hand. My place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”

“You know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. And now you want me to break another sacred vow,” sighed Jaime, blowing out a long, exasperated breath.

Tywin’s green eyes, paler than Jaime’s were, bore holes into his head. “You won’t be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieving the Kingsguard of his duties. The King will exercise that prerogative.”

How could Jaime leave his brother and sister here for a life he didn’t even want? How could he leave you with his monster of a nephew? How could he leave Sansa when he swore to you that he would get her to safety?

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” parroted Jaime.

Tywin’s upper lip curled into a slight snarl. “I don’t believe I asked you a question.”

“But I’m giving you an answer,” said Jaime.

“If you think your bloody honor comes before—”

“My bloody honor is beyond repair, but my answer is still no!” Jaime interrupted, his voice raising in volume. “I don’t want Casterly Rock. I don’t want to marry some woman I barely know. I don’t want to bear her children.”

“Then what do you want?”

For a moment, Jaime struggled for words. Cersei, he thought. But Cersei doesn’t seem to want me anymore. Not with my hand missing.

“Supper would be nice,” said Jaime.

The older of the two scowled heavily. “For forty years I’ve tried to teach you. If you haven’t learned now, you never will. Go. If serving as a glorified bodyguard is the sum of your ambition, then go serve.”

“I suppose you want the sword back.”

“Keep it. A one-handed man with no family needs all the help he can get,” spat Tywin.

No family. That stung Jaime much more than he’d care to admit.

With no more words to spare his father, Jaime strode away, sword in hand, his white cloak fluttering with his departure.

A golden hand. Qyburn had brought him a golden hand.

“A work of art,” he declared.

Jaime wasn’t so impressed. The gold just brought more attention to the fact that he didn’t have a hand in the first place. Not to mention that it was heavy and clunky. He would’ve been much more satisfied with something dull and lightweight.

“If you like it so much, chop off your own hand and take it,” he dryly remarked.

Pouring herself a chalice of wine, Cersei rolled her eyes. “You’re such an ingrate. I spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right.”

“Days?” Jaime asked, skeptical.

She shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon.”

Once it was properly fixed onto his stub, Qyburn asked how it felt.

“A hook would’ve been more practical,” said Jaime.

It was then that his sister dismissed the older man, thanking him for his services present and past. Jaime waved around the new hand, testing its lopsided weight.

Finally, Cersei turned to him.

“Odd little man,” he quipped.

“I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s quite talented, you know.”

Tilting his head, Jaime asked, “What past services? You were hurt?”

“None of your concern,” she calmly replied.

Frustration licked its way up Jaime’s chest. It was as if Cersei was purposefully dangling her secrets in front of him, but kept him at a safe distance by not disclosing anything. He wanted to yell, throttle her, asking her to be plain and truthful with him. It was wishful thinking, of course.

“You let him touch you?” was all he could think of saying.

There was a laugh to her tone. “Jealous?”

No. Bitter, more like—he’s spent too much time with you, perhaps. “Surprised. You never let Pycelle touch you,” he said.

“You think I’d let that old lecher put his hands on me?” She sipped on the wine. Then took another, and another, and another. “He smells like a dead cat.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a dead cat.” Narrowing his eyes, Jaime observed his sister finish what was in her chalice, reaching over to pour more. “You drink more than you used to.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The way her lip curled in disdain was eerily reminiscent of his father. Jaime felt the beginnings of a headache pound at the front of his temple.

“Hm, let’s see. You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident.”

An accident you made sure to cause, Jaime thought. She is just as much of a Kingslayer as I am.

“Must have been traumatic,” Jaime sneered, dripping with irony.

“My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne.”

Our daughter.

“We suffered through a siege.”

Blowing out a sigh, Jaime barked out a humorless laugh. “A rather short siege.”

“One that I didn’t expect to survive,” she quickly snapped back. Wisely, she decided not to tell Jaime she was a hair’s breadth away from poisoning Tommen. “And now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden, while I’m supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow-biter.”

Without her noticing, Jaime had stood up and came to sit beside her. “Father disowned me today,” he said.

“He can’t disown you. You’re all he’s got,” she said.

“You’re forgetting Tyrion.”

At the mention of her other brother, Cersei’s face twisted with repulsion.

“You don’t really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?”

Jaime leaned forward, placing his golden hand behind her and his remaining one atop her knee. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing. Trying to kindle whatever there was between them again, perhaps. Desperately seeking what he used to have before he left King’s Landing. “Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here, in the Red Keep with you.”

Just as he dipped his head forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, Cersei yanked herself away, standing up to stride back to the table and pour herself some more wine.

“Not now,” she said.

Frustrated, Jaime gritted out, “Not now? Then when? I’ve been back for weeks! What’s changed?”

“Everything!” she practically yelled. There was fire behind her irises. “Everything’s changed! You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and that bitch wolf and expect everything to be the same?”

Baffled, Jaime asked, “What do you want me to apologize for?”

“For leaving me,” she spat.

“You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. You weren’t here. You left me alone.”

It seemed that Cersei was so blinded by her rage, she refused to see anything from his perspective. They’d always considered each other to be their missing half. Now, Cersei felt more like a thorn in his side rather than something that’d make him whole.

“Every day, I was a prisoner. I plotted my escape, every day.”

Cersei shook her head. “But you didn’t, did you? Not until the Bitter Wolf set you free.”

“I murdered people so I could be here with you!”

“You took too long.”

“I… what? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you took too long,” she echoed.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go away!” yelled Jaime.

“Come in,” said Cersei.

The door swung open. Beyond his limit, Jaime stood up and shouldered past the handmaiden to storm out of the chambers.

Brienne fidgeted beside you as you watched Sansa pray down by the stony shores. What she was praying for, you weren’t quite sure. It seemed that Brienne was restless, seeing that Sansa was right there, but she couldn’t quite do anything about it. There was nowhere to take the both of you. She felt like she’d failed you—again.

Jaime came to stand by the two of you, commenting on how strange it was to see a Wolf in Southern drab, but quickly shut his mouth when you spared him an unimpressed look.

“You made a promise,” said Brienne.

“Mmh, yes, to return the Stark girls to their mother, who is now dead,” Jaime replied.

It was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack beneath all your jaw-gritting.

“To keep them safe,” Brienne emphasized.

“Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money’s on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, no?”

Your stomach lurched. With a scowl, you spat out, “She’s not dead. Arya’s a smart, nifty little thing. She’s probably off posing as a stableboy somewhere. People always mistook her as one back in Winterfell, anyway.”

With a huff, Jaime continued, “Alright, well, regardless, she’s not here for me to protect. And Sansa Stark… well, she’s Sansa Lannister now, yes? Bit of a complication.”

Brienne drew herself to her full height, staring Jaime down. “A complication does not release you from a vow!”

“And what would you have me do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me she’ll be safe in King’s Landing,” hissed Brienne.

Jaime wasn’t able to do so. Instead, he crossed his arms and narrowed his green eyes. “Are you sure we’re not related? Ever since I’ve returned, every Lannister I’ve seen has been a miserable pain in my ass. Maybe you’re a Lannister, too. Got the hair for it.”

Trouble in paradise? you thought in mild amusement.

Though you were reluctant to admit it, you said, “She’s not safe here. But this is the safest place she can be for now. I was thinking of the Vale, but Lysa Arryn is not sound of mind… I doubt she’d welcome Sansa into her home with open arms. There’s the Night’s Watch, where Jon is. But there is no way we could pass through the North without a Bolton hound sniffing us out.”

The blonde knight hung his head. “It’s better if you just stay here. Things will be less messy that way.”

Before either of you could fit in a reply, Jaime was already striding away. Brienne glanced at you apologetically, before heading away, murmuring something about having to speak with Margaery Tyrell.

Tyrion Lannister invited you to breakfast. You’d stared at the parchment with raised brows, chewing on your bottom lip in thought. From what you could recall, Tyrion was a sharp-tongued man, but Sansa was clear that he was kind. And so, you accepted the invitation.

Needless to say, you weren’t expecting to see Jaime there.

But of course he was there—they were brothers, after all.

The knight bowed his head in a silent greeting, looking overall weary but tried to offer you a small smile nonetheless. You nodded in return, taking a seat beside him. Tyrion watched the exchange keenly, sat down across from the two of you.

“How is the capital treating you, my Lady?” asked Tyrion, voice pleasant.

“Fine,” you replied hastily. “Hot. Dry. The air tastes like salt.”

With a chuckle, Tyrion began digging into his breakfast. “Yes, that would either be the piss on the streets or the ocean itself. You can never tell here.”

You glanced down at the plate full of eggs and sausages and fried potatoes the cupbearer put down in front of you. Suddenly, you had no stomach to eat. It seemed Jaime was thinking along the same lines, because he had yet to touch his food.

Glancing down, you noticed his new golden hand. Following your gaze, Tyrion quipped, “That new hand is better than the old one.” He looked up at his cupbearer. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”

With a quiet hum, you shook your head. “Heavy, immobile metal over real, living flesh? Your definition of better must align with expenses, then.”

Tyrion smiled a genuine smile. “It looks better.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Neither of you are eating. Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away, her aunt sulks around, and my brother starves himself.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jaime was quick to say.

“You lost a hand, not a stomach.”

Drawing in a breath, you gritted out, “You’d sulk if your entire family was killed, wouldn’t you?”

The comment made Tyrion wince slightly. “Apologies, my Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just wanted to have a meal with my family. The tolerable ones, at least. I invited Sansa, but she politely declined. So please, try the boar. Cersei hasn’t gotten enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”

After a beat of intense silence, you sat up straight and began cutting through the food, eating slowly. It didn’t go past your notice when Jaime pushed his plate further away from him.

“A toast to us,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “The dwarf, the cripple, and the Bitter Wolf.”

Both you and Jaime grimaced at the names. Jaime reached forward to grab his wine chalice, but clumsily forgot that his golden hand couldn’t bend to take it, effectively knocking it over. Purple-crimson spilled all over the table, dribbling down onto you and staining the dress you were wearing a darker shade of mauve.

“I’ll clean it,” started Pod.

Jaime waved him away. “No. I’ll do it. Leave us.” He turned to you, frowning and handing you a dishtowel. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” you quickly reassured him, taking the rag and wiping away the excess. “It’s not my dress. Not my wine. It feels refreshing on my skin, actually.”

Jaime watched you for a moment, his eyes soft.

Tyrion tilted his head. “Seems the wolf isn’t so bitter, after all. The journey softened you, I take it?”

At his words, your expression hardened, and Jaime sent him a sidelong glare.

The younger of the two quickly backtracked. Gods, you were just not a very good conversationalist, were you? “My brother told me you shot down a bear to save him.”

“I did,” you curtly said.

“You and I are going to be good friends, I think,” Tyrion mused. He grinned wide, before taking another sip from his cup.

Joffrey’s wedding ceremony was a grand event. It was all decorations and Lannister heraldry, candles and flowers and bells every which way you looked. You didn’t care at all for it, really. As long as the monster wasn’t marrying your niece. It was a shame—Margaery Tyrell seemed a nice enough woman. At least, you knew Sansa took a liking to her.

You hadn’t even realized that the ceremony was over until people began clapping, Joffrey pulling away from his kiss with Margaery. If she was upset about the ordeal at all, she didn’t show it. Either she was as deranged as her new husband, or she was a very good actor. Jolting out of your reverie, you lightly clapped thrice before letting your hands fall back to your sides. Gods, this dress itched. A pale shade of pink, laced with golden thread. How the Southerners wore this kind of garb every day, you never knew.

Before you knew it, the wedding feast was commencing. Somehow, it was even more of a large-scale event than the ceremony had been. Performers in every corner, some swallowing swords, others juggling flaming torches, and a few with seductive eyes, twisting themselves into knots and rotating their bones in ways you never knew the body could bend. There were a million and one dishes lining the gilded tables, platters upon platters of rich foods, sweet pastries, fruits with cheese, and savory meats. Chalices of golden ales and honeyed wines were passed around, filled to the brim. Frankly, you would’ve enjoyed the event, had it not been in honor of the most rancid boy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing.

The lords and ladies attending avoided you like the plague—either spooked by the deep glower etched over your features, or by the fact that you were the infamous Bitter Wolf herself… It didn't make much of a difference. Two people who didn’t treat you as if you carried a disease were Oberyn Martell and his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Both of them regarded you with poorly-hidden lust, offering for you to join them in their chambers after the feast, to which you had no idea how to respond. You were flattered, truly, and there was no doubt that they were both very attractive people, but you were in no mood to fool around in the capital. After you bid them a hasty farewell, Tyrion came to say hello as well, and you dipped your head in greeting. He was quick to walk away, claiming he was in dire need of alcohol in his system.

After the short interactions, you made a beeline for the royal table, wishing to be by your niece’s side—no doubt she was feeling anxious at Joffrey’s wedding, even if she wasn’t the one to wed him.

Just as you grazed a hand against Sansa’s shoulder, clad by a soft purple dress, Olenna Tyrell made her way to the two of you.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you before, Bitter Wolf,” said the old woman, smiling kindly at you.

“We haven’t,” you curtly replied. “Congratulations on the wedding.”

She waved away your words. “Congratulations to you for making your way to King’s Landing alive, despite everybody’s expectations. You were surely a surprise for everyone at court.” Then, she darted her eyes to Sansa. She reached out to brush her hand along her braids and the necklace resting against her clavicle. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother, and your nephew. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding… it’s horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage!”

Roose Bolton. The name seared hot fury through your chest. According to Jaime, Tywin had given the North over to the Boltons to take over—but he would be met with all the stubbornness of the Northern houses, and they wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. It was a relief to also hear that Tywin wouldn’t be helping the Boltons any further.

Olenna’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit! Now that peace has come and all's right with the world… it would do you good to see some of it,” she told Sansa, smiling kindly. Then she glanced over at you again. “You look wonderful, Lady Y/N. You’re much prettier than I thought you’d be… your name carries a certain weight to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

She ambled away, and you rubbed your hand along Sansa’s back. From afar, you caught a glimpse of Jaime speaking with Loras Tyrell. The green of his eyes caught yours. “I’ll be back,” you whispered to your niece, before making your way to Jaime. You didn’t quite know what you were going to Jaime for. Perhaps it was because he was the only other person in the wedding than Brienne and Sansa you felt comfortable conversing with. What a long way the two of you had come.

“Y/N,” he greeted, straightening himself when you grew close. His heavy golden armor shone beneath the hot sun. “You look beautiful.”

There was a warm sincerity to his words, but you shook your head anyway. “In comparison to your months with me covered in mud and filth, of course.” After a pause, you asked, “What’s it like? Watching your nephew get married? I… I wasn’t there to see Robb marry the medic girl he seemed so smitten with.”

“It’s strange,” Jaime truthfully admitted. “Especially when I hardly know the Tyrell girl. My sister detests her, though. Calls her a whore more often than she drinks, and we both know how much she drinks.”

Though you didn’t smile, there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Be honest with me. I know he’s your nephew… your… your blood… but you can’t truly love him, do you?”

The knight bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course he didn’t. Jaime was well aware that he was a monster, beyond saving. “Family is family,” he eventually replied.

The disappointment in your expression didn’t go beyond his notice.

“I wanted to ask, Jaime,” you carefully began. “What would happen if I were to leave the capital with Sansa? Would you be ordered to bring me back? Or would we be able to walk away free?”

“Not this again. I told you, it’s safest for you to be here—”

“It’s a hypothetical. Would you turn me in if you were ordered to?” you quietly asked. “I need to know if… if I can trust you, Jaime.”

Jaime’s eyes searched yours. He stepped closer, hand lifting to grasp your forearm and tugged you to the side, where it was a bit less crowded. “No. Is that what you want to hear? That I’d betray my oaths for you? That I’d help you cross the world if you asked, honor be damned?”

Stricken by his words, you found yourself speechless.

You cleared your throat after a long moment. “Well… even if that was true, it’s not like we’d have anywhere safe to go. My bannermen are scattered, and between them are the Boltons and the Freys. The seas are occupied by the Greyjoys and pirates alike.”

Jaime nodded. “Stay here. I can keep you safe from here.”

“Can you?” you challenged, eyes narrowed.

A bark of a laugh. Jaime spared you a roguish grin. “Don’t make me swear it. You know my habit of breaking my vows well by now.”

You blew out a breath. “Thank you, Jaime. Truly.”

“Yes, you chose a perfect time during my nephew’s wedding to discuss such matters.”

And then came a sound foreign to his ears—you laughed. You just laughed! It was awkward and barely counted as genuine, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Jaime’s mouth parted, gaping at you with amazement.

“Did you just laugh?”

“What? Am I not allowed to?”

“No, no, it just… took me by surprise. It was nice.”

He smiled, wide and genuine. From the corner of his eye, he caught his sister glaring at the two of you with an intense, angry gaze. The smile fell away from his lips, and his entire body stiffened. You followed his gaze, raising your brows upon seeing Cersei. With a nudge and a grunt of a goodbye, you stepped away from Jaime, not wanting to antagonize the Lannister woman any further.

You moved to the tables to pluck at the sweet, fat grapes, popping them into your mouth with a pleased hum. Not too soon after, Brienne joined you, chattering about the food and how it reminded her of her own home. Just as you were about to ask her what her favorite dish was, glad to have someone you could call a friend, a certain blonde woman came forth to the two of you.

“Lady Brienne,” greeted Cersei. You turned to look at her. “Bitter Wolf. I owe you both my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing.”

The taller woman gave you a glance, unsure of what to say. You nodded. “Jaime did his fair share of saving. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, either.”

The green of her eyes flashed dangerously. It didn’t go past her notice that you called him by his first name without his formal title of Ser. “Did he, now? Strange… I haven’t heard a thing about it from him.”

“Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid,” said Brienne, grimly thinking back to the men trying to rape her.

“I’m sure you have many fascinating stories, Lady Brienne,” Cersei crooned in a condescending manner. “Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next, serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”

Brows knitting together, Brienne protested, “I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.”

“Hm.” Cersei lifted her chin pridefully. “I just find it funny how… a few moons ago, the Bitter Wolf was our sworn enemy, behind the mighty King in the North. And now here you are, safe in our capital, making seductive eyes at my brother. You betrayed your nephew, who’s to say you won’t betray my brother, as well?”

Seductive eyes?

Anger began clawing up your throat, smoldering hot. You swallowed painfully slow. “Is that all, Your Grace?” you asked in a level tone. She wanted a reaction out of you… to warn you to stay away from her brother. Her lover. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of being upset. “Brienne and I want to go watch the performers, if you would excuse us.”

She looked infuriated at your dismissal, watching as you linked arms with Brienne and gently led her to the stage.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” asked the large woman.

“I’m fine. She’ll have to do far worse than that if she truly wants to provoke me,” you replied.

The two of you enjoyed each other’s company for a little longer, striding through the crowds and plucking food off of the mountain-high platters. Though she was younger than you, she carried herself with the weight of someone with several decades�� worth of experience. You appreciated that about Brienne.

Your conversations were cut short when Joffrey stood up from the royal table, screeching for silence. He was presenting a show—one depicting the so-called ‘history’ of the war. It was a crude rendition, riddled with falsities.

You felt your heart drop to your stomach when several dwarves ran out in offensive costumes, depicting Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Joffrey himself, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark. One by one, they battled one another. Stannis killing off Renly, Robb taking out Balon, Joffrey eliminating Stannis with wildfire.

Tears filled your eyes when Robb was the only one left standing, with only Joffrey left. You glanced at Sansa, who watched the show with a stony expression. Her time in King’s Landing taught her never to give anything away. Keep her emotions within herself, for her own safety.

And finally, you couldn’t take it anymore once they knocked his direwolf’s head off. The actor playing Joffrey grabbed the head and began to motion humping it, moaning as the crowd cheered. The real Joffrey—the one lounging at the royal table, only a few feet from your sweet niece—spat his wine all over as he laughed and snorted and chuckled.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. For him to disrespect your family in such a way… it was sickening.

Once the disgusting performance was over, Joffrey clapped and hollered. He turned to his uncle Tyrion, offering him to go and prove his worth by fighting the actors.

In response, Tyrion said, “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I think you should fight them, instead. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the high table and show everyone how a true King wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust.” He gestured towards the imitator of Joffrey who had pretended to fuck Grey Wind. “It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

A hesitant ripple of laughter echoed across the crowd. Joffrey was so furious it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. With no further words, Joffrey grabbed his chalice of wine, stomping over to Tyrion and tipping the cup over so the sticky liquid spilled out to drip down his uncle’s head.

“A fine vintage,” said Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”

Acknowledge me! Joffrey wanted to scream. Fight me! Show me how angry you are!

“It did not spill,” he gritted out.

“My love, come back to me,” said Margaery, reaching out for her husband, wishing to quell the tense atmosphere. “It’s time for my father’s toast!”

The young boy made a grand show of being void of wine, and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer, seeing as he was too cowardly to fight. He dropped the empty chalice for him to pick up, cruelly kicking it away just as it was within Tyrion’s reach.

“Bring me my goblet,” he said.

He relished watching his uncle get to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the tables in search of the goblet. Your niece, your sweet, darling niece, stood from her chair to bend down and pick it up, as it was closest to her. She handed the cup to her husband, pursing her lips.

The next few moments passed by in a tense haze.

Tyrion filled the cup. Held it out for his nephew to take.

Joffrey ordered him to kneel.

Tyrion refused to do so, staring straight at him with defiant eyes.

The pigeon pie came out, large enough to feed the entire wedding three times over.

You watched as Tyrion and Sansa were about to leave the wedding, and you had half the mind to follow them, wanting nothing more than to be alone in your chambers for the night. However, before they could leave, Joffrey called out for his uncle once more.

“Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?”

“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.”

“No, no, no. You’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.”

Tyrion glanced back at Sansa. With a huff, he made his way back to the table, handing the goblet back to Joffrey, and turned to walk back to his awaiting wife.

The King gulped down the contents of the cup greedily. Droplets of Dornish leaked from the corners of his mouth.

“If it please Your Grace, Sansa is very tired—”

“No!” yelled the boy-king. “No. You’ll wait here and—”

He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Drank more of that wine of his.

Both you and Brienne glanced at each other.

Joffrey wheezed. Cersei sat forward in her chair. Margaery’s eyes widened.

“He’s choking!” she screamed once Joffrey began clutching at his chest.

“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Olenna Tyrell.

Joffrey staggered forward, falling as he continued coughing, spluttering, and choking. Bits of pigeon pie fell from his mouth, flecked with wine and a far darker liquid: his blood. This was no mere obstruction of his windpipe—this was the work of poison.

Your lips parted open as you watched Jaime hurriedly push through the crowd to get to him, kneeling beside him, calling his name, unsure of what to do. Cersei screamed even louder, shoving Jaime to the side, cradling her oldest son to her chest as she weeped.

His face turned purple. His eyes bulged out of his skull. Foam frothed about his lips.

He twitched, and twitched, and twitched again. One of his hands lifted to jerkily point at Tyrion, who was watching on in confused horror.

Blood dribbled out of Joffrey’s nostrils.

A second later, the twitching stopped.

Joffrey Baratheon was dead.

And you were too busy relishing in the fact, you hadn’t even realized that Sansa was gone.

It wasn’t often that Jaime visited the Sept.

Now that Joffrey was dead… well, that was plenty of reason for him to go. Especially now that Cersei seemed to spend all her time there, hovering over her dead son like a vulture. When he came through the grand doors, he passed by his father and little Tommen, the former in the middle of telling the young boy about the duties of marriage, seeing as he was now King.

Tywin didn’t seem too upset that Joffrey was dead. To be fair, neither did Jaime.

“How are you?” Jaime asked, stopping in front of his youngest nephew. It wasn’t an easy thing—watching your older brother die in front of you at his own wedding.

“I’m alright,” he murmured.

Jaime nodded, patting his shoulder. “Good.”

Then, he made his way down the rest of the steps, Tywin leading Tommen out. Jaime dismissed the rest of the priests, wanting to be alone with Cersei.

Once only the two of them were left in the Sept—along with Joffrey’s corpse, of course—Cersei finally spoke. Her voice was croaky and hoarse with disuse. “It was Tyrion,” she said. “He killed him. He told me he would. ‘A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’ That’s what he said to me. You saw it… you saw Joff point at him before he—”

Lowering his tone, Jaime whispered, “I don’t know what I saw.”

Cersei shut her eyes. “Avenge him,” she said, words warbling with emotion. “Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion.”

What she said seemed to strike Jaime across the face. He reared back, affronted. “Tyrion’s my brother. He’s our brother. There’ll be a trial. We’ll get to the truth of what happened.”

“I don’t want a trial!” she hissed. “He’ll squirm his way to freedom, given the chance. I want him dead.”

Tears slipped down both of her eyes. It was as if the dam inside her had finally broken under all the weight of her grief.

“Please, Jaime,” she sobbed. “You have to! He was our son! Our baby boy!”

He drew closer to her, tugging her into an embrace. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic. When she raised her tearful face to yank him into a desperate kiss, Jaime didn’t resist.

Then, as quickly as she had advanced upon him, she shoved him away yet again. Jaime was beginning to grow tired of her pushing him in such a way. It wasn’t fair.

“Tyrion’s wretched wife, Sansa, has disappeared. No doubt she played a hand in Joff’s murder. I want you to find her. Kill her, too. And I want the Bitter Wolf locked up in her niece’s place.”

Jaime’s eyes widened as he regarded his sister with an incredulous stare. “What? But Y/N hasn’t done anything. She has nothing to do with this!”

“Oh, because you were watching her the entire time, when you should’ve been guarding my son? It’s not a wonder he was murdered right beneath our noses, then!” Cersei screeched, voice raising several octaves. “Tell me, do you love her? Do you love that fucking wolf traitor more than you love me, your own sister? More than you love your son?”

Jaime was at a loss for words. Did he love you?

When he didn’t reply, Cersei angrily turned away from him, drying her face with the fabric of her sleeves. “You’re a disgrace to us. To our family.”

She sounded exactly like father. Anger coiled within his stomach. Jaime narrowed his sharp eyes.

“You are a hateful woman,” he seethed. “Y/N is anything but. Bitter Wolf, people call her, but she is not bitter. She is hurt. She is grieving. Just as you are. She saved my life, and I owe her nothing but my gratitude.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Jaime strode away, off to go pay you a long overdue visit.

A knock on your door. It was the dead of night, and you were only minutes away from falling asleep, having exhausted yourself with tears and stress. You weren’t at all dressed properly for visitors. Nonetheless, you dragged yourself out of your bed, your shift hanging wrinkled and lopsided over your body.

Your door creaked open, and you were tiredly blinked upon seeing Jaime on the other side. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shifted away from the entrance, silently opening the door wider to make space for him to come in. Without hesitation, the knight slid in, dipping his head as greeting. You’d been crying—he could still see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks, only faintly illuminated by the sparse candles in the chambers.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” croaked Jaime, looking every bit as defeated as you. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are you alright?”

You gingerly shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a weary sigh. “My entire family is gone. Lost or dead.”

“Right. Stupid question.” Jaime cleared his throat. “We’ve both lost our nephews now.”

“It’s not the same, Jaime,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You know it’s not. Joffrey was a monster, and the world is better off without him. And I… I loved Robb as if he was my own son. The younglings, Bran and Rickon, as well.”

For a second, Jaime looked like he wanted to say something. Wisely, he held his tongue. He took a small step forward, closer to you. He was keenly aware that he was alone in your room, not at all appropriate for an unmarried lord or lady, but he really couldn’t care. The two of you were above that. Besides, he’d seen you naked before, for heaven’s sake!

So why was he suddenly so flustered now?

“Cersei wants me to find Sansa,” he began, carefully. “And she wants me to kill her.”

Noticeably, you stiffened. Your eyes were wide, he could see the panic begin to set within your wintry irises.

In a placating tone, he quickly reassured, “I would never do such a thing. Frankly, I’m offended that you’d think I would. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it, even if Catelyn Stark is dead.”

After a second, your muscles loosened. You avoided his eyes, but murmured, “I believe you, Jaime.” There was a soft silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, it was shattered when you asked, “What of your brother, Tyrion? What is to happen to him?”

Jaime nodded, glad that you were on the same wavelength as him. “I was hoping… you’d come with me to speak with him.”

The dungeons were much colder than above. You were well acquainted with the drops in temperature, but it seemed that Tyrion had yet to adjust. He was shivering, bundled up in a musty blanket that Podrick had brought him.

“To tell you the truth, this isn’t so bad,” said Jaime, glancing around the spacious cell. “Four walls. A pot to piss in… I wasn’t given such a luxury during my time as a prisoner. I was chained to a wooden post or a stone wall, covered in my own shit for months on end.”

The younger brother sent him a half-hearted glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Maybe a bit,” replied the knight. He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Complicated, yes,” said Tyrion. “And you brought the Bitter Wolf with you. Hello, Lady Stark.”

His eyes, sunken and empty, darted over to you, shrouded in the shadows behind Jaime.

“Hello, Tyrion.”

“Hm. How is our sister?” he asked Jaime.

Defeat danced over his handsome features. “How do you think? Her son died in her arms.”

“Her son?”

Something foul coiled within Jaime’s stomach. “Don’t,” he warned.

Tyrion let the matter drop.

“Do you know what’s to come?” you spoke for the first time since you came.

“My trial for regicide. Yes, I know,” said Tyrion. “I know the whole bloody country thinks I’m guilty. I know one of the three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count—that judge being my father. As for Cersei… well, she’s probably working on a way to avoid the trial altogether by having me killed.”

Jaime kicked at a small pebble on the ground. “Now that you mention it, she did ask.”

“So should I turn around and close my eyes?”

“Depends,” said Jaime. “Did you do it?”

A small smile traced Tyrion’s lips. “The Kingslayer brothers. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?” After a short pause, he spoke again. “Are you really asking if I killed your son?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “And are you really asking if I’d kill my brother? How can I help you?”

“Well, you can set me free, for starters.”

“You know I can’t,” Jaime reluctantly said. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards? Sneak you out of the city in the back of a cart? Have you forgotten that I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

Frowning, Tyrion gruffed out, “Sorry, I’d forgotten, which is a miracle, considering how loud your golden armor is! I’d hate for you to do something inappropriate while I rot away in jail.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime snapped back, “You’re accused of killing the King. Freeing you would be treason.”

“And was it not treason to put a sword through the Mad King’s back?” you quietly asked. Both men went silent at your words. “Even if the trial goes in Tyrion’s favor, which I highly doubt, your sister would stop at nothing to have him dead. He needs to get away from King’s Landing.”

Tyrion nodded at your words. “If the killer threw himself down before the Iron Throne, confessed to his crimes, and gave irrefutable evidence of his guilt, it wouldn’t matter to Cersei. She won’t rest until my head’s on a spike.”

“Not just yours,” said Jaime. “She’s offering a knighthood to whomever finds Sansa, dead or alive.”

Brows furrowing, Tyrion protested, “Sansa didn’t do this.”

“She had more reason than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think it’s a coincidence she disappeared the same night Joffrey died?”

“It’s not a coincidence,” you said. “Someone must have snuck her out, knowing the blame would be placed on her. Sansa’s not a killer. She spent an entire year around Joffrey—if she wanted to murder him, he would’ve been dead long before his marriage.”

Jaime pinched the space between his brows in frustration. “Regardless of who did it, Cersei won’t rest until all of you are dead. I won’t let that happen.”

“Then we have to do something,” you said, words coated with a layer of urgency. “We have to find Sansa. With Cersei practically keeping me as hostage here in Sansa’s stead… we need to send someone we trust after her.”

Brienne drummed her fingers against the table.

A sword of Valyrian steel was laid out in front of her. Both you and Jaime glanced at each other.

“It’s yours,” said Jaime.

“I can’t accept this—” she began to protest.

“It was reforged from my brother’s sword,” you said, voice soft. “And you’ll use it to defend my brother’s daughter.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “No, my Lady, this should belong to you, not me.”

“I’m no good with a sword,” you admitted. “They’re clunky things, far too large and hard to maneuver if not trained properly. I’m much more comfortable with a bow and arrow. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Now, Arya may be far, far away from us by now, perhaps even long gone… but there is still a great chance of finding Sansa and getting her somewhere safe. Wherever that may be.”

Nodding emphatically, the large woman solemnly said, “I won’t let you down.”

“I had something else made for you.” Jaime pulled at a tarp over a mannequin, holding fine platelets of armor, hewn from the strongest of metals. “I hope I got your measurements right. It’s hard to judge by the eye.”

“I’ll find her,” promised Brienne. “For Lady Catelyn. And for the both of you.”

“I almost forgot,” Jaime added. “One last gift.”

Turns out Brienne wasn’t too keen on her last gift, Podrick.

You couldn’t quite understand why—he was a very sweet, innocent boy, ever the loyal squire to Tyrion. No doubt he’d faithfully serve Brienne, as well.

“I don’t need a squire. He’ll slow me down!” she exclaimed.

“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here,” Jaime argued.

The woman looked like she wanted to protest again, but you intervened, “You’ll be doing him a favor. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to be rid of him.”

“I won’t slow you down, Ser!” chimed Pod. He winced upon realizing his mistake. “Uhm… m’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.”

“See? He’s a good lad!” said Jaime.

As Pod went away to ready Brienne’s horse, you were left standing in front of her, contemplating how to say goodbye. They were never your strong suit. Every time you’ve said goodbye to someone close to you, it’d never ended well before. They usually never returned.

Oathkeeper, Brienne named her sword once Jaime claimed that all the best swords have their own respective titles.

“Find her for me,” you said, voice warbling. You stepped closer, placing a hand on Brienne’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry our time was cut short.”

“I will,” Brienne replied. “Thank you for everything, my Lady.”

“I owe you my entire life,” you said, rife with rare fondness. “Safe journeys, Brienne.”

She held her gaze with you for a moment longer, before nodding and heading off to Pod and their horses.

Both you and Jaime watched as they rode away from the Red Keep, their figures growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared into the heart of King’s Landing.

“My entire family is gone,” you murmured. “And I just sent away the closest thing I had to a friend.”

Jaime was tempted to thread his single hand through yours. It looked like it’d fit perfectly. Instead, he merely observed your pained features, laced with regret.

“Look on the bright side,” he said, nudging you in an affectionate manner. “At least now I’m the closest thing you’d have to a friend.”

To his delight, you didn’t refute his statement. All you did was spare him a sidelong stare, and a quirk of your lips—was that a smile?—before turning and making your way back into the castle.

It was time for Tyrion’s trial. It was quite the dreary event—witness after witness called upon to spit accusations and twisted observations of Tyrion’s so-called monstrosity to the three judges. What piqued your interest, however, was when Grand Maester Pycelle claimed that the King’s fool was the last one to be seen with Sansa, spiriting her away after the feast. Residue of poison was found in her necklace. That was not a good look for neither Tyrion nor his wife, your niece. Though you didn’t believe she killed Joffrey, you would’ve been proud if she was the one who managed to do it and get away.

Nearly five hours into the trial, Tywin finally called to adjourn for a break.

You were grateful for the pause in the trial, feeling the beginnings of a headache nursing at the front of your temple. As you left to go get yourself some water, Jaime quickly followed after his father into a separate room.

Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine, swirling the rich liquid around before sipping. His green eyes fell upon his oldest son, stiff in his golden uniform.

“You’d condemn your own son to death?” Jaime hissed, disgust running rampant across his features.

Unfazed, Tywin merely reached over to a platter of food to load fruits and cheese upon the prongs of his fork. “I’ve condemned nobody. The trial isn’t over.”

“Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it!”

An uninterested hum. “I know nothing of the sort.”

Irritation bubbled within Jaime’s chest. “You’ve always hated Tyrion.”

“He killed his King!”

“As did I!” Jaime snapped. “You know the last order the Mad King gave me? He wanted me to bring him your head. And what was it for? I saved your life just so you could murder my brother? Your son?”

The worn features of Tywin Lannister hardened with his words. “It won’t be murder. It would be justice. I’m performing my sworn duty as the Hand of the King. If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”

“He’ll be executed!”

“No,” Tywin rebutted, voice raising loud enough to echo back against the stone walls. “He’ll be punished accordingly!”

Jaime drew in a sharp breath. “Once, you said family is what lives on. It’s all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your precious dynasty when Tyrion dies? I’m a Kingsguard… forbidden by oath to carry on the family line.”

The father shoveled the forkful of fig and brie into his mouth. “I’m well aware,” he said after deliberately taking his sweet time to chew and swallow.

“And what happens to your name? Who would carry the lion banner in future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don’t remember?”

Sitting forward in his seat, Tywin shot back, “And what happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson’s killer?”

Finally, Jaime spat out, “It’ll survive… through me.”

A pause. Tywin reared back slightly, surprise flickering over his stony features.

“I’ll leave the Kingsguard,” said the reluctant knight. The words felt bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’ll take my place as your son and heir… only if you let Tyrion live.”

Without hesitation, Tywin immediately said, “Done.”

Jaime certainly hadn’t been expecting that. His white cloak fluttered slightly.

“When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict is rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days’ time, he’ll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the wall.”

Relief flooded Jaime’s veins. His features softened.

Tywin kept speaking, “You’ll remove your White Cloak immediately. You’ll leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You’ll marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family ever again.”

“I have one more condition.”

Tywin narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”

“I’ll return to Casterly Rock and sire heirs for you… but only if the woman I marry is Y/N Stark.”

There was a lump in his throat. Letting go of his decades of servitude to the Kingsguard was much harder than he expected. If he married you, he’d be living up to his name, after all. Oathbreaker. A man without honor.

This time, the surprise in his father’s expression was poorly concealed, clear as day.

“Do you love her?” he asked, quick to return back to a neutral visage.

Did he? Did Jaime love you?

His lips pursed, and he trained his gaze on the ground.

Tywin hummed whilst nodding. “Alright. The North may yet be given back to the Starks, should Roose Bolton and his bastard fail to take it for his own. You have my word that Tyrion will be spared.”

Jaime felt like he should’ve given his father his thanks. He didn’t. Instead, he stoutly nodded, speaking not another word, before turning and heading back to the trial room.

The bells tolled, signifying that the trial was to resume. You strode in just as the last bell rang out, catching sight of Jaime speaking to his brother by his stand. The knight was explaining to Tyrion what he was supposed to do: plead guilty, and beg for mercy to be sent to the Night’s Watch. With one final reassuring goodbye, Jaime stepped away, his eyes meeting your curious ones.

To your interest, instead of taking his place by the edge of the court, he wove through the crowd to get to you.

“Jaime,” you greeted, still miffed as to what he was doing, standing beside you.

“Y/N,” he said. “I have to speak to you. After all this.”

Another second passed. You studied his features, pallid and clearly anxious. Before you could interrogate him some more, Tywin called for a start. Across court, Jaime could feel his sister’s angry stare burning through the both of you. His hand brushed against you. Swallowing his nerves, Jaime curled his fingers around yours. You didn’t pull away.

He was to marry you. It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the idea. How would you feel about that?

Angry, probably, Jaime thought.

The trial droned on. It was only when the last witness was called up—Shae, the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with—did Jaime’s throat begin to close up. Panic clawed at his chest when he noticed Tyrion’s resolve began to crumble away.

He was anguished. The longer Shae spoke, the more questions she answered, the more miserable Tyrion’s expression grew.

Tears filled the brother’s eyes when he growled out his speech—on how he was guilty, yes. Not of killing the King, but of being a dwarf. How watching Joffrey die in front of him had given him more pleasure than a thousand lying whores. How he wished he had enough poison to kill everyone in the courtroom.

The lords and ladies in the crowd burst into scandalous gasps and affronted murmurs.

Finally, Tyrion demanded a trial by combat.

You shared a worried glance with Jaime, who looked practically shattered at the turn of events. Sympathetic, you shifted so your entire hand slotted into his.

The crowd began to thin away when the trial drew to a close. The combat was to be in a few day’s time.

Before you turned to take your own leave, you looked at Jaime one last time. “What did you want to tell me, Jaime?”

His heart fell to his stomach. Now that his father couldn’t uphold his end of the promise, Jaime couldn’t guarantee that he’d have to leave his post as Kingsguard for Casterly Rock. He wouldn’t have to marry you.

The green of his eyes shone with pain when he finally met your gaze. Hopelessly, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

With that, he let go of your hand, shouldering through the crowd to make his way out of the throne room.

Oberyn was named Tyrion’s champion. The Mountain was named Cersei’s.

To none of your surprise, the Mountain won. He’d crushed Oberyn’s head like a bloody watermelon with his bare hands. The memory was none too pleasant to relive, that was for sure.

The next day’s afternoon, Jaime heard the footsteps of his sister as she slipped into his chambers, uninvited.

She uttered his name, soft and sultry. Jaime only frowned.

“You won. You now have one fewer brother. Must be proud of yourself. There really is nothing you wouldn’t do, is there?”

A cruel smile graced her lips. “For my family, no. Nothing. I would do things for my family you couldn’t imagine.”

“Tyrion is your family.”

“He’s not,” she denied.

“You don’t get to choose!”

Cersei snarled, “I do. And so do you. We choose each other.”

Do we?

On she continued, “You can choose the creature that chose to kill our mother whilst coming into this world—”

Brows furrowing, Jaime incredulously asked, “Are you really mad enough to blame him for that? He didn’t decide to kill her, he was an infant.”

“A disease doesn’t decide to kill you,” the blonde woman snapped back, “but you cut it out before it does, all the same. What do you decide? Who do you choose?”

She stepped closer.

“The things I did to get back to you, to endure all that, only to find you actively trying to have our brother ki—!”

Before Jaime could finish his sentence, Cersei had propelled herself forward, yanking at his face with no abandon, pulling him close until his lips touched hers.

“I choose you,” she whispered against him. Jaime felt sick.

“Those are just words,” he replied. With jerky movements, he gripped at her arm in a fruitless effort to keep her at bay, the golden hand she had forged for him hanging uselessly by his side.

Cersei hummed an affirmative. “Yes. Just like the ones I said to father. I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“I told him about us.”

Dread filled his chest. “You told him?”

“I told him I wouldn’t marry Loras Tyrell. I told him I’m staying right here with Tommen, and with you.”

A foolish woman, Cersei was. She thought she was smarter than everyone, but this might’ve been the most idiotic thing Jaime could even fathom doing. Telling his father that he used to fuck his sister and fathered her bastards was a one-way ticket to being disowned. “You think he’ll just accept that?”

Cersei studied the dubiety in Jaime’s expression. “Go and ask him.” She kissed him again, and again, and again. Jaime was far too shocked to push her away.

“What did you say?” he queried once he’d finally gathered his wits.

“I don’t want to talk about Tywin Lannister,” she hissed, dragging her lips down to his jaw.

Jaime didn’t want this anymore. He felt nothing when she touched him. He thought about how light his chest felt when you held his hand during the trial. No longer did he harbor such feelings for Cersei. Years ago, perhaps. Not anymore. Not now.

“I don’t choose Tywin Lannister. I don’t love Tywin Lannister. I love my brother… my lover. People will whisper and make their jests. Let them. They’re all so small, I can’t even see them. I only see what matters.” She took his handless arm, lifting it so she could kiss the gold. To her, it was an act of love. To him, it was an act of pride.

Having enough, Jaime pushed her away. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stagger back a few steps.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?” demanded Cersei. She scrutinized him with a sharp glare. After a moment, she withdrew herself, upper lip curling in disgust. “You’re in love with her. With the Bitter Wolf. You love her.”

Horror sank its dark nails into Jaime’s shoulders.

“I’ll have her killed,” said Cersei, venomous hatred coloring her tone an ugly shade of green. “Have you watch as she gasps and chokes around the noose I’ll tie around her throat. She’s a traitor to the realm, don’t you know that, you imbecile? Aunt to a false King, and to the wife of the murderer of my son.”

Desperate, Jaime shuffled closer again, raising his hand as if he were taming a wild mare. “I don’t love the Bitter Wolf. I don’t. I swear it.”

I do, he thought. I love her.

And so, Jaime knew he had to keep Cersei away from you, at any cost necessary. Keep her occupied, for as long as he could. He pressed forth and kissed her. Her mouth was hard against his, but softened with each of his advances.

“I love you,” he lied. “I love you.”

He repeated the sentiment over and over again, praying to any God that would listen that his sister would believe it. The hours passed by in a blur as Jaime kissed and licked and sucked every inch of her. She climaxed maybe once, or twice, or half a dozen times. Jaime didn’t know, and neither did he care. Most of the time he had disassociated back within his own mind, wanting nothing more than to just get it over and done with.

Eventually, Cersei blissfully passed out from exhaustion, fast asleep beneath his silken sheets. After making sure she was completely unconscious, Jaime slipped his clothes back on and snuck out of his chambers.

The torches lining the halls of the dungeons did very little to illuminate the space. Jaime could barely see half a foot in front of him. Nonetheless, he hurriedly made his way to Tyrion’s cell.

“Oh, go away, you son of a whore!” Tyrion yelled once the grill to his cell rattled opened, thinking it was one of the guards coming in to torment him.

Jaime strode in, tilting his head. “Is that any way to speak of our mother?”

Shocked, Tyrion immediately sat up at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime retorted, ushering his brother out and through the narrow halls. “A galley is waiting in the bay bound for the Free Cities.”

“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.

“Varys. You have more friends than you thought, Tyrion.”

Deftly, the two of them hurried through one of the many secret passageways of the Red Keep. The ceilings hung so low that Jaime had to duck his head so as to not smack his skull against the uneven stone.

“There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” said Jaime once they reached the end. “Knock on it twice, then twice again. Varys will open.”

Tyrion looked up at his brother. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”

Breath hitching in his throat, Jaime could feel the beginnings of tears sting the corners of his eyes as he knelt down and drew his brother into a tight hug. He pressed a lingering kiss onto Tyrion’s cheek.

This was the last they were going to see of each other.

Anguish wrote itself heavy into his tone when he whispered, “Farewell, little brother.”

It ached to pull away.

Just as Jaime was about to go, Tyrion called out his name.

“Thank you,” his brother said. “For my life.”

Jaime nodded. He blinked away the tears as he gestured for him to go. “Quickly, now. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”

With that, Jaime rushed to abscond, taking twisting turns, straight to where he knew your chambers were. Ensuring there was nobody around, Jaime stepped out into the hall, knocking twice on the door and slipping in.

You startled at the intruder, sitting up on the bed, the book you were reading snapping shut, but relaxed slightly upon seeing Jaime.

“Jaime? What’s going on?”

“You have to leave. Come with me,” he said, urgently striding forward and taking your hand in his, pulling you off the mattress and to the door. It was a relief that you were already fully clothed, and had no personal belongings to take with you, because there was simply no time for anything at the moment.

Brows pulling together, you demanded, “Jaime, tell me what’s happening. Where are you taking me?”

“Out!” he impatiently replied, slipping down the secret passageways once more. “Away. Away from King’s Landing—from my sister. She wants you dead. I can’t have that happen. There’s a boat waiting for you. Varys is helping.”

Finally Jaime yanked you into a dingy little room, lined with dust and rusted-over weapons. Shrouded in the shadows of the corner, Varys stepped out, pushing the cowl back from his head.

“Bitter Wolf,” he said.

“Lord Varys,” you carefully replied. “Why are you helping me?”

“I was fond of your brother, Eddard, however foolish he was with his honor. And, though we haven’t spoken before, your death at the hands of the Queen Regent would reign nothing but war from the Northerners.” He glanced at Jaime suspiciously before lowering his voice and saying, “My little birds tell me Sansa Stark is in the Eyrie, posing as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter.”

All the air in your chest seemed to slip away. Sansa was alive. She was alright.

For now, at least.

“I can help you get to the Vale to be with your niece,” said Varys, gesturing down another staircase, which led to the waters. “There’s a boat ready for you, with everything you need inside—a map, a cloak, rations. A bow and a quiver of arrows, included. The crew will be silent, I can assure you.”

“How can you be sure?” you queried, cautious. Varys offered you a thin smile. “I cut their tongues out when they were young children. Little birds don’t stay little for so long, but they’re loyal to me.”

Horror painted your insides black. You had no idea what to think of Varys. You glanced at Jaime, who looked none too pleased at the notion, but gave you an encouraging nod.

Besides, what other choice did you have?

After a hesitant, quiet murmur of your gratitude to the eunuch, you slipped down the stairs, Jaime hot on your heels. He wasn’t supposed to follow you out of the Keep, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see you leave for himself, ensure that you left the capital safely.

The boat was a small, rickety thing, but it’d do. You spotted half a dozen young men and women onboard, deathly silent. Their eyes seemed to glow unnaturally against the dark seas. Unease settled within the pits of your stomach.

You turned to Jaime, lips parting as you struggled for words. What could you say to him, after everything the two of you had been through together?

He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, grappling for a proper farewell. The words were lodged in his throat.

“You’re a good man, Ser Jaime,” you finally told him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Beneath all of your sister… and all of your father… there is good in you. There’s so much of it.”

Taking a step closer, Jaime gently cupped your face with his remaining hand, the golden one on his left arm feeling heavier by the second. You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to be vulnerable for just a moment. For decades and decades, you refused to let your guard down. With Jaime, you finally felt safe enough to do so.

But you were leaving.

It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized. He was glad you were going to leave: you’d be safer out there, looking for your niece in the Vale than in the capital with his wretched sister. But then again, he wanted you here. He wanted to be by your side, more than anything. To think, he had thought he was going to marry you only yesterday.

He leaned in closer, slow and tentative. There was ample time for you to pull away, but you didn’t. When his lips finally grazed yours, you finally pressed forward, fisting the lapels of his tunic, and tugging him closer.

The kiss was soft at first, one of uncertainty and turmoil. It was quick to grow more desperate, pouring all the unsaid words and months of pent-up yearning into the embrace. You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against the side of his. He chased after your lips, but you forced yourself to turn your head away.

Jaime’s entire chest ached. It ached and longed and screamed for you.

You had to go. The longer Jaime stayed out here with you, the riskier it was.

“I owe you everything,” you whispered, nose pressed against his cheekbone. There was an uneven warble to your voice. “Everything, Jaime.”

“No, you don’t,” he responded, kissing the patch of skin beside your pained eyes. “You did the same for me. We’re even now.”

A part of him wanted to tell you that he had asked his father if he could marry you. But he held the words back, knowing it would bring nothing but either of you pain. To love each other, only to never be able to be together. Jaime didn’t want you to feel that pain. You deserved to be free, to love a kind and soft-hearted Lord… someone that wasn’t him. That wasn’t a Lannister. That wasn’t the enemy.

After all, wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

A burning tear fell down his cheek. You offered him a watery smile.

You smiled for him, after decades of never doing so.

Jaime loved you. He loved you more than anything. And he had to let you go.

Your hands slipped away from each other, and you turned to board the ship. The silent crew fluttered around you like ghosts, readying to sail away in effortless coordination.

As the boat rocked into motion, edging away from King’s Landing, you heard alarm bells tolling in the distance, signifying Tyrion’s escape from prison. Jaime made his way back into the Red Keep, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the hazy fog.

The Bitter Wolf and the Golden Lion, Jaime thought.

Now that was a tale certainly worth telling.

#jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister fluff #jaime lannister angst #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister x stark!reader #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #jaime lannister

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januaryembrs · 1 year

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THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF TERRORS | Jaime Lannister x reader

Request: hi!! biggest congratulations on 1k, it is so so deserved!! i would like to send in a drabble request for jaime lannister, maybe where either he or the reader has a nightmare, and the other person comforts them, if that’s okay? and feel free to change this however you see fit, of course!! thank you, and I hope you're having a good day :))

description: Jaime has a nightmare of his sister finding out about your secret affair.

Word count: 1k

trigger warnings: Though the reader is a cousin of Ned Stark, I left her racially ambiguous so that everyone may feel included, reader and Jaime are naked but no smut, Bolton's men chopping off Jaime's hand and hurting reader.

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Author’s note: this was written as part of my 1k follower celebration. please feel free to send in 1000 word drabble prompts of your own! also thank you to the person who sent this in, I appreciate it very much and I hope you like it!

A low gasp broke the pure silence the dark bedroom kept. Jaime’s mind took a brief moment to decipher where exactly he was, his dream being so realistic it seemed to have knocked him senseless.

In King's Landing, he was in his chambers. He would know the smell of the fragrant soaps the maids here used anywhere, chamomile and honey as Cersei always demanded so that he and her could match. He’d kicked his sheets off in the night, it was a warm harvest season considering winter was right around the corner. He reached out to pull the thinner of the sheets over himself, his naked body now catching quite a chill in the twilight air, when he struggled to catch the fabric.

And that’s when he saw why. Where his glorious, sword wielding hand had once been, now lay a messy, gruesome scar at the end of his forearm. Amidst his vivid dreams of you being held at sword point per his sister’s orders, one in which he’d been having the past week you’d both returned to King’s Landing, he seemed to have been dragged so far from reality he struggled to grasp it even now.

Jaime Lannister had always been a proud man, the best swordsman in the continent. Known for his skill in the field, and his glorious reputation in his kingdom. That was before Roose Bolton’s men had gotten their hands on him, and Locke had carved his hand from his arm with one quick manoeuvre that left him no better than his half-man of a brother.

The blonde man didn’t have enough time to mull over his loss before he felt a body stirring next to him. You made a noise of protest upon realising he had rolled away from your side, your equally nude body now cold. Your eyes peeked open to observe him. Where the moonlight filtered in through the thin windows, decorated intricately with maroon wire to match his house colours, it illuminated his features enough for you to realise he seemed troubled, saddened almost. You woke yourself up out of your slumber more to tend to him, though you had a good idea what his distress was about.

Your hand fell to his cheek gently, the sudden contact making him flinch. You sighed deeply as he dragged himself out of whatever though he seemed to be buried deep into, turning your body over to face him completely.

“What is it?” You whispered, afraid to disrupt the silence cooing at the man as if he were a trembling cub. “Same dream again?”

Jaime says nothing, but you feel him relax into your touch, his head shifting to gaze at you with sleep infused green eyes. You see him glance over every part of your face, a short groan of fatigue leaving his dry lips. That was confirmation enough for you he had been yet again woken up by his troubled mind.

“We’re being careful. We don’t interact outside of your room, for all your sister knows, we could just be comforting one another after-” You tried to reassure him, though he cut you off tiredly.

“Cersei will find out somehow. She has eyes everywhere.” He spoke solemnly, though he reached his good arm up to stroke your hair out of your face. “I don’t want her to find more of a reason to hurt you. The fact you’re a Stark is already a death sentence to her.”

It had been unlikely - the two of you falling for one another. You had offered to return Jaime to the Lannisters when he had been captured by Catelyn and Robb in exchange for Sansa, only travelling intending to be sure the Lannister man kept his word and returning your cousin’s daughter. You and Brienne had ridden the chained man two-thirds of the way before the Bolton’s men had got their slimy grasp on you.

They said they knew your head could fetch just as much gold from Roose as Jaime’s, and had beaten you to near death right before their eyes before they’d decided they wanted you alive.

You had been a few more hits away from losing consciousness when Jaime had fought. He had stolen one of their meagre steel swords, taken down three of the hunters, and threw his body over yours to defend you before Locke had intervened and cut off his sword hand.

He had sacrificed his greatest weapon, his greatest achievement for you. A woman he should have hated, a woman he would have died to defend. A woman he had grown to love, who he couldn’t stand to watch be assaulted in such a way before he had to mediate the fight himself.

But returning to King’s Landing, being pardoned for your ‘crime’ of a treasonous family by King Joffrey. That didn’t mean you weren’t walking on a sharp blade every second you spent in court, now a bartering chip for Tywin to use against your family. At least you could protect Sansa as promised, and explore your growing affections for the King Slayer.

The man you regularly slept with, regularly exchanged sweet words in the privacy of his bedsheets, the man you knew would protect you with all he could as he had before.

“Your name, your status would be enough to sway anyone wishing to hurt me.” You tried to convince him, laying a gentle kiss to his lips, “You don’t need both hands to protect me as viciously as you do,”

“It would certainly help,” He grumbled back, tracing his remaining fingers down your bare back gently, salvaging every touch he could get of your nude body.

You smiled whimsically, pressing another kiss to his lips though this one was heavier, more deep with the love you found yourself pouring over him in these moments. “My brave lion fighting for his wolf. No one could stop a man so powerful,” You stroked his ego, feeling him tighten his grasp on you.

He knew you were pandering to him, but as all Lannisters, he didn’t complain one bit. Because he knew it was the truth. He would wreak the havoc of a feral beast before anyone, his sister included, would lay a hand on you.

permanent taglist:

@greeneyedblondie44 @liadamerondjarin @andy-rocks @musicartmayheminmyheart @howlerwolfmax @ciarra-mae

#jaime lannister x reader #jaime Lannister angst #drabble #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones angst #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #jaime lannister imagine #jaime Lannister fanfiction #stark!reader

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sunsetlovelydreams · 1 month

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Child Jaime Lannister makes my heart ache. His father is too strict, his mother dies, his sister sexually abuses him, no one likes his new brother that mom died to give him, in fact dad wants to throw him out the window into the sea, and he has far too many expectations to shoulder when all he wants... is to be a knight, to do good.

But teenage Jaime... teenage Jaime makes me weep. Exploited by his sister out of jalousy and narcissism, exploited by his King for politics, exploited by Rhaegar for his value as a hostage, overlooked by his idols in the Kinsguard, overlooked by his father who sacks a city without confirming his safety. Hated, hated, hated when he accomplished his dream of knightly bravery by killing his king.

He has been abused so much and by so many people that are close to him and that he trusted that he just expects and accepts it as normal, that he doesn't fight against it, doesn't fight the reputation of oathbreaker that Ned, yet another abuser, labels him with. The one abuser that he fights back against earns him the label oathbreaker and the contempt of the realm. Why would he try again?

#Jaime Lannister angst #abuse of authority #he deserved better #Brienne's respect must have shocked the heart out of him and straight into her hands

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invisiblegerbil · 3 months

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Those fics where Jaime realises very slowly that the has feelings for Brienne. Those fics where his body wants her and he doesn’t understand. those fics where Jaime isn’t sure Brienne will return his feelings and he kinda loses his mind about it and he gets unintentionally hurt because of Brienne’s own issues and their miscommunication. Because this is a man who loved only one person before and kinda realises that was never a love that was true, where he was loved in return, a man that exists deeply just to love. Bottle that space between, for Jaime, ‘Brienne is my bro, my protector’ and ‘holy shit she is everything I love her’ and I’ll give you all my money.

#game of thrones #jaime lannister #jaime x brienne #fanfiction #angst with a happy ending

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crowcoven · 5 months

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I need more fanfics where Jaime and Daenerys are friends, like in a weird they never would have thought in a million years but wait youre not so bad and we actually have a few things in common and now were complaining about politics TOGETHER and your dragons scare me shitless but they are kinda cool, sort of way

#like it’s my favourite thing #jaime looking at dany and seeing her mother #dany gwtting jaime to tell her stories about rhaegar #they bond by dunking lovably on tyrion #just endless possibilities for deep character angst and hilarious fluff #if anyone has any recommendations please #jaime Lannister #daenerys targaryen #asoiaf

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greenmtwoman · 7 months

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#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #jb week 2023 #First time #Angst

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the-lightless-star · 7 months

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My humble contribution to the Jaime x Brienne fanfic exchange

#brienne of tarth #jaime lannister #jaime x brienne #braime #jaime x brienne fic exchange #angst #spicy content

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damn-stark · 1 year

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Chapter 9 Travesty

Chapter 9 of Sandstorm

A/N- GET READY!!!

Warning- Y/N has a son, swearing, fluff, incest, ANGST, talks of pregnancy, ALSO THERES CHANGES THAT DRIFT AWAY FROM THE SHOW (not big, but there is)

Pairing- Jon Snow x Targaryen!fem-reader

Episode- 8x04 & 8x05 (only half)

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

————

*2 MONTHS LATER*

“I will not give The Reach to some common sellsword,” Daenerys argues with Tyrion. “It doesn’t matter if he’s won battles or not.”

“The lords of the Reach won’t follow your friend, nor can we actually allow him to have HighGarden,” you defend her argument. “He’s not loyal, he knows nothing about leading a house.”

“Neither did any of our ancestors,” Tyrion tries to input.

You narrow your gaze on him. “No, but we aren’t talking about them are we?” You spat. “If it’s true that he’ll have your head if you don’t give him what you owe him, then he may come and face the wrath of the dragons. We’re not giving him the Reach.”

Tyrion glances at Daenerys for her opinion, and she sighs before giving her answer. “I agree. I won’t. With half of the Iron Fleet destroyed, with the Dornish warriors now at our disposal, we might gain the lead in the war once again. I won’t lose it for some sellsword who has no sense of respect or loyalty.”

Tyrion nods and keeps quiet, letting you continue.

“Beside,” you continue to add. “The Reach and HighGarden deserve to go to someone loyal, someone who’s lived in the land a long time, someone who knows it, cherishes it.”

Sansa hums and steps towards the table in the middle of the room to interject. “The Hightowers are an old house, but a proud one who pride themselves in their religion. A marriage proposal to them doesn’t sound beneficial. They won’t accept Rhaenar, nor the Queen.”

“But,” you add on after her whilst you place a wooden sun with a chevron over it. “Sansa and I think we can gain the support of House Ashford. They’re an old house, during the rebellion they stayed loyal to House Targaryen, they’re respected. If they accept our offer the other Lords will follow.”

“Furthermore,” you continue as you clasp your hands under your small swollen belly. “The Lord has six children, amongst them is a daughter of only five and ten years old. She's older than Rhaenar,” you sigh, “but she’s still unmatched. So with your permission Queen; Jon, Rhaenar, and I will go on dragonback and present the offer in person for you.”

Daenerys glances at Tyrion across the table for advice. And silently without a word, Tyrion nods before he interjects. “Going in person will show that we care, it’s smart. I would have advised it had you asked me.” He says and shoots you a pointed glare.

You offer him an annoyed side eye before glancing at Jon and offering him an urging nod now that your offer was approved.

“If all are in agreement then…Ser Davos will ride down the Kingsroad with the Northern troops, and the bulk of the remaining Dothraki and Unsullied,” he says and drags wooden pieces down the map. “While the Princess, Prince, and I fly on Eraxis and Rhaegal to the Reach to give our envoy to Lord Ashford. We will then meet up with the troops and accompany overhead.”

You nod in agreement, and Tyrion proceeds to add on to the plans.

“A smaller group of us will ride to White Harbor in the meanwhile and sail from there to Dragonstone with our Queen and Drogon accompanying us from above. Ser Jaime will remain here, as guest of the Lady of Winterfell. Questions?” He asks and looks around the table.

Alas, no one speaks up now, letting the meeting disband and everyone go their separate ways; Daenerys exits the room to get ready to leave, and all her people follow her. Everyone else who had been here, like Ser Brienne, Ser Davos, and Arya leave too, leaving Jon, Sansa, Bran the maester, and you in the room. And while the maester is still here you pull your scroll out of your sleeve and walk to the maester to hand it to him.

“I was hoping you could send this to my sister Sarella, Maester, with secrecy.”

The maester nods in agreement without hesitation and tucks the scroll away in his sleeve. “I’ll do it right away, Princess.” He bows before he walks to Bran to take him out too. You then proceed to turn and face Sansa and Jon who had waited to walk out with you.

“Are you ready to leave, Jon? Or do you need to fix your hair?” You tease him as you fall at his side and walk out of the door.

Sansa giggles at your comment, and that makes you smirk deeper.

“Are you?” He counters. “Or do you still need to finish getting dressed? You tend to take forever choosing a dress to wear.”

You scoff and hook your arm around him, noticing Sansa fall at your other side as you now begin to walk down the hall. “Sansa helped get me dressed today actually.” You beam. “I am actually wearing one of the dresses she made me.” You glance at her and shoot her a sweet smile. “Besides my vanity is important, I need to fit my role as Princess.”

Jon scoffs softly in amusement but smiles sweetly as he studies your dress; noting the long white skirt that just perfectly stopped above your feet so you wouldn’t trip, he looks at the thin gold chains that ran down the front and connected to a choker around your neck; he looks at the warm soft brown fur top that was tight around your torso, letting the small bump shine.

“Does that mean freezing to death,” Jon points out to your exposed shoulders.

“Yes,” you retort.

“Did you wear your armor under your dress like I told you?” Sansa interjects, making you avert your gaze and nod speechlessly.

“Liar,” she quips and grabs your arm to pull you towards her.

You let out a dramatic sigh and groan. “It’s bulky, okay? And it doesn’t let me move freely when I’m on dragonback. I hate wearing armor under my dresses.”

Sansa side eyes you. “You’re carrying my niece and nephew in there…

You grin wide at her assumption.

“…I won’t let you leave unprotected,” she finishes saying. “Tell her Jon.”

“I've tried,” he mumbles in defeat. “Hundreds of times. She doesn’t listen to me.”

You smile and roll your head to the side to try and assure them since they’re being thoughtful. “I am wearing ringmail under this for all of your sakes, so rest assured.”

Sansa sighs and shares a look with her brother. “Well it is better than nothing,” she mutters in annoyance.

The three of you take a turn to walk to the courtyard to fetch Rhaenar. And it’s whilst you’re on the way there that you all run into Daenerys turning into the hall.

“Ah,” she mutters and takes note of the two at your sides before she offers you all a small smile. “I was hoping to run into you y/n before we both left.” She directs at you.

Sansa lets out a small sigh and lets you go to step back. Jon does the same, letting Daenerys join your side, and continue walking with you.

“I was just hoping to ask about your visit with the maester this morning,” she brings up almost hesitantly or timidly you can’t tell, you can just see her averting her gaze and giving you some space. “Is everything all right?”

You nod. “It is,” you assure her. “The babies are well, they’re strong, he says.”

Daenerys snaps her gaze to you and grabs your arm to stop you in your tracks, making the pair behind you stop too—“Babies?” She queries in disbelief.

You can’t help but smile even if you can’t tell if she’s happy or bothered by the news. “Yes,” you confirm. “He felt two heads.” Of course you had known before because of the dream, but you couldn’t be sure until they were older and the maester could confirm it for you.

Regardless, Daenerys offers you a happy smile, but she actually swallows thickly all in the meanwhile. You try to read her eyes, but she masks her emotions well.

“I’m happy for you,” she tells you and meets your gaze very briefly.

“Thank you,” you whisper and hope she really means it. Ever since two months ago when she first found out, you and her have not been the same. Conversations are shorter and stale. She can hardly look at you, and her smiles are always tightlipped. She hardly ever pays you a visit in your quarters to just talk; then again you did move into Jon’s room after you announced that you were married so you understand why she wouldn’t.

“Uh,” you continue in hopes you can find something to gain her trust again. “One baby is actually kicking right now like crazy…do you want to feel?”

Daenerys lets her eyes linger on you for a moment before her smile softens and she reaches her hand for your belly. Since she isn’t pressing on the right spot, you gently take her hand and guide it to the side where one of the babies was.

And right away she gasps and slowly begins to grin with joy as she’s able to feel the soft little nudges from the baby.

“They’ll be a fighter,” she mumbles softly. “They have fire in them.”

You glance at Jon and share a smile, whilst you also begin to feel your own heart at ease. You would have said something Jon said when he first felt the babies kick, but that will probably just upset her so you keep that to yourself and mention something else.

“The second baby is a bit more timid. They only kick at night and keep me awake until late.” You giggle. “But I love feeling the flutters.”

Daenerys keeps her hand on your belly and feels the baby kick for a moment longer—and it’s in that moment that she begins to frown with sadness. She doesn’t say anything in that regard though, nor do you want to push it, so instead you watch her pull her hand away and go serious again as her eyes linger on your belly.

“I wish you luck in your travel,” you tell her as you clasps your hands over your belly. “I will do everything in my power to gain the Reach again.”

Daenerys blinks and meets your gaze again. “I hope you do,” she mutters. “It’s important that you do. Just…be careful, okay?”

You nod and watch her turn the hall to head towards her quarters before you move back in between the Stark siblings and continue towards the courtyard. Once there, you all come to a stop just against the railing as you spot Rhaenar and a boy about his age sparring below.

“Great,” you grumble. “He’s going to be all sweaty now.”

“I think he will be fine,” Jon says.

You shift your eyes to the side and shoot him a pointed glare. “That’s what you say, but he might be meeting his future wife, first impressions matter.”

Jon scoffs and presses his hands against the railing before turning his head to look at you with a smile. “You know when I met you I had been on a boat for a month. I was sweaty too.”

You begin to smile and rebuttal. “We didn’t actually talk, we…shared longing glances. We officially met the day after. After you had a bath and brooded all day.”

Jon smirks. “And you smelled like a dragon,” he counters and stifles his laugh.

You gasp and almost take offense, but quickly find a counter and jab back. “You mean I smelled like a very mystical creature I brought into this world by hatching it? Thank you.”

Jon scoffs and rolls his eyes, choosing to focus back on Rhaenar and the boy below. “Well, I doubt you have much to worry about. He made the girl a flower crown from blue Winter roses.”

You snap your gaze to him and probe right away. “He did?” You ask in disbelief since your son hadn’t told you. “When?”

“Last night. He came to me and asked me for advice.” Jon begins to smile, and you glance at your son below whilst you begin to feel happy that he trusted Jon enough to go for him for girl advice. Albeit it is quite hurtful that he didn’t ask you too….just a bit.

“Well that’s good,” Sansa interjects. “It will distract the lady from his sweat.”

You laugh softly and nod, catching Rhaenar and the boy both notice the three of you watching from the railing. Rhaenar smiles up at you and waves quickly before he focuses back on his friend.

“Come,” Jon cuts in and grabs your hand. “Tormund is below. I want to say goodbye before we go.”

Before you follow him below you turn to Sansa to tell her goodbye too since you will be leaving soon. “I will see you after we take the capital,” you say confidently.

Sansa nods. “We will,” she assures you. “Write to me all right? Be careful too, please.”

You shoot her a grin and nod. “I will.” With one last lingering look you turn around and follow Jon down to the snowy ground to meet up with Tormund.

“Are you riding your dragon South?” Tormund asks as he walks to Jon.

Jon scoffs and nods. “I will try anyway.”

When they meet up halfway Tormund goes serious. “I’m taking the Free Folk home. We’ve had enough of the South. The women down here don’t like me.” He says as he leans towards Jon and you.

You scoff softly in amusement and interject. “You can always go to Dorne, I’m sure you’ll find lots of women there.”

Tormund shrugs. “Too hot. And right now you don’t have time for me. When you have won the war I will take you up on that offer.”

“Please do,” you encourage him.

“This is the North, you know,” Jon corrects Tormund. “And the Free Folk are welcome to stay.”

“It isn’t home,” Tormund says. “We need room to wander. I’ll take them back through Castle Black as soon as the winter storms pass. Back where we belong.”

Jon shifts and looks back. When you follow his line of gaze you see Ghost, his direwolf.

“It’s where he belongs too,” Jon refers to his direwolf. “A direwolf has no place in the south. Will you take him with you?” He looks back to Tormund, and the tall man looks at him. “He’ll be happier up there.”

“So would you,” Tormund counters, making you blink and begin to fiddle with your rings slowly.

“I’m happy here,” Jon says back and glances at you. “With my family. I finally found where I belong.”

Tormund scoffs. “Doesn’t mean you won’t miss it.”

You look to the ground and smile softly.

Jon scoffs and smiles softly. “Perhaps when the twins are born I’ll take them to go see the real North.”

“Aye,” Tormund agrees with a grin. “You will so I can give them giants milk and they can grow big like me.”

Jon and you both chuckle. However, Jon goes serious rather quickly as he remembers what this conversation is about. “This is farewell, then,” Jon says.

Tormund agrees, but adds something else. “You never know.”

They both then give one another an embrace, and when they pull back, Tormund holds onto Jon’s arms and continues to add one last thing. “You’ve got the North in you. The real North.” He lets Jon go and then steps towards you.

“I'll see you again Dragonslayer,” he says and grabs your arm to give it a gentle squeeze. “Protect each other. And you bring those babies up North, they need to know where they come from.”

You offer him a sweet grin and nod. “I will,” you assure him. “You take care all right?”

He nods and offers you a gentle smile before he walks away. You then look over at Jon and notice the sad look in his gaze and grab his arm to pull his attention to you.

Once he looks, you offer him a gentle smile and an assuring squeeze. He mirrors your smile and leans over to press a kiss on your forehead before grabbing your hand and pulling you towards his friend Sam, and Sam’s paramour.

Before anything can be said when you all meet halfway Jon let’s you go and embraces Gilly. However, soon thereafter he pulls back and looks down at her belly in shock.

Did he really not notice? Even with the cloaks she has on her pregnant belly is still noticeable.

“Yes, well, the nights have been getting longer,” Sam interjects, causing you to slowly smile at his unnecessary explanation. “And there wasn’t much to do in Oldtown. There’s only so many books a person can read, so we—”

“I’m sure he knows how it happens, Sam,” Gilly cuts him off before he can practically tell the story of how they made that babe.

It makes you stifle your laugh nevertheless.

“If it’s a boy,” Gilly continues. “We want to name him Jon.”

Your amusement dies at the sound of her comment, and awe replaces it. Yet you notice Jon doesn’t feel the same.

“I hope it’s a girl,” he retorts softly before he gives an embrace to his friend. And while they do so, while they talk, you begin to think about baby names. You haven’t given it too much thought yet. You didn’t want to until a couple more months, but now that Gillys mentioned it you think about it too.

Maybe if one is a girl…Rhaenyra feels like a sweet name. If it’s two girls then the other one can be Rhaena. Just so they can have a similar name since they will be twins. If it’s two boys then, Eddard for one. The second one could be….hm…you’ll have to think about the second one further. Maybe they can have a similar name to one of your uncles?

If it’s one girl and one boy though, Rhaenyra, and Eddard sound nice, sweet.

You smile at the thought, and mindlessly press your hand against your small belly, not realizing Rhaenar had now joined you until he nudges you.

“Mother, I’m ready,” he breaks you from your stupor.

You blink and look down at him, seeing Helios perched on his shoulder, and his weapons sheathed on his back and hip.

“Are you?” You ask with a teasing look as you begin to leave the courtyard now that Jon is done talking with his friends.

Rhaenar nods rapidly. “Yes, I am…” he trails off and pushes his clock back to unhook the blue rose flower crown he had hooked on his sheath belt. “I even have this.” He shows off smugly. “For the lady I might get matched with.”

Your eyes water as he says those words, as you realize he's getting older now, but you manage to hold in your tears and smile sweetly. “I’m sure she’ll love them. It’s very sweet of you.”

Rhaenar’s smirk turns to a timid smile as he hooks it back where it was, letting you now focus on Jon walking by your side.

“Are you okay?” You ask him.

Jon drifts his dark eyes to you and nods softly. “I am…it’s just never easy saying goodbye.”

You hum in agreement. “I understand, but just keep in mind that you’ll see them again. It doesn’t have to be goodbye forever.”

Albeit sometimes for you goodbye was the last thing you got to say to those you loved…

“You’re right,” Jon whispers with a sweet smile.

You shrug and make the conversation lighthearted so his smile would grow. “I always am.”

Jon grins, but quips. “Are you?”

You throw your arm around his and nod with a pointed look directed at him. “I am.”

Jon holds your gaze and smirks at you. “Sometimes.”

You roll your eyes and huff in defeat. “Sure, sure. Anyway!” You change the conversation and look ahead as you walk out the castle gates, noticing now that the grounds outside the walls aren't littered with hundreds of people working like before, now only a few were off to the side fixing the outer walls.

It’s quieter now too. Hauntingly peaceful since the thousands of footsteps on the night of the battle are still marked on the dirt ground, leaving nothing but memories of what happened before.

“I thought of baby names when Gilly mentioned hers,” you continue excitedly.

“Ah, did you? Just now?” Jon queries.

You hold onto him tighter and nod. “I did. Of course they aren’t official, just ideas, so you can still think of them.” You let out an excited sigh and share your ideas. “For girls I have Rhaenyra, and the other one can be Rhaena.”

“They go together,” Rhaenar points out. “And they go with my name too.”

You glance down at him and nod. “They do,” you assure him happily. “The main choice will be Rhaenyra if it’s one girl though. I like the name, and admire one woman who bore it.” You smile and glance ahead again. “But anyway, it’s the boy name I can’t think of, I only have one…Eddard. Again you can share your own thoughts, Jon.” You glance at him, and when you meet his gaze you see the soft awed look in his eyes at the mention of his fathers name.

“You’d like that?” He questions.

You hum in agreement, and only see his gaze soften much more.

“I’ll have to think of some names,” Jon says to you. “I’ll have to get back to you about that.”

“It’s okay, you have time.”

“What about you, Rhaenar?” Jon involves him.

Rhaenar runs up the snowy hill to spin around and face the both of you. “Hm, well I quite like Rhaenyra. And I also like Daemon for a boy! Just like the Rogue prince, Daemon who rode Caraxes the Blood Wyrm! Daemon was legendary, he’s one of my hero’s!” He exclaims and spins back around. “Visenya was incredible too! But my mother is already named that, so…maybe Daeron, or Jaehaerys. There’s too many. I’ll make a list.”

You share a soft laugh at his enthusiasm, and find Eraxis beginning to walk down the hill where they had been perched. So you peel away from Jon and run to her to quickly embrace her snout since that’s all you can actually manage to get your arms around.

“<Hello my beautiful girl,>” you greet her and feel her scales under your touch as you caress her.

Eraxis, out of excitement spreads her wings out and nudges herself closer to you.

“<Yes I missed flying with you too.>” You whisper and grin brightly.

“What if Rhaegal doesn’t want me to ride him anymore?” Jon cuts off your moment with your dragon, making you pull back to see that Rheagal had walked down to meet up with him too. “What if it was a one time thing?”

You scoff softly and slowly jog to them. “Well there’s only one way to secure a bond with a dragon.” You grab Jon’s arm, pulling his gaze to you. You smile, and find his lips tempting up close so you lean in and kiss him whilst you stretch his arm out.

“Repeat after me,” you whisper against his lips a bit smugly. “<Serve me, Rhaegal,>” you share what you had read in journals and books of your ancestors and their dragons. “He already let you ride him. Approval from his mother or not Dragons are special creatures, he probably would’ve burnt you or dropped you…”

“How assuring,” Jon mumbles, making Rhaenar giggle.

“I’m sure he'll listen,” you continue, “just tell him what I told you in Valyrian.” You step back and Jon seems hesitant to watch you step back, but you shoot him a wink and watch from up close.

Jon lets out a deep sigh, and keeps his eyes lingering on you for a few more seconds just to take you in in case this is his last moment of life. He then proceeds to blink and looks back at the green dragon that has his eyes on Jon already.

Jon keeps his hand out and parts his lips to let out a small breath.

“What happens if he doesn’t bond with Rhaegal?” Rhaenar asks quietly.

You shrug as you keep your eyes on Jon and the green dragon. “I don’t know. Maybe he gets burnt or eaten?”

Jon snaps his head over as if he heard and retorts. “What?”

You shoot him an assuring smile and shake your head. “Nothing, love, just do it!”

Jon sighs and once again looks at Rheagal. This time he says the words. “<Serve me, Rhaegal,>” he butchers those words but he manages to make them sound somewhat coherent.

“Yes,” you exclaim and hold your hands up in anticipation of what would happen next. “Good.”

Rheagal leans his head closer to Jon and blinks slowly, as if trying to take in the person in front of him. Jon proceeds to slowly drop his hand, and glances at you. Rhaegal then lets out a soft whine and presses his snout against Jon, managing to push him back since he’s so big.

“Did it work?” Jon asks in confusion.

Of that you’re unsure, but he’s not being burnt alive, or getting eaten, so yes?

“Well,” you share your thoughts and walk to Jon. “You’re not being burnt right now, so I’ll say it did. I think he wants you to pet him.” You point out and watch Rhaegal stay pressed against Jon.

Jon lets out a nervous breath and pulls his glove off to carefully press his hand against the green scaled snout.

“When you want him to fly just say, <fly>,” you share that last bit in High Valyrian. “If he’s bonded to you he’ll listen without needing his mother closeby.”

“<Fl?>” Jon mispronounces the word.

You grin. “<Fly>” You pronounce.

“<Fly.>” He repeats slowly.

You clap and nod. “Yes! Exactly good! Now let’s go.” You shoot him one last smile before you spin around on your heels and walk to your dragon's side. “Come, Rhaenar, you’ll ride with me.”

“Aww, I wish Helios was big enough,” he whines.

You carefully step on Eraxis' foot and grab one of her horns. “Soon, my little Sunspot, don’t pout.” You climb up finally after two months, and feel your heart pumping fast at the thought of flying again. Gods know how you missed that feeling. The sight of the sky above the clouds. The fresh crisp air. That chill as you’re flying in the air. That freedom.

Nevertheless, once you’re on your saddle and Rhaenar is sitting behind you you turn around to help him get strapped on, but realize in that moment that you haven’t fixed your broken leg strap.

“Damn,” you grumble. “I forgot to fix it.” You let out a deep sigh and sit up straight up to face your son. “Just strap on one, I’ll fix the other one soon.”

Rhaenar nods and finishes strapping the one strap around his leg to secure himself on your saddle.

“Do I say it now?!” You hear Jon shout.

You snap your head around to face him, and catch him on Rhaegal’s bareback holding on for dear life even if they haven’t moved from the ground. “If you’re ready, yes!” You reply, and hold onto your handles as you keep your eyes on him.

“Okay,” Jon breathes out and looks down at Rhaegal. “<Fly, Rhaegal.>”

And without hesitation the dragon runs ahead a bit before flapping his big green wings and setting off, causing you to grin from excitement, and admiration to seeing Jon on that dragon; on the dragon he’s now bonded with.

Seeing him flying gets you excited and eager, so you too say those same words and fly after them.

——

*LATER*

The winds of winter were a familiar greeting once your feet hit the grass ground, but it’s the land, the castle that’s the stranger now.

“It was a much longer ride this time, how was it?” You ask Jon as you begin to walk down the green hill.

Jon sighs and shrugs softly. “Better than when I rode him during battle. And well you are right…flying is liberating.”

You share a short gaze and a small smile that gets pushed away by the sight of the upcoming White Castle standing below the green hill.

From above the sky the castle seemed relevantly small, the blue pointed roofs seemed short, as well as the tall towers. And their small garden of trees was its most outshining thing within the castle, then again it seems that way because most of the trees were dead due to the cold weather, most; the greenery still hangs on to the branches of the giant cypress trees.

Those same trees aligned the Kingsroad that you’re approaching, they’re neatly shaped adding elegance to the already white grande castle that had its gate covered by luscious greenery, and pink and white flowers that seem to sprout during the winter. The walls around the castle walls were blanketed by twisting vines too. It was really enchanting actually.

Yet that enchantment is soon destroyed due to the marching guards that hesitantly come out of the gate holding the house flag.

They stop just outside the gate and wait for Jon, Rhaenar and you to get close to address you all. “Halt there!”

Their eyes hidden behind their helmets wander around the space behind you, they lift to the sky and search for the beasts you flew on. Once they weren’t visible one of them stepped forward, lifted its visor and showed off dull green eyes.

“Who goes there?!”

Jon and you share a short knowing gaze before you step forward and announce yourselves. “Princess…Visenya Targaryen….” It adds a sour taste to your mouth, saying the name your parents gave you, but it’s the name that most of the older people know you as. “…daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen. With me are my husband Lord Jon Snow, Warden of the North, and my son Prince Rhaenar Targaryen…”

The guard's eyes drift to your son, and then the orange dragon perched on his shoulder. He swallows thickly and stiffens whilst he looks back at you.

“…We’ve come to seek an audience with your Lord Ashford.”

The guard blinks and drifts his gaze to Jon behind you, as if asking for permission from him first.

It’s such a common thing, getting overlooked by both men and women in these parts of Westeros, even beyond the Narrow Sea. You’ve grown used to the cold treatment. Yet it still doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking bother you getting overlooked, especially when you’re higher ranked than Jon. Luckily Jon doesn’t say anything or do anything to answer the man, he makes the guard look back at you.

“Right this way,” the man says and turns stiffly on his heels, causing the other guards behind him to part to the side to let the three you pass by and follow the guard inside.

Once past the outer gate you’re welcomed with a long garden that seems to stop feet away from the entrance of the castle. It’s absolutely beautiful, it’s surrounded by tall green hedges. As you pass the archways that let you inside the garden you see more Cypress trees, you can spot a fountain that holds stone statues of women. There’s benches, and more fountains past the archways, albeit the second one doesn’t hold statues, just water.

“Gods,” you mumble to Jon and Rhaenar, “it’s beautiful here. Imagine this garden in the Spring and Summer.”

“Imagine it when it’s covered by a blanket of snow,” Jon says.

You hum and smile softly at the thought. “That would be beautiful,” you whisper. Now you reach the last archway on the hedge and peek in, catching a third fountain hold statues on the water too, but these statues aren’t just women, they’re statues of The Seven….It’s impressive.

“Wait here,” the guard cuts you off from your awe and pulls your gaze back to him a few feet away from the gates. “I’ll inform the Lord and Lady of your presence.”

You nod in comprehension and watch him walk in, noticing the other guards that had been following behind you march ahead and stay guard in front of the door.

Now however that you’re waiting is when it hits you, the fear and anxiety that make your heart race. No amount of training can actually prepare you for meeting other lords to sway them so that they follow your cause, so that they’ll give their children’s hand in marriage to your own son. Sure if you told Jon to do the talking he would, but it’s you that needed to talk for Daenerys, for yourself.

“I really hope he gets convinced,” you interject and look at Jon by your side.

Jon glances at you and sighs softly before he shifts around to face you. “He will, you’ll convince him. I know you will.”

You turn and face him too, feeling him grab your hands to cradle them in his for comfort.

“Listen to them too,” he says, “just how you tried to listen to me.”

You let out a soft huff and smile timidly.

“I believe in you,” he assures you and pulls one hand away from yours to cup your cheek and pull you in to press a kiss on your lips.

“Look,” Rhaenar cuts in, making you pull away and follow to what he’s pointing to.

That’s when you see three young brunette girls peeking behind the tall glass windows. They notice that you all caught them and seem to smile before quickly disappearing.

“Do you think one of them will be the Lady I’ll be married to,” Rhaenar wonders.

You drop your gaze to look at him and shrug. “Perhaps. What do you think of them?”

Rhaenar blinks and meets your curious gaze. “Well it’s hard to tell since they’re up high and behind glass.”

“Princess, My Lord Snow,” a voice gains your attention, making you look to the opened doors where the main guard now stands. “Right this way, the Lord and Lady Ashford are ready for you.”

Rhaenar lets out a deep nervous breath and glances at you once before he glances at his dragon on his shoulder, and then begins to follow you inside at your side with his chin up and his back straight.

You’re quite nervous too so you keep holding one of Jon’s hands as the guard guides you to the main hall inside the main tower—And just like the outside, the inside of the castle is marvelous too; there's high ceilings, glass chandeliers that twinkle as the light reflects off them. Beautiful stone floors that have a sun carved on them.

Yet the hall isn’t even for the most impressive part, it’s the main room that’s impressive. It’s bright thanks to all the tall windows that are against the walls; it’s almost like a glass room. And there’s tall vases of white flowers that align the pathway to the throne made of dark wood, making the room smell of flowers.

Nevertheless, just on the platform that the throne sits on are those same ladies that had been at the window; there's a set of twins that seem to be around maybe seven and ten wearing long yellow dresses, and at their side just at the edge of the platform is a younger girl, her hair is brown, long and straight, her eyes are dark, black perhaps, she wears a pink dress and sweet smile that lets a dimple show. Across from her is a young man, short but lean, his hair is long and wavy, brown like all the others from his family, he has blue eyes albeit and no welcoming smile; he must be the Lord's heir.

“Princess, Prince, Lord,” a gravelly voice greets, pulling your gaze to the throne to see a short bald plump man on his feet. “Welcome to Ashford.” He bows, and his wife behind him, and the children all curtsy and bow as well. Which is quite surprising considering you’re on “enemy” territory.

“I am Lord Ben Ashford,” he continues, and turns to point at his wife with the same dark eyes as the daughters. “My Wife, Lizbeth Ashford.”

The tall lady gives you a curtsy, so you offer her a sweet smile.

“My twin daughters, Anna and Belle,” he says and points to the girls in their yellow dresses.

You want to laugh at the irony of their names, but you hold it in and look to the last daughter he points to.

“My youngest, Melina…”

Ah, so she’s the girl you want Rhaenar to marry. She seems nice.

Jon and you both look at Rhaenar and smile faintly before looking at the boy who is the Lord’s heir, but don’t pay much mind to him, so he’s done introducing him you let out a small breath and speak. “I am sorry for the surprise visit, Lord Ashford, but I didn’t want to put your family at risk if the Raven was caught.”

He hums and shakes his head. “I understand,” he assures you. “The Kingdom is at war.” He hums and tilts his head. “The last time the Kingdom was at war you were but a babe…”

You blink in surprise and gasp softly.

“It was such a nasty war,” he continues. “I’m sorry for your losses. For the tragedy your family suffered…those poor children were innocent.”

You swallow thickly and nod softly.

“Yet…last I heard beside all the latest news, was that you died when the Lannisters sacked the city.”

You let out a deep sigh and hold his gaze without faltering. “It was said, yes, but I was saved that night by a gold cloak who had served the King. I was the only one he could save, by the time he wanted to save my mother and siblings it was too late, the beast that killed them had found them first. In order to keep me safe, my family, The Martell’s hid me in Sunspear and kept my identity a secret.”

He hums and glances out the window before focusing on you again. “I would have been hesitant to believe your word, but I saw those dragons, we all saw those dragons you flew in with. I would be a fool not to believe you now, so Princess why is it that you’ve come to visit?”

There’s no need longing the topic. Especially not when you’re needed back on Dragonstone. So with one last glance at Jon, you take one step forward and share the envoy. “On behalf of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, I have come here to share an offer. You served House Targaryen faithfully until the King died. It’s for that loyalty that we ask for your swords, and your undying loyalty most importantly. In return we offer the title of Warden of the South, and Lord of HighGarden, if it pleases you.”

The heir gasps and snaps his head to his father.

“You’re an old house that’s stood in the reach for centuries,” Jon steps forward to interject. “You know your lands better than anyone, you know the people and history. We would want no one else.”

You look at Jon from the corner of your eyes and shoot him a thankful smile before focusing back on the Lord. You watch him take a step down slowly and put his hands behind him. He takes another step down and sighs, and when he reaches the floor you stand on he stops and looks at you with a pointed look.

“You ask me and the rest of the Reach to betray the crown?” He asks in a deep voice.

You swallow thickly and nod. “The Queen who sits on the throne now is doing nothing but losing money, letting her people starve. She’s weak now without her father, without her family, a weak ruler only serves to spoil everyone else. What happens when a flower spoils?”

“Withers,” the Lord answers. “Dies and turns to nothing.”

“Exactly, it would be a shame to lose your house and the Reach, Lord Ashford.” You continue to press with confidence now gleaming in your eyes. “That's why we came with our offer. If you accept, you won’t only save your family, but the entirety of the Reach.”

“My swords, and my crops I assume for the title of Warden?” He questions with a perplexed gaze.

Yes, truly there’s no need for a marriage pact, but it would be to his benefit, and a security for you too.

“Not only that but a marriage pact,” you reveal now. “My son, the Queen’s heir, Prince Rhaenar Targaryen, to your youngest daughter, the Lady Melina.”

Said girl's eyes go wide and fill with shock, whilst the mother fills with disbelief and sadness; which is understandable, you’re sad to marry off your son.

Nevertheless, the Lord looks to your son and then at Jon, probably noting that they look nothing alike and realizing what Rhaenar truly is, a bastard. Yet he says nothing about it, for one the boy is that, a man, they don’t shame bastard sons the same way as girls or those of low birth. And two, it would be disrespectful if he did point it out.

“A Queen,” he mumbles. “You would make my daughter a Queen?”

You nod. “If you accept yes.”

Lady Melina takes a careful step forward and bores her eyes on her father as if demanding with her look alone to accept the offer.

“My son is almost 11, but if you accept then the marriage would happen when he comes of age,” you add.

Lord Ashford looks back to his daughter looking at him with hope, and then looks to his wife to share one knowing look. When he looks back at you he remains serious for a moment before his lips begin to lift to a smile.

“I accept,” he assures you, letting you finally breathe properly. “On behalf of the Reach, and myself we accept your offer, Princess. It gladdens me that a Targaryen once again will sit on the Throne.”

You begin to grin happily and share that happiness with Jon and your son.

“On behalf of Queen Daenerys, and myself, thank you my Lord,” you curtsy and shoot him a beaming grin. “Thank you.”

The Lord nods and then looks back at his daughter getting shaken by her sisters out of excitement to what will be her future. “Melina, come,” he says.

You look at Rhaenar, and he meets your gaze, letting you point your head ahead so he’ll step forward.

He sighs shakily, and then looks over at Jon.

Jon shoots him an assuring look that lets the boy take a few forward towards the young Lady now beside her father.

“Hello,” she greets.

Rhaenar bows his head and then pulls out the Winter Rose flower crown to show it off to her. “It’s for you, my Lady,” he says in a timid voice. “Blue Winter Roses, they’re the most beautiful in the world, well they were…you seem to outmatch their beauty.”

You stifle your laugh and share a teasing look with Jon. He albeit shares a smug look with you. Was he the one who told him to say that?

“Thank you, Prince Rhaenar,” Lady Melina says and crouches slightly so Rhaenar can put the flower crown on her head. Once she stands up to her given height Helios, leans forward and tilts his head to study the girl before Rhaenar.

“This is my dragon Helios,” Rhaenar says. “He’s only a hatchling now, but soon he will be big enough to ride. When the time comes you can ride him with me too. The skies above the clouds are the most beautiful in the world.”

Lady Melina giggles. “I will look forward to those days then.”

Rhaenar nods and turns to walk back to your side.

“Will you join us for lunch?” The Lord asks. “To celebrate our alliances?”

Jon and you share a speechless look, and without needing to converse Jon answers for you. “That sounds great, we still have a long flight ahead of us.”

——

*LATER. DRAGONSTONE*

Half of what remained of the Iron Fleet surprise attacked the Queen's fleet and captured Missandei; Daenerys' most trusted advisor and best friend.

They knew how much Missandei meant to the Queen since they have no one else to hold over her, no kids, no siblings. She has you, but Cersei knows not to mess with you; she needed someone who wouldn’t bring her immediate demise, so she got sweet Missandei, and…killed her in front of Daenerys instead of giving her surrender.

A stupid mistake. Three dragons against a scared army; An upside to this sudden stoop.

Yet, by seeing Lord Varys waiting on the beach for Jon, Rhaenar, and you to climb off your dragons, it seems like there’s only more bad news to come.

“The Northern armies?” Is the first thing Lord Varys asks the moment you all walk over to him.

“Just crossed the Trident,” Jon shares. “They’ll be at the walls of Kings Landing in two days.”

Lord Varys hums and then looks to you. “Congratulations on securing the Reach, my Princess.”

My princess? Hm. Okay?

You sigh nonetheless, and continue walking towards the castle. “Thank you, Lord Varys. It seems it wasn’t as hard as I thought, not only because we had a lot to offer Lord Ashford, but Cersei doesn’t have any love in the Kingdoms.”

“All we need now is the Westerlands. Which won’t be so hard now, even if Cersei is a Lannister,” Lord Varys says.

You hum and look up at the castle as Daenerys' well-being comes to mind. “How is she?”

“She hasn’t seen anyone since we returned,” Lord Varys says, making Rhaenar curious enough to slow down and listen in as well. “Hasn’t left her chambers, hasn’t accepted any food.”

You let out a deep breath and retort. “Missandei was her best friend, she’s grieving. She shouldn't be alone.”

“You worried for her,” Lord Varys adds, as if it isn’t obvious why. “I admire your empathy.”

“She’s my aunt, my friend,” you quip. “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

“I’m worried for all of us,” he interjects, making Jon and you share a confused look. “They say every time a Targaryen is born the Gods toss a coin and the world holds its breath.”

A stupid belief made up by people who don’t know what ruling really is.

“We’re not much for riddles where I'm from,” Jon interjects to try and understand what he means.

“We three know what she’s about to do,” Lord Varys continues, causing you to stop in your tracks, and making the others walking at your side to do the same.

When Rhaenar does it though, you turn to him. “Rhaenar, why don’t you go on ahead, hm? Get settled, maybe go give your aunt your sympathy, yes?”

Rhaenar hesitates as he wants to keep listening to what you’re all talking about, but he doesn’t argue and goes on to do as you asked.

“We’re at war Lord Varys,” you mutter with displeasure once Rhaenar is out of earshot. “We can't just sit and do nothing. If the Queen wants to act, we act, it’s her decision to make, she is our Queen.” You turn and face the man with a narrowed gaze.

Lord Varys stays nonchalant and responds. “Men decide where power resides, whether or not they know it.”

Jon steps forward and snaps, “what do you want?”

“All I ever wanted,” Lord Varys says and looks between Jon and you. “The right ruler on the Iron Throne.”

You blink in disbelief and shake your head slowly.

Why is this getting brought up again? Daenerys is harsh, but isn’t every ruler? They need to be so. So why is it a problem now? Why want you to betray her?

“I still don’t know how her coin has landed,” Lord Varys continues. “But I’m quite certain about the both of yours.”

You drop your gaze, and let out a deep frustrated breath and share an annoyed look with Jon before focusing on the man before you to counter. “She’s my aunt, Lord Varys, my Queen. You speak of betrayal. Why?” You ask. “She’s done nothing wrong, not yet. She may be harsh, but what ruler hasn’t been? I won’t betray her for something I don’t want, for something neither of us want.”

“I have known more Kings and Queens than any man living,” he rebuttals. “I’ve heard what they say to crowds, and seen what they do in the shadows. I have furthered their designs, however horrible.” He shakes his head. “But what I tell you now is true. You both come from great houses, and have been raised by good people, you are both loved by many. You will rule wisely and well, while she—”

“Stop,” you cut him off before he can finish his sentence. “She is your Queen. Let us speak of this no longer.” You grab Jon’s hand and break away from your spot together.

Yet before you can go far, Lord Varys stops you with the right words. “I saved you from the fate that awaited you in your quarters that night, I sent that man to save you those years back…gods know I wanted to save the others…”

You gasp and stiffen.

“…but fate had a hand at saving you. You. Will you really let their deaths mean nothing? She speaks of Destiny, but it is your true birthright, your fate. Do you really think she will let those children you carry inside you live?”

Jon snaps around and takes a long stride towards the man. “You keep my children out of your mouth, Lord Varys.”

“Think about it, Lord Snow,” Lord Varys continues, knowing Jon won't do anything. “Do you want your wife and your children to suffer the same fate y/n’s mother and siblings did?”

You slowly grab your small swollen belly and continue to stand there in disbelief and tears gleaming in your eyes. He’s not right. Even if Daenerys was angry for what fate brought Jon and you, she’d never do that. She’s not a monster.

Why can’t they see that? She’s not a bad person. She’s just…she just needs guidance.

“Y/N,” Jon calls out as you make your way inside the castle. “Y/N, talk to me.”

You huff out. “How dare he bring up my mother? How dare he use their deaths, my vulnerability about them against me?” You grumble and quicken your pace. “He’s, he’s…” you groan out in frustration and stop to take a deep breath. “Why,” you mutter. “Why do they want me to betray her? Sansa, Arya, him? What has she done wrong? People die all the time, Lord Tarley was a cause of war. He didn’t want to bend the knee so he had to die, and the son…I,” you pause and shake your head. “Aegon the Conqueror did the same thing and he gets praised for it, so,” you stammer out instead of continuing your previous comment. “So why judge her? Why be angry at her?”

You hear Jon come to stop behind you, you hear his deep sigh before you feel his gloved hand on your arm.

“They just don’t understand,” Jon says and turns you around so you’ll face him. “Leaders must make hard decisions. Decisions some won’t like. And Sansa is just angry it will pass, with time she’ll see what you see in Daenerys.”

You let out a shaky breath and nod softly as his words assure you. Yet there’s still that thorn, that fear that was getting fed more and more. “And the babies…Jon? Varys knows about you,” you mention now that you’ve settled down. “I try not to, but I know he’s right. I know Daenerys is right as well, about the baby's claims.” Tears gleam in your eyes. “Jon….If the realm finds out they will try and press their claims, not Rhaenar’s, not mine, there’s.”

Jon grabs your face with both hands. “I will tell you again what I have told you before, I will not let anything happen to our children. Not her or anyone else. I will not let them try and control them. They will be fine. You will be fine. And if…anything happens…we can leave to the North. To Dorne. We can go far, I won’t let them take my family away. I won’t let them hurt you, my love.” He then pulls you in for an embrace and holds you tightly.

You hold onto him almost like you’re afraid to let go, you close your eyes and nuzzle your head in his neck.

“Talk to her,” he whispers. “She needs you now. You might be the only one who can talk to her.”

It might also work in your favor considering her cold shoulder.

However, once you reach the meeting quarters where she’s in, you hesitate to even knock on the doors out of that…fear you don’t want to actually feel towards her. One you can’t help, and one that has been in the back of your head since you found out about the babies.

But that’s it isn’t? They want you to doubt her, but it’s not true, she’s not that person…you can’t let yourself be convinced by them. So you knock on the door and wait.

Yet you get no response, so you slowly open the door regardless and poke your head in, seeing her standing at the other side of the room staring out at the ocean past the high balcony. Her hair isn’t braided back or brushed like how she wears it. She’s not dressed in a big dress, she’s unkept.

“Dany,” you mumble and walk in slowly.

Said woman sighs and looks at you over her shoulder with an upset frown. You close the door behind you and slowly walk in closer to her, noticing now the eyebags under her eyes from lack of sleep.

“Tyrion was just in here,” she cuts to the chase and turns to face you. “Someone’s betrayed me.”

You stop a few feet away and clasps your hands together to wait for who she’d say in case she was told the wrong person.

“Varys,” she reveals.

You drop your gaze and sigh deeply.

“You knew?” She asks as she immediately detects your hesitation to react.

You nod stiffly. “He….talked to me just as I arrived…” you look up at her and meet her gleaming gaze. “He spoke of betrayal.”

If no one knows who Jon really is, no one presses your children’s claim, no one tries to push Daenerys from her throne and she won’t have to—They might be safe.

That’s why you say it with ease now, Varys' betrayal.

“He wanted me to betray you,” you reveal and clench your jaw.

Daenerys steps down and looks into your eyes in case she sees doubt, and even if you feel fear, and…an inkling of doubt that does make you hesitate, you don’t show it to her because you have to believe she’s good.

“I know you told the others to keep quiet, but you can’t blame them,” you try to talk her out of her anger towards Sansa, since she was the one who couldn’t keep quiet. “Varys is the only one to blame, he wants to press Jon’s claim as well as mine, over yours. The others just shared the news but did nothing. You understand?”

Daenerys swallows thickly and narrows her eyes. “I told you that I didn’t want his secret revealed. I gave you a second chance after you kept secrets from me. And I’ve come to find out now that everyone in my court knows.”

There she goes. You try so hard to defend her against all they say about her, and she goes to say this shit. Yes she’s angry, but this…can’t go on.

“I can’t control them,” you argue as you furrow your brows. “I can’t control Sansa, nor the other Starks. Jon told them because they’re his family, it wasn’t my choice. Yes, I supported him and his choice because he’s my husband. If you want someone to be angry at, blame Varys. Not me, not Jon, and not Sansa. Varys and him alone. But,” you scoff. “If it’s me you want to be angry at then…” you hesitate. “I can’t control you. I just hope you know that I support you, I love you.”

Daenerys clenches her jaw and her breath trembles. She holds your gaze for a few seconds before she averts your gaze and queries. “What is it you think we need to do about Varys?”

You let out a small sigh and answer without hesitance. “Have him meet a traitor's end.” You lift your chin and gently stroke your swollen belly with your thumb.

Daenerys hums and walks to the fireplace to watch the flames dance. She stays quiet, and remains…grief stricken and angry.

You know how that feels. You understand that pain, so you drop the tension that was just built and walk towards her slowly.

“Daenerys,” you call softly. “I’m sorry about Missandei,” you whisper and stop just a bit before her to gently grab her arm. “She was good. I’m sorry you lost her.”

Daenerys draws in a deep breath and closes her eyes as she’s hit with more pain. She sighs deeply, and opens her eyes to glance at you with a watery gaze.

And right now for the first time in a few months she left herself vulnerable to you, she let you see her cry, and let her shoulders fall. She lets you pull you in for an embrace, and returns it tightly.

You smile softly and clutch onto her tighter.

“If it’s a counter move you want to do, I support it,” you tell her, making her pull back to meet your gaze. “We can’t let Cersei think she has the upper hand. We can’t let her get away with it.”

Daenerys sniffles and begins to smirk.

“We can’t hurt the people though,” you continue. “They’re innocent, they’re just a product of bad ruling, so our war is not against them, it’s solely against her.”

Daenerys turns away from you to add her suggestion. “Her brother, and lover, Jaime.”

Your own smirk falters and you begin to shake your head, but she interjects with more.

“We caught him trying to sneak past our lines, he was going back to her. We kill him in front of her and she’ll lose that smirk on her face.”

One man, it’s just one man—But it’s exactly because she loves him, or cares for him that you can’t kill him! You still need him as a pawn against her. Yes, that's it.

“No,” you cut her off. “Not him. If she cares about him then we can use him against her. I just need to talk to him.”

Daenerys squints slightly and investigates why you sound so insistent on helping him from a fate she thought he deserved. “Why would he listen to you?”

You want to smile out of pride for what you want to say, but you notice her pointed gaze and just answer seriously. “He…sort of swore fealty to me. I say sort of because he just promised to make up for the promises he broke.”

Daenerys' gaze hardens, and her eyes drop to hide her glare.

“And what a great job he's doing,” she quips.

You sigh and nod. “Yes, I understand it doesn’t look good, but I’ll talk to him.” You lower your gaze to try and read hers, but she quickly looks up unfazed.

“Fine, but that won’t stop us from striking,” she makes clear.

“I know,” you assure her. “I’m with you. We will make the city surrender. we will win this war.” You grab her hands and cup them gently.

Daenerys lifts her chin and swallows thickly before she nods stiffly. “Fire and blood,” she says with a very faint smirk.

You smile slowly and nod. “Fire and blood,” you repeat. Daenerys' smile falters, but she nods, not letting you see what she truly thought.

“Talk to Ser Jaime,” she deadpans. “Only you.”

You pull your hands away and nod. You leave her chambers blinded with hope that she took in your words and listened, that she cherished your comfort. You believe it, and keep believing that she isn’t a monster others paint her out to be. You believe she won’t be the threat that you fear.

You believe it all blindly in that moment because she’s your family. Even after she had told you to paint the babies as bastards, even after that threat you can’t—you don’t want to think of her any other way. Because if you did then…

——

*LATER. KINGS LANDING*

“<I want to talk to the prisoner,>” you tell the unsullied guard posted in front of the tent that they had chained Ser Jaime in.

The guard nods stiffly and steps aside, letting the others do the same and clear a path towards the tent. Once inside you see him there sat against a post, looking quite pathetic you have to admit.

“Lady Sansa says that you and Ser Brienne have made quite the pair,” you make yourself known. “It would be a travesty that you broke her heart.”

Jaime slowly peers over his shoulder as best as he can, and right away you catch his surprise.

You walk around him slowly to stand before him, and he follows you with his eyes.

“I’d grab a seat for you, but well,” he sighs dramatically and drops his gold hand against the ground.

You draw in a deep breath and keep piercing your unamused glare into him. “You know,” you interject as you grab a seat and sit across from him. “I really wanted to trust you. I mean who goes all the way North to fight the dead after his Queen said he was spared from fighting that war? A stupid man, or a rather brave one. I wanted you to keep your promise, truly,” you scoff and shake your head. “But here you are.”

Jaime sighs and drops his head. “Here I am. Have you come to kill me?”

You cross your leg over the other and shrug. “Eraxis is out there, waiting for me, one word and she’d eat you leaving only that horrible golden hand left behind.”

Jaime scoffs. “As far as deaths go, getting eaten by a dragon wouldn’t be so terrible.”

You smile softly and laugh. “I suppose not.”

Jaime snaps his eyes up at the sound of your laugh and doesn’t know whether to be proud or scared that you laughed.

Nevertheless, you go serious before he can decide.

“What are you doing here, Ser Jaime?” You ask. “Are you going back to her?”

Jaime slowly rolls his head up to meet your gaze, and exhales deeply. “I suppose the answer is quite difficult.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Jaime swallows thickly and whispers. “I love her.”

So you’ve been told. Yet you can’t have much say in that anymore considering….

“She says she’s carrying another child,” he continues, making you sit up and blink in surprise. “I want to save her. But on the other hand I know that can’t happen, Cersei walked into her own death and there isn’t anything I can do about it. There isn’t anything I want to do about it,” he whispers. “Kings Landing may be a shitty place, but…the people don’t deserve what can unfold because of her stubbornness and pride.” He licks his lips, throws his hands out and huffs out.

“So that’s where the problem lies, Princess.” He continues and drops his hands. “Do I betray the women that I love, do I betray my family? Or do I betray the thousands of people in this city, and my oath?”

“Well,” you sigh and hold his gaze with a pitiful look. Not because you are now moved by his words, you won’t tell him to spare her or risk people’s lives so he can live some fantasy with her, but it’s his own struggle that you pity. It’s one you never want to struggle with.

“You know what my answer will be, Ser Jaime,” you say. “I just hope you can make the right choice and help me capture her. Not for me, but for the lives you swore to protect. Because I may not want to admit it…” you pause and hesitate. “But…I know what Daenerys is capable of, I know what Cersei is capable of. And if capturing Cersei from the castle helps avoid the bloodshed of innocents shouldn’t we take that?”

Ser Jaime tilts his head slightly and looks into your eyes for a moment before he smirks. “You’re much wiser than your father ever was, has anyone ever told you that?”

You scoff and shake your head. “No, but I’m glad you did.” You smirk faintly for a second before you go serious again. “Ser Jaime, I don’t want to kill you, I don’t want to see Daenerys kill you. Maybe there are bad things that you have done in your life, yes, but as far as people go, you aren’t such a bad person. You’re one of the good ones, Ser Jaime.”

Said man looks at you with disbelief before he drops his head and scoffs.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you continue and stand up from your seat to get closer to him. “I can’t imagine what it will feel like, nor do I want to ever feel it. But you are one of the only people who can get close to her. You may be here, she may have taken that as a betrayal, but if she loves you then at the end of the day, she won’t renounce you. Giving me the chance to end the war there by taking her and letting the city surrender.”

There’s silence, deafening silence that makes you grow nervous over what he might say, and if he might make that promise to you.

“It’s kind of poetic isn’t it? Funny?” He interjects and keeps his head down. “That I have to face this choice again?” He forces a small laugh and slowly lifts his head up. “I will do it. I’ll help you, I’ll help these people.”

You sigh in relief and crouch down to be at his eye level now. “Thank you,” you tell him softly.

Jaime shakes his head and queries, “why are you so kind to me now? I don’t get it.”

“Well,” you mutter and begin to fiddle with your rings. “You did save my life, my children’s life.” You smile faintly. “That has to be worth an attempt at forgiveness?”

“No,” he argues. “It shouldn’t after the pain I caused you, but…I am thankful.”

You smile wider and give your last explanation to leave him alone. “I’d let you free, but I can’t have one of Cersei's scouts spotting you, it’s best if we use the element of surprise. I’ll let you out tomorrow and share the plan with you.”

Jaime lets out a deep sigh, but nods in agreement nonetheless.

“I’ll have some of my guards bring you supper and water.” You say and stand to your given height. “Goodnight Ser Jaime.”

Said man offers you a nod and redirects it. “Goodnight, princess.”

You walk to the tent's exit and stop to look back and say one last thing. “I really appreciate your loyalty and what you have to do. Thank you.”

Due to the night being so late Jon made you swear not to fly back to Dragonstone, he said “you’re too close to the castle, you can get attacked.” You fought him against it, arguing that someone can sneak in at camp and kill you anyway. But he said that the Northerner men, and the Dornish men you have here now would protect you, so you stayed.

You lay in bed but just stared at the ceiling the entire night thinking about Daenerys, and about everyone’s concerns, your own naiveness towards the situation—but then again it’s like everyone wants her to blow up and destroy everything. They say they can’t trust her, but they never try to guide her. She’s hurt, grieving, and she’s trying to rule over a broken kingdom that desperately needs her, over a sexist kingdom that needs some show of power or else she’s vulnerable. Why can’t they understand that?

You groan and squeeze your eyes shut to hopefully stop thinking about it and get some sleep, but it only takes you under for a moment before you’re woken up by the announcement that a ship is on their way. After that you’re up again and waiting by shore for Jon to dock.

Once he sees you his eyes soften. You get lost in his gaze and offer him a smile until you notice that Lord Varys is not traveling with them. It’s only him, Tyrion, and Rhaegal flying in from above.

She ended up killing him…

He would have put your children at risk, Everyone at risk. It was for the best….

Regardless, once Jon lands his feet on shore you both meet each other halfway in an embrace, as if you had been apart for months.

“Hey,” he whispers.

You grin and pull back to meet his gaze. “I missed you,” you whisper.

Jon smiles softly and cups your cheek. “Me too.”

Your heart flutters, and your smile widens.

“How are you feeling?” He asks with deep concern.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Just anxious for what’s to come.”

Jon sighs and frowns. “You should rest until we leave, it will be good for you.”

You scoff. “Rest? I cannot, I have to be briefed, I have to keep my cousins up to date.”

“Are they here?”

You look around and make sure everyone is minding their business to lean in and whisper. “Hidden under the castle.” You pull back and smirk briefly. “My son? How is he?”

Jon scoffs and smiles in amusement. “Upset he couldn’t come.”

You laugh softly. “Expected he would.”

Jon smiles for a second longer before it begins to fade, and you read the dread and concern in his gaze that makes your heart slowly skip a beat as you can tell something is wrong.

“Let’s talk later?” He says.

You try to read him by his look alone, but you can’t tell what he was holding back. “Of course.”

Jon sighs and glances down at your belly to caress it gently before he breaks away and lets you turn to face camp and the two men who stood close, Ser Davos and Tyrion.

“My brother?” Tyrion asks.

You draw in a deep breath and keep your face serious so as to not give anything away. “He’s fine. Locked away.” You abruptly end that conversation there and turn to Ser Davos. “May you share the news to Jon, please.”

See Davos nods and does as you say. “The rearguard should be here by daybreak.”

“She wants to attack now,” Tyrion adds.

Of course she does, she’s impatient. It’s why people can’t trust her.

“Daybreak at the earliest,” Jon says and turns to look at you one more time. “I have to make a few rounds around camp, let’s meet for supper?”

You nod eagerly, and let your gaze linger on his until he turns to talk to some of his men, leaving you to turn to talk to Tyrion, but ending up seeing him and Ser Davos talking—no murmuring to each other a few feet away.

It’s probably about Jaime, fuck hopefully he doesn’t try anything before you can let him out.

“Tyrion,” you interrupt his conversation and walk over to him and Ser Davos.

Both men stop talking and turn to face you.

“May I get the briefing from the Queen?”

Tyrion spares one last glance at the old knight beside him before stepping away to walk with you instead.

“Lord Varys died last night,” Tyrion shares. “For his crime of treachery.”

“Yes,” you nod stiffly. “I told her to.” You grab Tyrion’s hand and stop him from walking. “Considering what he was asking of me and Jon. Why did you tell him?” You whisper.

Tyrion glances around before meeting your gaze. “He had a right to know.”

You swallow thickly and let out a deep sigh. “No, it was meant to be kept a secret. You should’ve kept it at that.”

No one needed to tell you who had told Lord Varys, it was obvious it was Tyrion. He’s the only one who would share something like that to him.

“Now he’s dead….do you know if word got out?”

Tyrion shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

You let his arm go and continue walking. “Well, we’ll know soon enough if it did.” You clasp your hands together to begin fiddling with your rings. “Anything else?”

Tyrion nods and adds on. “Tomorrow when you hear the bells ring it means that the city has surrendered, don’t attack after those bells ring.”

“Yes,” you say. “I know. I was hoping it would be that way.”

“It was hard to convince her to do it,” he admits, making you drop your gaze and swallow thickly out of…slight fear. He kept talking about the rest of the plan for tomorrow, but that’s all you could think about, that slight twinge of fear.

Still though, you keep telling yourself they’re wrong about her.

“About your brother,” you add after he’s done speaking. “You may not go talk to him, I’m sorry but I can’t risk you letting him go free.”

Tyrion stops walking, so you stop too and turn to face him.

“But,” he tries to rebuttal.

“No,” you cut him off. “I know sibling love, Tyrion. My sisters may not be my actual sisters, but I was raised alongside them, I love them as such. I know the lengths I would go to to save them too. That’s why I’m telling you to please leave him alone. For your sake and his.” You keep your eyes on his own perplexed and upset one’s for a second, before you turn on your heels and head to Ser Jaime yourself before Tyrion could eventually go.

The moment you’re inside you make yourself known right away. “Ser Jaime,” you greet as you walk into the tent.

Said man sits up from his seat against the post and peers back. “Princess,” he greets in return. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

You slowly walk over to stand before him, noticing the dirty plates and cups they had yet to pick up from the ground.

“I said I would,” you tell him as you pick up the utensils. “Just so you know you’re brother just arrived. I’m certain he’ll come to try and get you out later. I hope you know how to drift him away. I mean only if I can’t get you out before then.” You put the stuff down on the table at the far corner and then turn to face him.

“Well, I’ll try my best,” Jaime says. “But my brother is quite stubborn.”

“Runs in the family then?” You snap back with a smirk.

Jaime scoffs softly and nods.

You blink and look down to let out a small breath before you walk over to him to crouch down and whisper your plan. “If you are true to your word by tomorrow. Go down to the caves where the dragon skulls are kept, past there will be a stairwell that leads down to a cove, I’ll wait for you there with my sisters.”

Jaime blinks and furrows his eyebrows. “Sisters?” He probes.

You hum. “My sisters have come to save Ellaria, Cersei didn’t kill her so my little sister has come to save her mother in the chaos that will be tomorrow.” You smirk as you share. “We’ll meet you there while Daenerys is attacking the walls.”

Jaime looks down at the ground and nods slowly. He begins to pick up dirt and adds to the conversation with his own questions. “And if your Queen attacks the castle?”

You sigh. “Then Eraxis and I will fly up, meet you there inside.”

“And how am I meant to get in the castle?” He continues to ask.

“Someone I trust will let you out later, they will have a cloak and a uniform you can wear. Use that.” You answer his question. “You can use the cover of night to hide.” You narrow your gaze and press him as you sense some uneasiness. “I know it won’t be easy, but I can count on you, right?”

Jaime lingers in silence that makes you doubt, but he soon mutters. “Giving her up will help end the battle?”

You shrug. “I hope,” you answer with the truth. “At the moment things change, but I do want that battle to end there.” You nod and gnaw on your lip out of nervousness. “Will you help me then?”

Jaime finally meets your gaze and swallows thickly before he nods in agreement, making you offer him a soft smile. “Thank you, Ser Jaime.” You whisper to him sweetly. You stand up to your feet and step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember don’t speak to your brother about anything if he catches you still here.”

“I understand,” he assures you.

You offer him one last smile before you walk out and head back to your tent to write ravens and go over plans. You sat but didn’t rest, didn’t calm down with the chaos that is preparing and planning for battle. A sense of peace doesn't come until Jon enters the tent with bowls of supper.

“It’s not all five courses, but it will keep you full,” he breaks the silence of the room.

You put your pen down and send your friend away that is going to help Jaime.

“Remember tell the guards that I command them to get a break.” You tell him.

The man nods and turns to leave Jon and you alone.

“Finished?” Jon probes.

You stand up from your chair and nod as you walk over to the small square table where he sets down the plates. “How have you been today?” You ask as you sit down across from him.

Jon sits down and picks up his spoon. “All over the camp. It’s been stressful. Did you talk to Ser Jaime yet?”

You nod and pick up your spoon to begin scooping up some supper. “I did. Hopefully it all goes smoothly.”

He hums. “You’ve gotten some sleep yet?”

You take a bite first and swallow before shaking your head. “Not yet hopefully now once I’m done with supper…if you’ll join me.”

Jon smiles faintly at his food and nods. “I will.”

“Good,” you whisper and take a few more spoonfuls of your food in silence, peaceful silence that has been lacking all day.

Yet it’s as that is happening that you begin to notice his look turn more and more somber, his frown deepens like before, and your heart feels as if it’s skipping beats.

“You remember that I wanted to talk to you?” Jon breaks the silence.

You slowly put down your spoon and nod slowly. “Hm.”

Jon sighs deeply and sits up to meet your gaze. “Well…it’s about…Daenerys.”

You blink in disbelief and keep quiet so he can continue.

“Last night when she executed Lord Varys, I noticed that she had no remorse…she had no guilt.” He says, making you feel a pit on your stomach and even more heightening disbelief at what you imagine he’s trying to get to—“I understand what happened..but Lord Varys was with her for a long time, and she looked as if she enjoyed it.”

You set your hands on your lap to discreetly fiddle with your rings, and repeat what he’s saying in your mind over and over again to try and fully understand.

“What if Sansa is right? What if Lord Varys had some reason?”Jon asks.

You shake your head and get up from your seat to face the doors of the tent. “It’s….hm. Why should she show remorse?” You counter and turn to face him with perplexity. “Would you show remorse for a traitor?”

Jon shakes his head. “No—”

“Exactly,” you cut him off and turn around to pace to the bed. “That can’t be the only reason why you doubt her now, she’s not like what they want her to be.”

“And if she is?” He probes regardless. “Perhaps we’ve been too blind. She doesn’t listen, she’s too hasty, impulsive. She can hardly even look at you, how long will it be until she turns on you? I told you I want to keep you safe, I want to have my family live,” he argues and gets up from his chair to slowly step towards you.

You shake your head and keep trying to fool yourself that they’re all just being too judgmental.

“Last night,” he continues as he now stands behind you. “She told me that if it’s fear that they want to feel towards her, then she welcomes it, she doesn’t care if the people love her not anymore, not after Missandei.”

You blink repeatedly and that pit deepens until you begin to feel nauseous because you know you have no reason denying his words, Jon is not a liar, he’s honest. His words would never be a lie.

You turn and sit down on the edge of the bed to drop your head and get lost on the ground as you sank it all in, as you keep trying to deny it.

Jon sighs and sits next to you, he takes your hand and interlaces it with his.

“I know she’s your family, but sometimes duty is the death of love…she’s lost…” he trails off, and you keep trying to deny it.

“I can’t accept it,” you whisper in her defense. “We’re supposed to win together. Bring back what our family lost, together…” you pause and close your eyes to sigh slowly and shakily.

Jon swallows thickly, and doesn’t argue he just says one last thing. “Tomorrow if things change, if she doesn’t follow the plan. If she tries anything, you fly the other way, swear to me.”

You open your eyes and slowly lift your gaze to meet his.

“Nothing is worth it if I lose you,” he whispers and cups your cheek with his other hand. “So swear to me that you won’t fight her. I can’t lose you.”

Without hesitation you nod to assure him. And you mean it because you have faith in her that she won’t become what they fear.

Tagged: @watercolorskyy @jessimay89 @cecespizza01 @theroyalbrownbarbie @crybabyatthediscooffandoms @neenieweenie @midnightpantherxo @ashleyforeverareject

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starstruckunknown-princess · 8 days

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Anemone - Jaime Lannister x Stark!OC

Anemone (Anemone) - Meaning: Forsaken love

Summary: After ignoring her for weeks, Jaime confronts his past love, Lorelai Stark, in the hidden grottoes of Winterfell with a warning.

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x Stark!OC

Word Count: 1420

Warnings: Mentions of past sexual assault (no detail) and the day Jaime became the Kingslayer, mentions of smut and sluttiness (we don't slut shame here, we slut encourage), vague threats/warning

This may be the start to another series I wanted to write. Would y'all want to read a series following Lorelai? Let me know your thoughts.

In Bloom Masterlist

Likes, Comments, Reblogs are SUPER appreciated! ❤️

All throughout the feast, Lorelai Stark kept trying to make eye contact with him, but he had expertly avoided her. Had their time in King’s Landing as joint hostages meant nothing to him?

She knew that wasn’t true — that time had bonded them in irrevocable ways. They’d found comfort in one another’s arms, he would bring her books, he had apologized for standing by while the Mad King had brutally assaulted her. He brought her to the heights of pleasure night after night until the horns of House Lannister announced their arrival in the city. The rest was history.

She’d assumed their history would’ve at least warranted a passing glance from him. Apparently not.

When the royal retinue had arrived at the keep she’d been hopeful that Jaime would seek her out, even if it was only to make stiff pleasantries. He had danced with her once at the welcome banquet, but answered her questions monosyllabically and refused to look her in the eye. There were a few times she’d caught him looking her way in the tiltyard or at dinner but he was always quick to avert his gaze.

Lorelai hadn’t expected him to drop to his knees and declare his undying love for her in the sight of gods and men, but she also hadn’t expected his terse coldness toward her. Some sort of acknowledgement of their shared history would’ve satisfied her — a wink, a smirk, a “hello,” even. She’d received nothing.

Too tired to do much else, she excused herself to her rooms and left the noisy feast hall.

Later that night while Drella finished brushing out her hair, Lorelai took in her reflection. The years had been kind to her, only showing a little around her eyes. She’d never thought herself a great beauty, but she had been pretty enough to entice a Myrish prince into her bed.

And a Pentoshi merchant or two.

And once a muscle-bound Dothraki bloodrider who spent the entire night growling at her in a language she didn’t understand. For all she knew, he had been insulting her the entire time.

Even if the years had been kind, seemingly they hadn’t been kind enough to tempt Jaime Lannister back to her. After all this time, everything they had shared meant nothing to him. And she had to accept that — she wasn’t going to throw herself at a former flame who had been ignoring her presence since his arrival.

She dismissed Drella for the night and pulled on a dressing gown. Once the maid was gone she pulled on her darkest cloak and made her way outside. She grabbed a torch from the wall and used it to guide herself to the far side of the Great Hall, into the secret entrance that led down to the hot springs that provided warmth to the keep.

Sometime long ago, one of her ancestors had dug out three grottoes deep underneath the keep and directed the warm waters into them. Some maesters believed they had been used as baths before tubs were readily available. Most of the denizens of Winterfell had forgotten about the grottoes, but Lorelai and Lyanna had come across them one day while exploring.

The dark stone steps led her down, down, down into the bowels of Winterfell. Deeper even than the crypts on the other side of the keep. The movement of water could be heard as soon as she got to the bottom of the steps. Around a corner she entered the hallway that had three curved arches, two on her right and one on her left, each one leading to the private coves.

Lorelai hooked the torch inside the arch on the left after lighting two more. She unclasped her cloak — the air was humid and warm down here. Her dressing gown soon followed. The pool on the left had always been her favorite, even though it was the smallest. She stepped onto the wooden walkway above the pool and sat down, dipping her feet into the water.

Her loud sigh of relief echoed off the two thick stone arches that bisected the space above the pool.

“Hello?” a voice said through the dark and she nearly leapt out of her skin. A soft glow turned the corner, the sound of boots scraping the floor coming closer and closer.

“Who goes there?” Lorelai demanded, pulling her feet out of the water and standing, cursing herself for not bringing a weapon — especially in light of Bran’s fall. She snatched her dressing gown off the wall and hastily tied it shut.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” he said, voice echoing slightly. Lorelai poked her head out of the archway and sure enough, the golden knight of Lannister stood a few yards down the hallway. Torchlight lit him, making his golden hair glow and highlighting his features.

If the years had been kind to her, they had been downright magnanimous to Jaime. His jaw had sharpened and his body had filled out into that of a man. Any trace of boyishness she remembered was gone, replaced by features that were somehow rugged and ethereal at the same time.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked as he sauntered closer. He hooked his torch in the hallway sconce and crossed his arms across his broad chest.

“Looking for you, of course.”

She exited the archway and gave him her full attention. “Nearly a month of living in the same place and you seek me out now? When we are set to journey together in two days?”

Nothing but stolen glances. And now he’d followed her to her secret space in the dead of night.

“Yes,” he said, his words clipped and sharp. “I’ve come to warn you not to return to King’s Landing.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him and took a step closer, the stone tiles cool against her bare feet. “Why not?”

Jaime’s green eyes locked on hers. “Something may happen to you if you do.”

“Are you threatening me?” A step back.

He stepped forward, throwing his hands out toward her, “No! Not me, I would never. It’s…I worry for you, that’s all.”

It was her turn to cross her arms, which enhanced her cleavage. “Am I supposed to believe you after how coldly you’ve been acting since you arrived?”

Jaime’s eyes glanced at her chest, landing on her eyes again. He had the audacity to look contrite. “Keeping my distance from you is the only way I can keep you safe. If you go to King’s Landing, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“You…you’re concerned for my safety?” She softened toward him. The truth showed in his eyes, but only those who had seen behind his mask could detect it. And she had seen behind his mask many, many times.

“Of course I am. I’ve never stopped caring for you,” he said, closing the distance between them and brushing a swath of her hair over her shoulder. He let his fingers linger on the exposed skin of her collarbone and his other arm snaked around her waist. He pulled her closer and Lorelai felt warm all over. “Please, Lorelai, stay here, far away from the Red Keep.”

Her hand drifted to his chest, palm searching for his beating heart underneath his hot skin, just like she used to. Memories of their time together flashed in her mind’s eye. She looked up at him from under her lashes, heat flooding between her legs. “I survived there before, I can do it again.”

Their breaths mingled, adding to the humidity of the space around them. His voice low, he murmured, “It’s an entirely different game this time, Lore.”

“Then you’ll have to tell me the rules.” She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet and pushed herself up, seeking his lips.

Jaime all but shoved her away. The sudden distance between them left her cold. He averted his eyes from her and shifted his weight between his feet. “I…I can’t.”

Humiliation rose in her chest and she clenched her fists. “Then I’ll figure it out on my own. Leave now, Ser Jaime.”

Much to her chagrin, he did. Without a word, he lifted his torch out of the sconce and she listened to the sound of his boots against the floor until they faded entirely.

Lorelai entered the underground pool and slipped into the warm water, nightdress and all, sinking until every part of her was underwater, including her head. Only there did she feel comfortable screaming out her frustration.

#writing challenge #fanfiction #in bloom #game of thrones fic #got fic #jaime lannister x oc #jaime lannister fic #jaime lannister fanfic #jaime lannister #angst

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leahsflwer · 10 days

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[IN THE MAKING]

[In the making]

#fluff #angst #smut #imagine #preferences #game of thrones #jon snow #robb stark #Sansa stark #Ned stark #jaime lannister #wolf #winterfell

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targaryenssurvive · 2 months

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Warning Angst, thoughts of death, paranoia, parental absence, I've been trying to write angst so i hope you enjoy, if you don't I'm sorry.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 Aemon.

It was still early, the sun had barely risen, but Aemon had. Aemon had trouble sleeping for as long as he could remember, he was always scared that if he fell asleep he would die, knowing the only reason that you were allowed to live was because your grandsire wanted to keep a reminder that even the strongest of houses can crumble, like house Stark, now all that remains of the once great house is a bastard, a bastard who can be killed by the king at any moment.

Death was something Aemon thought about frequently, Aemon had been brought into this world with blood on his hands, the blood of his mother, Lyanna Stark, the poor woman who died bringing him into this world, he also had the blood on his hands of the many people died just because his father wanted a third child, a Visenya, and even then it was all for nothing, Aemon was no Visenya.

Entire bloodlines were whipped out because of the circumstances that lead to Aemons birth, it was an odd thing to live with, knowing the reason you exist caused so many to die.

Aemon never knew his mother, or his mothers family, he had no idea what they were like as people, he had heard a few say that the Starks were known to be honorable and loyal but nothing besides that, even Rhaegar never spoke of the Starks or Lyanna, the closest thing Aemon had to knowing his mother was a tiny portrait in a locket, gifted to him by Elia Martell. Elia Martell was not a mother to Aemon, but she was kind to him, it was more like she treated him like a nephew, she raised him with her own children, she never treated him unkindly, she fostered loving relationships between her own trueborn children and Aemon, and when she found Aemon at the young age of six crying on the matriarch’s day, on the matriarch’s day it was customary to celebrate one's own mother and pray to the holy mother, while Aemonds trueborn siblings celebrated with their mother, and their uncle and aunt celebrated with their mother Aemon was alone. Elia had gone to retrieve something that Aegon had left in Aemons room and she found him sobbing, he remembered trying to hide his tears but she kindly asked him what was wong, when he told her why Elia smiled kindly and allowed him to accompany her and her children on that day. A few weeks after that she came into Aemons room and gave him the small portrait of Lyanna, she said it was so he could see his mother whenever he wanted. Elia also gave him some good advice, she told him, ‘Don’t let your Grandsire see this, he has a temper and he may try and take it’.

And Aemon took that advice to heart. Ever since then the small locket remained inside a small wooden box under his bed that he only took out when he wanted to see his mother.

Aemond looked at the photo and wondered the same questions he thought of everytime he thought of his mother. ‘Was she kind? What would she think of me if she lived? Would she love me? Would she hate me? Would she be disappointed in me? Did she want me to begin with?’

These thoughts were why Aemon tried to avoid thinking when he was alone, things got to dark, with his siblings and uncle and aunt he could think of other things like sparring with Aegon or what Rhaenys was reading, or what game Daenerys or why Viserys was so dramatic, but on his own Aemon always ended up thinking of one thing, death. It could be anything regarding death, his own death, the death of a loved one, deaths that already happened, Aemon assumed that meant that there was something wrong with him, normal people don't think of death constantly, do they? But then again Aemon has never been normal, normal people don't stop speaking at the age of nine, normal people don’t sleep with knives in their hands ‘just in case’ their grandsire decides to send guards to execute them, it didn’t take convincing yourself that you won’t be slaughtered in your sleep for normal people to fall asleep.

Aemon kissed the small picture of his mother and put it back in his box under his bed, for it was time to leave his room and greet the day.

Aemon walked out of his room, he was wearing a black woolen tunic over a gray linen shirt and breeches, his hair was pulled into a short braid. Aemon began walking the halls, breakfast wouldn't be for at least another two hours. Aemon would occasionally stop and stare at the tapestries and paintings in the halls. Aemon was looking at a painting, it was of Rhaegar holding a small toddler Rhaenys and Elia holding a newborn baby Aegon, they were all smiling, even Rhaegar looked happy, he was smiling so much you could see his pointed teeth.

Aemon always felt odd looking at this picture, like it was fake, Aemon had never really seen Rhaegar smile aside from when nobles were visiting or when he had just gotten an applause from playing his harp, and that was always just a polite smile, not a true sign of happiness, just being polite.

“Good morning, quiet one.” Aemon turned and saw Ser Jaime Lannister. Aemon smiled at Jaime. Despite Aemon being afraid that one day the kingsguard would drag him away to be executed Aemon did like a majority of the guard, especially Ser Jaime, Ser Jaime always greeted Aemon and seemed to be fine communicating with him despite Aemons lack of a voice.

“Sleep well?” Ser Jaime asked. Aemon nodded, the truth was he hadn’t slept well, he dreamed of being burned alive again last night but he wasn't sure if he should try and communicate that. Aemon put his hand out towards himself then towards Ser Jaime, it was meant to be asking ‘What about you?’

“Protecting the king doesn't give you much resting time.” Ser Jaime responded and ran a finger through his golden locks of hair. Another reason why Aemon liked Ser Jaime was because he responded to his hand gestures, most other people give Aemon weird looks when he tries to communicate with hand gestures but Ser Jaime didn’t.

Aemons mismatched eyes drifted back to the painting. No matter how long Aemon looked at it, it still seemed wrong.

“I remember that, when prince Aegon was born, I had never seen prince Rhaegar so happy before or after that day.” Ser Jaime spoke with a slight smile. Aemon nodded in response, he had never seen Rhaegar even close to being that happy, then again he only usually saw him at breakfast so that's not saying much.

Aemon felt like Ser Jaime could read him, like he knew how Aemon felt about the strange image of his father.

“Rhaegar changed over the years, I remember his wedding day, he looked at Elia like she was his world….that didn’t last much like the happy father in this image did not last, you know that yourself, of course….i do wish you could have known the man in this image yourself.” Ser Jaime put a comforting hand on Aemon's shoulder. ‘I do too.’ Aemon thought.

#jon snow #tw angst #tw thoughts of death #tw paranoia #tw parental issues #tw parent death #jaime lannister #all the targaryens survive au #rhaegar targaryen #aegon martell #rhaenys targaryen

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loving-family-poll · 3 months

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Ultimate Incest Tournament - Round 3

Propaganda under the cut:

Ginger/Brigitte:

Codependent sisters and werewolves and angst <3

ginger giving into her desire for eating flesh making her horny…. lycanthropy used as a metaphor for gender nonconformity but also… another type of nonconformity…. “we were always considered freaks. there was us, and there was them.” “but you can’t break up with blood. you can’t divorce your sister.” “ginger shoves brigitte backward onto her bed. ginger piles on top of her, playfully pinning her down. GINGER: ‘i want more.’ brigitte squirms fitfully. BRIGITTE: ‘no, it’s too gross! you’ll get caught.’ GINGER: ‘not if you help, bee. i’m starving. tell me you don’t so dig it. tell me you don’t wanna see what happens.’” “SAM: ‘it’s called monkshood [wolfsbane] because people used to think it kept them pure from dirty thoughts. seriously.’ BRIGITTE: ‘make my life easier.’” “brigitte stirs in her sleep. ginger stands at the end of brigitte’s bed, staring at her.” i could just copy/paste the entire original script (such as brigitte masturbating to the sound of ginger having sex). and then it ends in one murdering the other and hugging her dead body. what more can you ask for.

"Out by sixteen or dead on the scene, but together forever."

"I'd rather die than be here without you"

"If I wasn't here would you eat her?" "God, that would be like, fucking her" *later wants to eat Brigitte*

"You know, we're almost not even related anymore."

Cersei/Jaime:

they're literally womb-to-tomb lovers. they feel that the rest of the world is beneath them and they're the only ones that matter. the fact that they're twins is fundamental to their attraction to each other

they’re blonde they’re evil they crossdress they’re fucked-up mirrors of one another they serve cunt they’re both bisexual probably and they’re TWINS who FUCK. who said that.

"if I were a woman, I'd be Cersei."

"I'll kill [...] the whole bloody lot of them until you and I are the only people left in this world."

"I am sick of being careful. The Targaryens wed brother to sister, why shouldn't we do the same? Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it's me you want."

"'Do you have a little wife, ser?'" No, I have a sister."

#tumblr polls #tournament polls #incest poll #round 3 #ginger/brigitte #ginger snaps #cersei/jamie #lannicest #game of thrones #asoiaf #tw incest

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januaryembrs · 1 year

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THE LION'S SHARE OF WARMTH | Jaime Lannister x reader

Request: ay!! heres to 1k!! :DD can I please have a Jaime Lannister x reader, where the nights too cold to sleep alone even in front of a fire, forcing them to cuddle to keep warm?

Description: A cold night between two enemies leads to an embarrassing wake up call.

word count: 1.1k

trigger warnings: none, swearing? Mention of the war going on ?

main masterlist

For a girl born into the North, there was nothing you hated more than the cold. Your mother said you had just never grown accustomed to the climate, always insisting on the thickest pelts to cover your bed despite the fact your family had lived through the thickest Winters spanning back generations.

Which is why you swore all twenty of your fingers and toes were damn near ready to fall off when you were forced to sleep outside on the road to King’s Landing. Call it being spoiled by coming from a respectable lord’s family, but had you not had a good reason to be here, you would be long gone and in front of a roaring fire by now on a night like this.

That respectable lord just so happened to be Wyman Manderly. Your house had fallen to near mania the moment the war of the five kings began, and you had fled to Robb and Catelyn Stark with your twin brothers Wylis and Wendel. The Starks and the Manderlys had always been closely allied, and as all Northern houses you had grown closely knit with the great Wolf house.

Which was why when Jaime Lannister appeared in a cage on the Stark encampment, bloodied and dirtier than you’d ever seen the once proud lion, you knew Catelyn Stark was fighting with every tooth and nail to get Sansa and Arya back from the capital.

And who better to send to bargain for the two girls than Brienne of Tarth, the strongest swords woman in Westeros, and Y/N Manderly, daughter of the richest Northern family. Since you already had money of your own and your family was incredibly loyal to the Starks, Catelyn and Robb agreed you were unlikely to be swayed by anything Cersei could offer you and could discuss an offer with the Lannisters like the astute and academic woman you were.

Which is how you got here, on a narrow and freezing road to the capital with Brienne and Jaime Lannister.

“My legs tire, we need to rest soon,” Jaime whinged for the umpteenth time that day as you and Brienne carted him in chains through the rough terrain. Well Brienne held the irons, seeing as she could overpower the man if needs be, while you had little more than a dagger to fend him off.

You shot a look at the tall woman, the two of you mirroring each other with a glare of annoyance at his theatrics. You ignored him, continuing your steady pace onwards. The Lannister man seemed to be unused to people, especially women, not pouring over him with affection and lavishing him with whatever he requested since he began digging his heels into the earth like a lame mule.

“I said we need rest. Do you really think my sister will take kindly to me being returned to her as a cripple?” Jaime complained, yanking against the bonds to get your attention. You wished to disregard him some more until he said: “If I am to be exchanged for the girls and I come home bruised and deformed, what do you think she’ll do to Sansa and Arya?”

You and Brienne halted. You hadn’t quite thought about treating him kindly since it was his forsaken family that had started this war in the first place.

You looked to Brienne for assurance, the Tarth woman giving you a small nod in response. The two of you spun to advance on the man who wore an annoyingly winning smile at the fact he had gotten you both to listen.

“We are stopping until the moment the day breaks, do you hear?” You growled at him, only making his cracked lips draw wider. “And wipe that smirk of your face, there will be no fire tonight,”

Gods be known you were so stupid to have said that. In punishing him you had punished yourself. Brienne didn’t seem to mind the frosty night air as she bundled up under her furs, sleeping soundly as if it were another night in a bed.

“A Northern woman who feels the cold, that’s new,” Jaime snickered from his place behind you. Your body must have been shaking more than you’d hoped. You felt the night air kiss every inch of your skin as the wind whipped even the slightest bit and it sent a vicious shiver through your body.

“Shut up or I’ll maim you, Lannister,” You both knew it was an empty threat, one you’d barely made through without your teeth chattering loudly. It only served to make him chuckle, and you heard him shuffle closer to you.

Drawing your blade, you were quick to raise the sharp tip to prod against the soft of his stomach. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You seethed.

“Relax. You’re clearly cold, and Cersei would have both your heads if I returned to King’s Landing with the shivering sickness,” Jaime said, attempting to slip an arm around your waist that you swiftly batted away with your arm.

“I’d rather risk your bitch of a sister than be anywhere near you,” You spat, raising the dagger up to his chin, “If you dare touch me in my sleep I’ll send you back to her in pieces, do you understand?”

He raised his hands in defence, rolling back away from you and muttering something foul under his breath. You could tell his confidence was knocked that the Jaime Lannister couldn’t have his way with every woman he came across. Any other woman in Westeros would give an arm and leg to cuddle with him for warmth, any woman but you.

You closed your eyes, the flame of anger enough to ward off the chill for just long enough that you were able to get to sleep on wrath alone.

Your face blazed with similar heat when you awoke to the feeling of strong laughter humming through a set of ribs. You realised very quickly that your face was not pressed into the dirt like it was when you fell asleep last night but instead against someone's clothed spine.

“I thought you said I’d be in pieces by now?” Came a raspy voice, and you shoved yourself upright aghast. Not only were you spooning the damn king’s guard whose very soul you loathed, but in no way could you blame him for it happening seeing as it was him facing away from you.

Your cold body had sought him out for warmth in your sleep.

“Embarrass-”

“That’s ENOUGH, Lannister,”

#jaime lannister fanfiction #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister angst #jaime lannister imagine #jaime lannister #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones

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queeninthesouth-side · 2 years

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also not a request, im writing what i want to read at the moment, it seems! The lowdown: there’s angst, sex and romance, all Lannister style. He growls. You’re welcome. Very reader focussed, but about a third of it is Tywin’s pov. Possessive, protective husband vibes. Again, you’re welcome. He’s Hand to Joffrey (gag) so it’s set post Robert’s death, but canon? We don’t know her. Also, can we agree Genna is the sister in law we all need?

Coming in at a whopping 8,112 words

In Time, the Lion Loves

Tywin Lannister x fem!Reader

It was a purely political marriage, one that occurred a mere fortnight after your meeting Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock in King’s Landing. He had been taciturn and serious bordering on standoffish most of the time. You were embarrassed that your father had all but forced his hand, what with Lannisters paying their debts and all. And saving Jaime Lannister from the Starks and returning him home when Lord Lannister couldn’t? It was a debt large enough to warrant a hopeless, trustless marriage between you and he.

“Let’s retire,” he said from beside you at your wedding feast, an ostentatious event organised by the Boy King Joffrey and his mother. He’d been unexpectedly amicable, in the way lord husbands were supposed to be with their wives. He’d let you sip from his wine goblet and had given you first pick of the plate you both shared. You enjoyed the roast pheasant while he preferred beef.

“Time for the bedding ceremony!” the King announced, face flushed terribly from the wine he’d indulged in, and green eyes sparking with malice. The King had always looked at you as though he might pounce, and tonight of all nights, you had to rein in your fear of him. As soon as men rose and began tugging at your beautiful gown, they stopped.

Lord Lannister had slammed his hand on the table, the boom echoing throughout the hall the feast was being held.

“No man but I shall touch my wife. Get off her,” he growled. The men around you couldn’t flee fast enough. Then neutral green eyes settled on you, readjusting your sleeves that had come down your shoulder some in the tugging and offering you his hand to escort you from the hall.

He poured you more wine once in the Tower of the Hand, but you did not move to drink it. You had let go of your fear of this man in particular, especially as he’d kept you close to him all evening, and had gently seated you beside him at the feast. It could certainly be a ruse, one to make him seem the perfect Lord even in a marriage he had not chosen.

“Stop thinking so much, you’ll make yourself dizzy.”

“I was thinking how much I appreciate your manner, my Lord. It would not have surprised me if you were a cruel man in private, though I am beginning to see there isn’t any needless cruelty in your body.”

He looked at you then, watching as you took a single, gracious sip from your cup, before turning and looking at him too. You were beautiful, this he knew. He was a widower, not blind, and he had appreciated privately any particular woman of exceeding beauty. But he’d always been a jealous and possessive type of man, and you were almost made more beautiful by the fact you were his alone. His wife. He’d need to get used to that again.

“You will bear me sons, and manage the Rock should we return. It would not do to sully our alliance so soon.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Are you nervous, Lady Wife?”

“No, my Lord. I snuck off to a brothel before we travelled to King’s Landing and had a whore explain to me the truth of a marriage bed.”

Already he felt a flare of possessiveness take him. The thought of you in any brothel made him twitch. Had any men seen you? Had anyone touched you? He found the thought entirely unacceptable, and was sure to say so.

“I knew I’d be married shortly after my arrival here, my Lord. I did not want to be uninformed, and septas take a vow of chastity. How could they give me an objective insight into married relations?”

“While it is an admirable quality to seek out your own answers,” he said, walking over to you and looking down as you sat opposite his desk. “You will not set foot in an establishment like that again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” you said, looking up at him with earnest eyes. He liked them, he decided, when they were settled on him.

The first night, he’d answered any questions you’d been left with on how a woman takes pleasure from her husband, and gods, did he give you pleasure. In short order, you’d found yourself looking forward to the hour or so an evening he’d dedicate to getting an heir on you. You were grateful he’d make it an enjoyable experience.

He was long and hard, and you’d taken him two dozen times at least already, and every time he had to let you adjust, lest he hurt you. It was sweet torture for him, feeling you tight around his cock, sighing and humming for him until he’d draw out more sounds.

Your hands, never stilled once he was inside you, gripped at his back, his sides, his neck. Anywhere you could reach, you would touch, but never outside the bedroom. He used to appreciate this, he realised, sinking in all the way and delighting in your gasp. Not having a clingy little wife who lingered about him at all hours.

No, he realised, drawing back then driving forward more firmly. He wanted you to be clingy with him. It was barely a moon into his marriage to you, and he wanted to possess you as much as you seemed to possess him. With this thought, he dedicated himself to your pleasure. He’d make you enjoy his cock beyond anything else, then he’d make you enjoy him.

“My Lord,” you whined as he brushed a spot inside you that had your eyes rolling back and fluttering shut.

Oh yes, the Lion thought, he’d have you in all ways soon enough.

When you’d both agreed to make small appearances around the Keep, Tywin had thought it’d send a clear message that the Lord and Lady Lannister were united despite the tenuous start of your marriage. It did not quite have this affect, to his chagrin.

Men watched you everywhere you went, he realised on these walks. Their eyes would follow your walk, your hair, your face and any words that floated along the wind sweetly. You were splendiferous in red and gold, and he’d spared no expense on your wardrobe. Bedecked in the finest gowns, second to only the Queen, and even then outdoing his daughter to her distaste. He’d made it as clear without words as possible, you were his. And yet, these cads watched his wife as though she were still an eligible heiress and not his lady wife.

Then began the marks.

On your neck, your shoulders, even your wrists, which he delighted in kissing and licking in rare shows of intimacy. He was an odd man, your husband, but he left you to your own devices apart from your new routine of walking and visiting your bed to procure an heir. He’d stop his attentions once you were with child, you knew, but you ignored the twinge of upset the thought caused. He was not your lover, he was your husband, and you lived in a world where they were not one and the same.

The marks were bothersome, especially if he hadn’t kept to below your collarbones, as you’d told him to. He rather seemed pleased with himself when a bruise was left by your ear or your throat. You’d learned all sorts of hairstyles to cover them, styles that seemed to draw the eyes of others, but none moreso than the Master of Coin.

Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish was not a man you’d heard of before your arrival at the capitol, but he’d made himself known to you at your wedding, and seemingly every other day since. He’d appeared sympathetic at first to your marriage, though when he saw your irritation at the perceived pity, he’d taken another approach. Whispering words of the deeds your Lord Husband had done to carry on his legacy. The details disturbed you of course, but you were not so foolish to think Baelish would tell you anything of the truth, only what he wanted you to know. Ignoring him was easy, but his presence made you uncomfortable, try as you might to hide it.

“My Lady,” he smirked at you. Sat at a bench in the leafy shade, enjoying the weather and a good book, you greeted him politely but made no move to stand or invite him to sit. He cleared his throat at the ensuing silence. “I had hoped you might walk with me around the gardens, my lady?”

Closing your book, you stood and began making your turn about the aisles of flowers and crawling vines. He walked beside you looking at you out his periphery. You’d mastered the art of looking around a room without moving your eyes, so his attention was far less overt than he’d hoped.

“And what did you wish to speak to me about, Master of Coin?” You felt an odd yearning for your husband then. Surely the sly little man would leave you be if your hulk of a husband were near.

“Have you travelled to Dorne before, my lady?”

The question sent a chill through you. The man was up to no good, you were sure, but your husband would surely not desire to hear your concerns over the, as far, polite attentions of a member on the Small Council.

“I have not, my lord. I don’t much fancy such arid temperatures, so I cannot say I have a desire to visit anyhow. Have you?” you asked to keep your polite façade.

“I have, my lady. It’s a beautiful, if arid as you say, land. I’ve many friends there, and a home of my own, too, for when business takes me that side of the world.”

“If you only wished to inquire about my travels, Master of Coin, I shall bid you farewell.” In a move so fast you hardly realised it’d happened, Baelish had placed your hand over his arm. Coincidentally, your Lord Husband happened upon you both that instant. You pulled your hand from him with a delicate frown and took a step away.

“Baelish,” your husband gritted, eyes glittering with danger. For you or Baelish, you weren’t quite sure. Almost certainly both.

“Lord Hand. I shall leave you to your strolling, my lady. Good day.” And then he was gone.

“You are not to walk about the Keep unattended, wife,” Tywin says lowly.

“Yes, my lord,” you reply softly, turning to return to the Keep proper.

That night, your lord husband drew peak after peak from your body, relentless until you were practically unconscious from the pleasure. You’re mine, he’d said over and over as he drove into you. And he did not stop touching you. Your hair, your face, your lips especially. He seemed to kiss the breath out of you, stopping only when he’d finished a second time, and you could barely speak.

You’d woken the next morning alone, as you always did. Your husband would only share your bed for the act of siring an heir, and would always be gone by the time you woke. It didn’t bother you, you told yourself as you woke cold and sore. It was perfectly expectable for a husband to act this way. And you would do your duty, as you’d been taught to, so it hardly mattered if he was there when you woke. He didn’t need to be next to you in the morning to get a child on you, so why would he? It was this cold logic that helped you through your bath and preparations for the day.

===

Two moons later, and your husband had not refrained from exhausting you thoroughly every night. He stayed a little longer, waiting for you to be asleep before he would make his exit, and sometimes you swore you could feel his fingers caressing whatever body part was exposed to him. Though it was surely the musings of a well-sated, completely exhausted woman.

The Master of Coin’s attentions had not faded either, though this made you less than pleased. It was hard to desire leaving the Tower without your husband, knowing Baelish would find you inevitably. He had gotten into the habit of placing your hand on his arm when he could get away with it, which was often as he avoided your husband at all costs. There was no love lost between Littlefinger and the Great Lion.

“Your husband is making a three day expedition to the surrounding towns. Something the Hand does every year or so.”

“Yes, he’s mentioned it. He’s made arrangements accordingly.”

“You must be excited to see more of King’s Landing, my lady.”

“I have requested to stay behind,” you say offhandedly. You were hoping to gauge his intentions by telling him this. The look of determination, and something much like scheming, settled in his eyes. It frightened you.

With the desire to be away from this man and near to your husband, you bid the Master of Coin farewell and walked away before he could follow.

Entering the Tower and seeing your husband hard at work at his desk brought you a feeling of peace you did not realise he gave you.

“Wife,” he said simply.

“My Lord,” you always replied. There was a settee by the window, and in the time you’d been married to Tywin you’d never seen him sit there. You walked to his bookshelf, grabbed whatever spine took your interest and sat at the settee to read. Your husband made no comment, so you did not move.

A couple hours of silence followed, you reading about agricultural infrastructure and him responding to raven after raven.

“You’re disturbed,” he says suddenly.

“I grew weary of people watching me.” It was not quite a lie, but again, how could you be honest that you were hiding from the Master of Coin? That you thought he was up to something? That and how quickly you tired these days. Being married was exhausting, especially when your husband could not seem to get enough of your attentions at night.

“I leave on the morrow for the Tour of the Hand. I had summoned my sister to come for a few weeks to the capitol and she arrived today, but is resting. Mostly to get her away from that miserable husband of hers,” he added. He’d been doing that over the last few weeks, adding details that he usually wouldn’t if you were anyone else. It felt like a token, of what you couldn’t say, but something from him to you regardless.

Your anxiety got in the way of any warmth. Without Tywin, Baelish would have no deterrent to keep him from approaching you, even calling on you in your chambers if he was bold. Having Genna Lannister (never Genna Frey) would perhaps be a hindrance rather than a help. You didn’t know the woman, and the only other Lannister woman in the capitol made no efforts to get to know you.

“I shall look forward to meeting her, my Lord.” He hummed and that was that.

Later that night, after dinner, your husband summoned you to his chambers. Usually he’d cross the dividing parlour between your rooms and bed you there, but he obviously couldn’t be bothered to make the journey, you thought.

He was undressing you as he made sure to do every night, never letting you do it yourself. You undressed him, he’d instructed you on your wedding night, and he would undress you. It was only when you were splayed across his bed, hair unbound and laid across the pillows when his eyes darted to your midsection.

Palming your lower abdomen, and seemingly finding what he was looking for, he said, “You are carrying my babe in your belly, wife.”

The words brought dread. Would he stop his attentions? You hadn’t realised how much you liked them until they might be taken away. But then his words actually sunk in. A baby. There was a babe in your belly, your own, and in some moons it’d be in your arms, gods willing.

Tywin watched as you smiled small at first, then sat up and felt where his hand cupped the slight swell. He saw a true smile from you, one bright and warm as the fire in his chambers that crackled merrily. Tywin felt annoyed that he would have to leave you come morn, especially now that the next lion of Casterly Rock was in your belly. And quietly, perhaps he enjoyed the way you sat with him, and wanted more of the same.

Feeling pride at making his wife smile, and that he’d gotten a babe in her so quickly after their marriage, he kissed you breathless until you pulled away for air. It didn’t stop him from trailing kisses across your neck and collarbones, down to your breasts, which were heaving by now. He couldn’t wait to see them swell in the coming moons.

You thought he would stop there, return to you and get on with it, but he moved lower and lower, until he was staring into your most private place. It was embarrassing for a few moments, until he leaned forward and began kissing you there too. It was overwhelming. So perfect, making you writhe and pant. You never begged, but if he toyed with you like this long enough, you were sure you would.

“You’ve done well, wife. Allow me to reward you,” he purred before his tongue went inside. This, you decided, was well worth it to have waited for. In no time at all the sounds of him kissing you there overtook the fire and even your own deep, heavy breaths were drowned out. “One lion stronger, soon to be two,” he said as you peaked over his lips and tongue.

===

You woke a little after you’d both fallen asleep, tired and sated and, dare you think, happy at the prospect of the babe. It took you a moment to realise you weren’t in your own rooms, and that this was the first time you were waking up beside your husband.

He was laid out on his back, long legs nearly stretching the entire length of enormous bed, one of his arms bent underneath his pillow, and one stretched to rest under your pillow. You only allowed yourself a moment to admire him before quietly getting out of bed, collecting your clothes and moving like a ghost to your own rooms. It was hardly an hour past midnight, and you felt so tired all the time (from the babe you now realised) that all you wanted was to sleep.

Tywin woke an hour before dawn to an empty bed, and this infuriated him somehow. To be left while he slept made him feel as though you’d taken your pleasure and gone away from him. The only thought that stopped him from barging into your rooms was how that’s exactly what he did to you every night but the one you’d just shared.

Getting up from bed and throwing on a dressing gown to cover his nudity he marched directly to your rooms, finding you curled up by the edge of the bed, as though leaving a space for someone else. This appeased him in a way he couldn’t ascertain, but he needn’t linger. It was early still, and he didn’t need to be up and out of the Tower until after breakfast in a rare change of schedule.

He approached your sleeping form and gently manoeuvred you so he could scoop you up. You hummed, then frowned and blinked an eye open.

“M’Lord?” you mumbled.

“Hush,” he soothed, using the voice he’d found you reacted particularly well to. “I woke to find my wife missing from my bed,” he explained softly. “I am simply rectifying the issue.”

“Didn’t think you wanted me to stay,” you sighed, shutting your eyes and allowing him to grip you behind the knees and scoop you by your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you said, and Tywin was distracted by how sweet and docile you were when sleepy.

“Hush, I said,” he murmured by your temple. You curled closer to him at that, and his chest rumbled in satisfaction. “From now on, you stay in my bed.”

“With you?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes softening, though you’d never know with your eyes shut. “With me.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Tywin, he wanted to say. Call me Tywin, anything but that. He did not. He was asleep again in moments now that you were back in his chambers, and you’d been asleep again before he set you in the centre of the bed.

When you woke, your husband was still in bed with you, an arm wrapped round your waist, hand splayed over your slight swelling. When he woke a few minutes after you, your husband tightened his hold and pulled you closer. This was new, you thought. But delightful. You realised more and more how pleased you were that you married such a fine man, even if you’d never share a love or more intimacy than expected of you in public. This was enough, you told yourself. It had to be.

You both laid together for a while, and during that time you wondered if your husband would truly listen to you if you mentioned Baelish. But then he rose to dress in time for a midday departure, and you decided the moment had past. You would be able to handle Baelish. You were a lion now.

Genna Lannister was already sat at the breakfast table, and you almost did a double take. Where Tywin was sleek apparel and minimal embellishments, Genna was the opposite. She wore a scarlet gown that accentuated her plump figure, gold dripping from her ears and throat and wrists, and hair done so elaborately you wondered how long she’d been awake to have managed such a style. And she was vivacious as they came.

You enjoyed her immediately.

“Sister!” she announced at your arrival, standing and coming to greet you as though you were long time friends. It didn’t feel predatory the way Baelish or the Queen could be, so you smiled and greeted her the same way.

“No greeting to your Lord Brother?” Tywin grouched.

“Oh, are you here as well, Tywin?” Genna teased. He huffed and pulled out your chair, assisting you into it before seating himself and glaring at his sister to do the same so they may eat.

“And how is my big brother, then?”

“You’re only being tame because you think I have a secret.”

“On the contrary, brother, I know you have a secret, and even better than that, I already know what it is.” She turned to face you and smiled truly at you. “Congratulations, sister,” she said sweetly. “And you! What a greedy lion you must be to get a child on her so fast!”

“Genna,” he warned, seeing your embarrassed flush. The blonde only laughed and waved him away. And Tywin let her! What a marvel this woman, her sister, was turning out to be.

“Oh, quit your growling and eat your porridge, brother.” And Tywin did just that.

It was a lively breakfast that came to an end when Tywin excused himself to prepare for his departure. You curtsied when he bowed to you both before taking his leave.

“Tell me, my dear, have you thought of names?”

“I only discovered last night I was withchild, and it was even my husband who’d figured it out. Do you have suggestions?”

“Genna for a girl,” she joked. “Tyton is a strong name. Perhaps Tywin will like it, too.” You agreed, and you did like Tyton. It was a strong name.

Genna, after a tour of the Tower, insisted on a walk around the gardens before seeing Tywin off. Baelish did not appear, to your relief, but his absence was almost as worrying. He was up to something you could tell, but what? Maybe you could confide in Genna?

In the end, you saw off your husband as a good wife should, not even having to pretend very much that you were sad to see him go. The Queen hadn’t paid an inch of attention to you besides a look of distaste after she greeted her Lady Aunt. And then it was back inside for you and Genna to read, then eat and retire.

The next day, you realised that yes, you missed your husband. Already you were wishing the three days would end so he could be by your side again. Your anxiety about Baelish had only worsened since you’d found you were having a babe, and Tywin had suggest you both wait to see the maester until after he returned. The news would spread fast that the Lady Lannister was withchild, and Tywin had said he didn’t want to be far when that happened, in case of anything. You’d wanted to lean up and kiss him when he said that, but you refrained, certain he’d shoo you away.

“My dear, you look exhausted. Come, we’ll prepare for bed then retire.”

You nodded to Genna, who had doted on you in a rather maternal way since her arrival. She’d helped you to undress, then into your nightgown and bed, wishing you sweet dreams before going to her own chambers on the level below.

It was dark when you were disturbed by something. The fire had died down (no one but Tywin could make a fire that would last the whole night) and the room was pitch black. You turned to sleep again when something foul smelling fell over you mouth and nose. You struggled against the stranger’s hand, trying not to breathe in whatever was soaked into the cloth. To your horror, your body was relaxing, your mind losing consciousness. Your last coherent thought was a desperate yearning for Tywin.

===

Genna woke and dressed, her handmaiden well versed in her hair enough to do it all in half an hour, and was sitting at the breakfast table waiting for you. When half an hour past and she heard no movement from yours and her brother’s chambers, she made her way to them herself. If the maids were too incompetent to wake you then she’d do it herself.

Upon entering the room, she stopped short. You were not in bed, and there were no maids fluttering about as they would if you were bathing. Genna had learned to trust her intuition and felt something was deeply wrong, especially as the bed looked as though you’d had a restless sleep. She wanted to believe you were just up early and perhaps strolling the gardens, but Genna knew that wasn’t the case.

She called for the guards, and told them to gather as many Lannister men as they could to search the Keep for the Lady Lannister. She hoped beyond hope she was wrong, but she so rarely was.

===

You woke to darkness and the gentle sway of a ship sailing, and thought yourself dreaming before you jolted upright. You were in a cabin on a ship, that much was obvious. What wasn’t, was why you were there, who’d taken you and where you were going. Dread settled in your gut. Would your husband find out? A silly question. He possibly already knew. What you were frightened to consider was that he might think you’d run away. Your heart gave a fierce pang of longing for your husband yet again, and then steely resolve filled you. There was a desk in the room you were in, one obviously well used, if the stacks of papers, inkwell and sacks of coins were any indication.

You stood, saw a dress laid out on the bed, one of dark blue decorated with swirls in a pattern you knew Baelish to favour. You should have said something, you thought bitingly. You should have gone with your husband. Then you’d be exhausted but safe, and with him.

You dressed in the gown quickly, fearing someone would come in as you were underdressed. The gown had pockets, as was custom in southern dresses now that the Queen had made it so. A plan was forming in your head about what to do, and with the nimbleness of a mouse and the resolve of a lionness, you grabbed the smallest coin pouch, checked to see it had golden stags, then bound the pouch tight as you could to avoid clinking, pocketed it, then sat on the bed and waited.

Baelish came in after a time, not that you were surprised, but you had a part to play now, and you’d need to be convincing. Your life and your babe’s counted on it.

“Lord Baelish?”

“Hello, my dear.”

“My Lord, what has happened? Did my husband send for you?”

“Your husband,” Baelish began, walking to sit beside you on the bed. It was a violation of etiquette, though you didn’t show any discomfort. “Will no longer be an issue.”

Your heart almost stopped, but then you reasoned even Petyr Baelish could not kill your husband. Tywin was too well-protected and too intelligent to be caught off guard as you had.

“He has sent me away?” you asked, playing the distraught little wife.

Baelish made to speak, to deny your words, you knew. Then he paused, and you saw that he considered you believing this the favourable option.

“He did, my Lady. He had men retrieve you from your bed, but my own intercepted them and brought you aboard my ship. I intended to offer you a spot anyway, to come with me to the Vale where my betrothed awaits us.”

You allowed a faux tear to fall, and your head to droop down to your chest.

“He isn’t fond of me,” you admitted quietly. You weren’t sure it was a lie, so it was easy to say so.

“He neglects you, my Lady. You are such a treasure,” he said, the obvious lust making your stomach roll. You only managed to nod. “We’ll be docking soon, my Lady. I sent another ship to Dorne and we will be docking nearby to the capitol to avoid suspicion. Why would we be so close when there’s a ship making to across the sea?”

“Very clever, my Lord,” you said softly. He smirked at you then brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear, you blushed and turned away, and it was enough to deter him from pushing for more. You felt sick that he was touching you, feeling as though you were somehow being unfaithful to your husband. You couldn’t let on that you thought this, so you didn’t.

You waited until you heard Baelish disembarking the ship with great fanfare, stating something about needing to settle some business in the port town you were docked at. It was very late at night, you couldn’t have been sailing for more than three or so hours, but regardless, it was many days walk and at least a day’s ride by horse to return to the capitol. You found a cloak and some old breeches and tunics in a closet, boots that were too big, so you stuffed some cloth under and around your foot. It made you a few inches taller, more convincing in your disguise as a sailor. You pinned your hair back with whatever you could find and slipped out of the cabin to find a guard slumped over in sleep outside your door. You hadn’t known he was there, but by the grace of the Mother, you had a chance.

You walked off the ship in no particular hurry to avoid suspicion, then made your way to the nearest stable you could see, banging on the door until someone answered.

“What d’ya want,” a grisly looking man groused once he opened the door. You placed the coin pouch in his hands.

“Give me your best horse, saddle it immediately and the coin is yours.” He nodded, looking at you strangely before doing as you asked.

“I dunno who yer runnin’ from, girl, but ye better be fast. An’ ‘ere,” he said handing you a pouch of what you discovered to be bread and some apples. “Some for ye, and some for the stallion,” he explained.

“I thank you,” you said quietly.

“Go on now. Sun’s comin’ soon.” And off you rode.

It was in the heat of the midday sun you began to feel poorly. Your legs were sore and chafing, your hips aching, and you hadn’t dared stop to rest or eat lest Baelish discover you. You wouldn’t rest until you were back with your husband, this you vowed.

===

“A raven, milord, from your Lady Sister,” the squire said as Tywin retired to his tent. By the morrow, he’d be back in his own chambers with his wife, and able to be rid of the grime that always managed to build up on the road.

He sat first, poured some wine, and took a long sip before unrolling the parchment and reading the note.

“Prepare my horse!” he roared moments after having read the note a third time. Men sprang into action, some packing his tent and others preparing to depart with their Liege Lord. Within minutes he was riding hard into the night and back to King’s Landing.

His wife had waited for him to be gone then she’d stolen away in the night with his babe inside her. He was furious, and he rode like it. How dare she, he thought. You had tried to make a fool of him and no one fooled the Great Lion and got away with it. Beyond his anger, he realised his chest was tight. She’d left, was all he could think. And he’d fancied himself to be growing fond of her. What a fool.

“I want a patrol to set out immediately,” he said to yet another squire as he marched into the Red Keep. “Find my runaway bride and bring her to me unharmed.”

“Yes, milord!” And away the boy went.

Genna was pacing in his study when he arrived, a worried look on her face she only wore for her family (minus her husband), then regarded him intensely.

“She did not run, Tywin.”

“She did,” he gritted out.

“She didn’t. She fretted the entire day you left, asked me about a dozen times where I thought you might be as the day passed. She did not leave, brother.”

And loathe as he was to admit it, his sister was far more perceptive than she had any right to be. If she believed his wife had not run from him, then he would try to believe the same. His anger immediately turned to angst.

“Then she was taken, and is likely gone to me forever if she is not found in the next days.” His voice was low, growlish, and Gemma saw right through it.

“She’s a smart little thing, Tywin, and we have some leads already. Have hope, brother.”

“She is carrying my babe,” he said, though his sister knew him too well not to know what he truly meant.

“She is your wife, brother, and she at least takes her vows seriously. She would not betray you like this, and I happen to think she will try everything in her power to come back.”

Tywin realised she could very well be dead already. How apt of the gods, to thrust a wife upon him he had no want for, then to take her from him when he did.

“I’ll kill whoever did this,” he said quietly. He felt his sister’s hand on his shoulder and clenched his fists. He wished for his wife in that moment, their easy silences and the way she seemed to seek him out just to be near to him. “And I’ll never let her leave my sight again.”

===

There was a point where even your horse refused to go farther, and you had to agree. It was nearing nightfall, and you were exhausted. Your whole body ached, and you thanked the gods you weren’t heavier withchild or riding wouldn’t have been an option.

You settled for the night, ate the bread the stable hand had packed you and fed all but one apple to your horse, who munched happily on them then the grass, then promptly went to sleep near you. It was a sweet horse, and didn’t mind when you laid next to it, leaning your tired body on its side.

You slept for hardly a few hours before dreams of Baelish catching you and Tywin truly having sent those men woke you. Rousing the horse, who seemed grumpy at being woken, you re-saddled him and began a lighter pace. You had already begun to recognise your surroundings, and made haste again towards the capitol. When you crested a hill and saw the top of the Red Keep in the distance, you burst into tears of relief and pushed your horse to ride on. He seemed to understand your anxiety to be home, and did as you bade him. You patted his neck the entire way through the sleepy King’s Landing, and all the way to the King’s Gate.

“Who goes there,” the gate master called out at your arrival. Your must’ve looked like a commoner with your drab coat and less than quality clothes. They probably thought you stole the horse.

Pulling back your hood, you revealed your face, unpinned your hair and announced yourself.

“I am Lady Lannister,” you said, and heard murmuring follow. A guard came down to you, shone a torch in your face and upon recognising you, he called for the gates to open and for someone to retrieve the Hand.

They escorted you up to the Palace steps, and assured you they’d take care of your horse, before a servant came to take you to your chambers. You could hardly walk, so sore from the saddle, and exhausted beyond belief. You were nearly at the Tower when a commotion caught your attention.

Ahead of you, you saw your husband. He was still dressed from the day and did not look to have slept, despite it being nearly dawn. He laid his eyes on you, and both of you sprang to go to the other.

Your legs protested the pace, but you hurried down the hall to him. In several long strides he reached you and pulled you to his chest, arms locking around you tight. You cried again, clutching the lapels on his doublet.

“Hush, wife,” he said, though you cried harder at his voice. He picked you up into his arms, told the guards to stand by the door on rotation, then took you inside the Tower.

You had cried all through him undressing you, and himself, all through the bath he’d ordered be delivered, and all through him washing your sore, bruised and chafed body. Only when you were back in your bed did you finally settle enough to speak.

“I didn’t run from you, I swear it, I swear it,” you repeated to him, begging him without words to believe you. He caressed your body from hip to shoulder, holding you tight.

“I know you didn’t, wife, though I had initially assumed that to be the case,” he said as though it shamed him to have thought that.

“Baelish,” you gasped. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think— I didn’t think you’d believe me, but I should’ve said, I should’ve gone with you,” you explained, though you didn’t really explain much at all.

“Baelish took you?” he growled, arms tightening around you. You nodded.

“He had two ships, one to Dorne and one to the Vale. We docked in the night to not look suspicious, and I found clothes and stole a pouch of coin, slipped off the ship and bought a horse. I rode all the way here, I hardly stopped.”

Tywin would be the one to kill Baelish, he decided. For making his wife afraid, for taking her from him and for putting his babe in potential danger. He would make it slow as possible without being outright torture if he could manage, though the idea certainly had merit.

“I was so frightened,” you admitted quietly, looking up from your husband’s chest to peer at him in the eyes. “Scared he’d get me all the way to the Vale, and then I’d never be able to get away. Scared he’d know about the babe and— and give me something to kill it,” you said voice cracking. You lifted a palm to his cheek, the first time you’d ever reached for him outside of marital duties. He leaned into your palm, eyes fixed on you. “I was so scared I’d never be able to see you again, my Lord.”

“Tywin,” he said, desperate, though you couldn’t tell it was that. “You call me Tywin.”

“Tywin,” you breathed, and then his mouth was on you. He called you wife, he called you lady, he called your name, all with ‘my’ attached. He did not leave you as you drifted into an exhausted sleep, nor as you rested. Not for anything. His grandson could summon him and he’d tell him to talk a walk off a balcony railing. He would not let you go, not ever again.

“I’m here,” you whispered in your slumber, arms equally tight around him. “I’m here, Tywin.”

He kissed your hairline, smelling the soaps he’d used to wash you, the ones you always smelled of. He couldn’t believe someone had dared to steal you from him, to take his lady wife.

“I thought you might’ve been…” he could not finish the thought. It would make him think of the familiar grief he carried with him every day, the one of a man who’d lost his wife. He could not compete with gods and nature, but he could certainly compete with Baelish.

“It would need more than a mockingbird to defeat a lionness,” you purred. His worry for you had made you feel needy, and you knew he hated neediness.

“You will not leave me,” he commanded, and your heart gave way to the affection you held off for so long.

“Never,” you agreed. “And if I go anywhere, I’ll take you with me,” you said, kissing him firmly, your fist time initiating such an embrace. He gave into you immediately, ravishing your mouth and neck and chest with those marks he was so fond of, and truly, you were fond of them too. Maybe you’d even be daring enough to leave your own.

He made love to you that morning, as the birds sang so did you, though to Tywin, your song was much sweeter.

It was some weeks before your husband brought up your kidnapping again. He had been fiercely protective since your return to him, and there wasn’t a moment you were unguarded. There was no Baelish in the capitol anymore, so you felt at ease enough to return to the gardens as you used to, though now you had Genna for company, who was doting and funny, and kept your spirits high through the stress of the recent moon.

You were declared in perfect health despite the bruising and chafing by a maester Tywin trusted. You thanked the gods every day since your return for keeping your babe safe through the turmoil.

“My dear,” Genna said, pulling you from your daydreaming. “Have you thought it might be twins?”

That night, you asked Tywin if he agreed with his sister, and after careful consideration, he agreed you were larger than usual for so early on. His eyes darkened, and he pulled you to bed within moments.

Your husband, you’d learned in the recent weeks, was needier than he let on. Always wanting to touch, always wanting to kiss your sweet mouth when privacy allowed it, and gods, did his desire for you become plain as the sun in the sky. He could not get enough of you, how your hips were widening and your breasts were swelling, how your stomach had begun to protrude noticeably. He was prideful as a lion, especially with evidence of his virility in the form of his beautiful wife carrying his babe.

On a day where you wanted nothing more than to nap and read in your husband’s solar while he worked, there was finally news of Baelish. His ships had been sacked by the Greyjoys, and he’d been held prisoner there for a sennight. Tywin allowed you to see his correspondence thereafter with the Greyjoys, and you nearly baulked at the sum of money he’d offered for Baelish, alive.

And, as in most things, Tywin got his way, and Baelish was delivered to the capitol in chains. He certainly looked worse for wear, and you privately found satisfaction in that.

Baelish had demanded a trial by combat, and a knight well known in Dorne had stepped forward to be his fighter. Tywin had wanted to fight himself, but as Hand to the King, he resided as a judge on the case and was not permitted. His son, Jaime, had volunteered to fight on, technically, your behalf, though he was officially representing the Hand.

Jaime arrived to the fight in Lannister gold and red, declared he fought as the son of the Great Lion, and would fight for his Liege Lady. He nodded to you in the Dragon Pit, where the fight was to take place, and you nodded back in appreciation of the message. Even the Queen, who had mellowed around you some with your pregnancy and her aunt’s intervention, had nodded approvingly.

The fight was far shorter than any would’ve expected, the Dornish fighter far more flashy than skilled. He was no match for Jaime, who was considered one of the greatest knights in history.

Baelish’s head hung low as his champion yielded, and Tywin had insisted he be executed then and there. You watched as your husband swung the sword himself, and forced yourself to witness Baelish’s head fall from his shoulders.

Later, when you were finished being sick, Tywin scolded you.

“You needn’t do things like that, watching something so violent. I should have had you escorted back to our chambers.”

You graciously took his hand as he led you to bed after you’d rinsed your mouth and chewed some mint leaves.

“I would not have agreed to be away from you,” you said simply, watching Tywin’s frown deepen and his chest simultaneously puff at your desire to always be by his side.

You’d grown bolder in your affections for him slowly everyday since your return. You touched him all the time now, and he revelled in it.

“Lay with me,” you requested sweetly, patting his side of the bed. Your stomach was certainly too large for a single babe, and sleeping had already become difficult for you, only made easier with your husband’s arms around you. It was inconvenient, but he would sooner bring his work to bed than give you reason to shy from him again.

“And how are my little lions,” he said as he reclined and cradled your belly in his palm.

“They’re— oh!” You exclaimed, reaching for your belly, a frown furrowing your brow.

“What is it?” he asked at once, dread taking him. But you smiled suddenly, grabbed his hand and pressed it firmly to the other side. He was about to call for a maester when he felt the fluttering kicks of his children (he was convinced there were three, though you vehemently hoped not).

“They’re saying hello to their papa,” you sighed as he began massaging your bump, as though playing with the babes inside.

He moved lower on the bed, pressed his mouth to your skin and hummed. You laughed as the babes wriggled inside you, the feeling odd and bordering on uncomfortable, but to see this man, your husband, so gentle with you and with children that did not yet quite exist, your heart felt fuller than ever.

“Tywin,” you called, prompting him to look up at you. “You are dearer to me than any other, my lion.”

Your husband smiled and crawled back up to your lips to kiss them. He did not say anything back, but he made the most gentle love to you, whispering your name and how lovely you were, how good a mother you’d be to his babes. By the time you peaked, tears had been streaming down your face, wiped away each time by the gentle hand of your man.

#tywin x reader #tywin lannister x reader #got x reader #game of thrones #tywin lannister #genna lannister

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phntmeii · 8 months

Text

♡ Dating Jaime Lannister Headcanons:

❝ He kept saying… burn them all. ❝

[SFW + No Gendered Terms]

General Warnings: Angst with comfort, Trauma, Mentions of Incest, Mentions of torture, Mentions of sex

A/N: Sadly this got taken down before so this is a redone version :( This isn’t an identical list to the previous one but hopefully more detailed!!

Redemption Era:

> Jaime has been through hell and back. The disillusionment of everything he ever pushed away setting in and he doesn’t feel worthy anymore.

> He could masquerade his regrets with his ego for so long. Failing innocent after innocent, he could hold himself in high regard for the one thing people shames him for most: Being a Kingslayer, as he knew it was for a good reason.

> But being so long away from his family for months on end, being a captive prisoner who was constantly berated and abused, and being mutilated, he’s become a shell of himself.

> Being with him in these moments is an uphill battle because he simultaneously craves being loved but pushes you away constantly.

> He doesn’t know how to be loved outside of how Cersei treated him. After all, he was infatuated with his sister but it was a constant toxic push-and-pull relationship.

> Jaime is more closed-off, more stoic and perhaps a more temperamental even. He would hesitate to even entertain the idea of intimacy with anyone.

> Then those feelings start to build and he’s confused. He’s not an idiot nor blind—he knows when someone is objectively attractive but he’s never acted on intimate feelings because he was loyal to Cersei. But now he’s treated with disgust for his lacking hand and you’re still there.

> Jaime would simply stare for a while at you. Trying to figure out why you. Why couldn’t his eyes keep away from you?

> He would imagine what it would feel like to be with you behind closed doors. To hold you and touch you when everything and everyone was shut out besides you two. But who wants a one-handed man?

> You would have to be the one to initiate. He’d hesitate and flinch away at the close contact at first before giving in and softly meeting your lips.

> He's incredibly gentle with you. It's as though he worries he could break you with the slightest touch.

> "It is not that I wish to be away from you. But I feel as though... I do not understand how to love the right way anymore."

> Jaime is slow to open up, if ever within the first few months and it's understandable as to why. Even in this state, he has more faith in you than anyone else.

> Jaime's main Love Languages are: Acts of Service and Quality Time.

> Jaime wants to feel useful even with his missing arm. If he can do something for you even without it, he considers it “proving his worth”. :(

> This can be any sort of thing that he can be of assistance in so long as it helps you out in some way.

> Jaime would be more than happy if you asked him for help in something. He's dropping everything he's doing for you immediately.

> This would also include in the bedroom. Highly doubt Cersei wouldn’t have taught Jaime what felt good for women or not so he’s quite proficient in pleasing you. It’s one of those moments where he can brag.

> “Still good with this hand, love, don’t you worry.”

> While he can be busy or taken up by his duties, that is why quality time is so important to him. He wants specific, well-thought out, dedicated time just for the two of you.

> Often times, it may be a lunch or dinner of sorts. It's time just for the two of you to talk with no interruptions.

> He's also a fan of the lingering moments after bedding, wrapped in each other's arms. There's something about the warmth of each other's bodies in the after-bliss that just melts him.

> Jaime’s favorite Love Languages to receive are: Physical Touch and Words of Affirmation.

> Unfortunately, due to Cersei’s treatment of Jaime through their own relationship, Jaime values himself through sexuality.

> He feels something is wrong if sex is not on the table at each interaction you two have. It takes a while for this to be unraveled.

> Touching him in an intimate and romantic manner: holding his cheek, brushing through his hair with your fingers, kissing his scars, etc. has him confused.

> He stares for a while blankly and can feel himself for once feel something he hasn’t in a long while: fear. Such affections were unknown to him in the way you did them. They weren’t for favors, manipulations, or to be used for selfish gratifications. They were for him to know he’s loved.

> Jaime can honestly cry at this. Just going limp in his posing rather than having his shoulders back and head high and planting his head into your chest or on your shoulder and silently crying.

> Another thing is reminders on how loved he is. He’s more uncertain of himself. He is still a Lannister, don’t get me wrong. He keeps an ego and level of confidence to him. But he’s not sure as to if he’s doing well by you.

> A compliment on his sword skills while he’s sparring has him returning to that cocky grin he always used to have while brushing it off as nothing. Inside, he feels warmth in his chest that he’s still good at that with his left hand.

> Admiring his body even with his missing hand is initially met with disbelief and disregard. No one looks at a one-handed man and says anything good. Slowly over time with you though, and it puts a warm smile on his face.

⤷ divider credits: @cafekitsune

#asoiaf #asoiaf headcanons #game of thrones #game of thrones headcanons #got #asoiaf x reader #jaime lannister #jaime lannister x y/n #jaime lannister x you #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister headcanons #jaime lannister headcanon #game of thrones x reader

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rise-my-angel · 10 months

Text

Heart of the Great Wolf

4 - Standing Behind a Betrayal

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 13.5k

Warnings: Angst/hurt comfort, bodily injury, implied reference to sexual assault, implied reference to child murder, character death, mild description of gory wounds, blood and violence, imprisonment, talk of execution, slow burn, slight canon divergence

Notes: We won't be in Kings Landing forever but the action safe to say is about to pick up. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here.

So much had to be left out, the bare bones of what occurred was the only thing you could risk sending to Winterfell. You had sat in his office writing to Robb about the incident in the street, but your eyes had routinely drifted to the tome still sat on the desk. It wasn’t just Jaime Lannister that bothered you, it was everything here. This city, the mystery, and how left in the dark you were despite the whispers all around you.

While investigating one thing, another issue had come to Eddard Stark’s feet before him leaving him weak, injured, and asleep in bed as you leaned back in the chair. Many times you’d look at him, then eye the book and distract from something else. More then once you looked over the words you’d read many times, descriptions of the Baratheon family which all looked and sounded the same. What had been in here that Jon Arryn was looking for, why did King Robert’s bastard children have something to do with it?

That last time, your eyes had drifted to the passage of his true born children, their golden heads did little to describe what an atrocity the eldest was. The passage stuck out to you, it did that night as you slept, and even louder in your mind as you went that next morning to confront Renly.

“I don’t see why you care so much, you think what the realm needs is one more monarch screeching about taking the throne?” You had whipped around at him, your eyes wide and lips parted in surprise when he seemed to notice the mistake.

Opening and closing his mouth, he failed to back up in time before you jumped. “One more?” As he looked away, you took a step forward and still he refused to meet your eye. “There’s no justice in punishing for a crime they haven’t committed, you know that.”

Swallowing, Renly had shrugged without committing much to the beleivability of his casualness. It was a mask that he was getting worse at playing every day it felt. “There are still people who think Roberts a usurper.” He was avoiding his own casualness in his support of murdering the remaining Targaeyans.

Looking to the side with a slight eye roll, you crossed your arms over your chest. “Yes, his name is Viserys Targaryean and he is half way across the world, Renly. Even if he managed to land here who is going to support him? How down trodden do you think the people are that they would welcome the son of the mad king in with open arms after over twenty years of Robert keeping the peace?”

The way he looked at you hit something that was unsettling. It was the eyes you’d seen in all three of the elder brothers, it was the face that was a mirror to the one you had seen in the boy, Gendry. It was the hair that all of you held, the hair on Shireen you’d sit behind her and carefully brush out in the early mornings.

His words were tough, forced out through a somewhat clenched jaw. “Think, my dear niece. Which one of us is really the one who doesn’t belong?” He at that moment expected no answer, immediately moving around the room to change subjects. “Anyways, there’s no chance you could go speak to him and convince him to not bring me hunting?”

Leaning against the wall, you shrugged. “I don’t see what about it has you complaining so much.”

Huffing, he turned to you with an incredulous look. “You’ve never hunted with Robert. I’m in for two weeks at the bare minimum of being dragged across the kingswood as he drinks, boasts endlessly about his own kills while he complains that I haven’t done enough myself.”

“By enough, you mean any?” He glared at your smirking face. “It’s hunting, Renly he’s not shipping you off the war.”

Gathering his things, he passed you by. “I’d take war over Roberts boars and hunting whores any day, or is it the other way around?” Securing the leather around his chest he looked at you with a sigh. “So, do I look the part?”

Narrowing your eyes, you barley looked him over. “One hunting trip won’t kill you, stop complaining and go already.” Leaving with him as he closed his door, you two walked down the halls towards the King’s own quarters. Renly fussing over the attire all the way, you were not truly sure if it was hunting in general he wasn’t pleased do be doing, or if it was just the fact that he was doing it with Robert.

Not that he would be pleased with joining your father either. Where Renly preferred luxury, and Robert preferred loud and charging, your father’s hunts were out of necessity. Find food, move quiet and be silent. No hunting party, no drinks not that of water, and wasting no time in trying to kill such big game for glory. There was no great feast for just that of the hunt either, spending more luxury just to celebrate a clean kill was to waste it on those who didn’t need it.

Considering the state of Flea Bottom, King Robert certainly was hunting just to find any glory in his rage rather then for practicality. You had hunted before, but certainly not with the King and you could sympathize with how little the idea appealed to you.

Coming upon the hallway, you nodded towards Ser Barristan, standing straight and at the ready as he greeted the ever growing morose Renly. He walked in first, being accosted by his brother loudly about no other way to prove your salt as a man.

Ser Barristan stepping forward, a small smile on your lips as he greeted you. “Do you know how long his grace intends to be out there?” Saying he didn’t, you sighed as shoulders deflated a bit. Voice lowering as you stepped forward. “I’m not sure who he’s trying to take his anger out on with this trip, the Targaryean girl or Lord Stark.”

Tilting his head as one side of his mouth raised slightly, he lowered his head closer to yours. “His Grace has a misguided tendency to focus on the wrong things when things get heated.” You both glanced at the door, hearing something between the King and his squire causing Ser Barristan to pull you a step away with a hand on your upper arm. “Forgive me, my Lady but I sense something else is wrong.”

Arms crossing, you closed your eyes only for as long as you exhaled the increasing race of your heart before standing straight. “I shouldn’t say but,” Looking up, you saw the gentle expression of a man who has never shown even an inkling of the kind of darkness looming in this city. He was a man of honour, and yet unlike Lord Stark this one seemed to have stood the test and remained untouched and as confident as ever. “I’ve known you since I was a girl, and I know you care about the King.”

His smile growing more as it did fond, “I remember his grace hearing the news of your birth. It wasn’t long after he and the Queen lost their first boy. Lord Arryn had to talk him down from jumping on a ship to go to Dragonstone that same day.” They rarely spoke of that first boy, a little black haired boy that fell sick and passed before he had even spoken his first word. “Losing that boy, and having his brother soon after have a healthy baby girl of his own. I think the King saw you as something that could’ve been.”

The King had visited Dragonstone much later before you had been moved with your father to Kings Landing. A strong memory of who at that time, was just Uncle Robert. Your father instilling manners had yet to fully sink in, and that was worsened by the much lighter both in set in mind King. He was still lean enough to snatch you up and fling you around in his arms.

The loud and furious yell having echoed in the small council chamber in those days was only that of playful growling and yelling as he pretended your three year old self was just too strong for him. You had pulled him and Ser Barristan around the cliffs of your home that first day for hours. Talking about this place as if it were the most fascinating place you’d ever seen. When Robert was attending things with his brother, you were left with Ser Barristan.

Even now, two decades later you still could recall the Honourable Knight reaching down and hoisting you in his arms, holding you up so you could look at the sea from a high point. You had gotten sad, saying that you hated your family being so far away. One Uncle in Kings Landing, the other Uncle in Storms End you only had your father and mother at that point. You asked if he ever missed the people he loves, and he smiled. Telling you that he had loved many, even had women who he would’ve loved to marry and be like your family. He had simply told you he is bound by honour to his duty, and that “Love is the death of duty, my little lady.”

Now though, older and more calm in his post you looked at him and hoped that he found solace in such a thought. Your duty wasn’t to pry, it was to listen and obey commands but yet you stood here thinking of those you loved. The King was not a man you recognized anymore, but he once was the Uncle you loved. “I know I likely don’t have to tell this to you, but he’s a danger to himself when he’s like this. He can’t push himself the way he used too, and I think he forgets that.”

Nodding once, his voice was low. “There’s something else you’re not saying.”

Your resolve broke a bit, the genuine concern and care in his face much like that of Lord Stark’s made the information feel like it should be shared. But it had painted a target on three people’s backs so far, one of which is dead, the other left with an injury and forced to remain in the very position he had willingly walked away from. How long would you remain unscathed, how long would anyone else should you be selfish enough to bring them into it?

You both glanced at the open door as the three inside came out. The King followed by a still childishly grumbling Renly, and Lancel Lannister who was as on edge as you’d ever seen him. His long blonde hair swishing as he rushed to keep up. You nodded at Ser Barristan, then at the King who seemed to pause looking at you.

Still, you didn’t recognize him and the little girl by the cliffs once again wished she could have a normal family all together like the smallfolk on the island she had once lived on.

Lord Stark was to act in the King’s place while he was hunting, and it did not miss your notice how he looked so unsuited to that of the Iron Throne, while yet his words, voice, and his very presence in the room felt like a commanding respect that had long not been seen. Lord Baelish sat at one side, his book of increasing debt in his lap to be scribbled away at, normally beside him would be Renly now a seat empty.

On the other sat you, then Lord Varys, then Grand Maester Pycelle all looking out to the people who had travelled all this way to make a plea for help in one matter or the other. Beyond them, was a crowd of guards, knights, a various of lords and dutiful watchers to the side watching the court play out as if it were a spectacle. A spectacle however, was not what you think the farmer before the Lord Hand wanted as he voice croaked and warbled.

“They burned most everything in the Riverlands. Our fields, our granaries, our homes.” The others who had came with looked down to the floor, sullen and broken in spirit. Your eyes sharp and face one could mistaken for an expression of anger, in lieu of the suspicions that wracked your mind. “They took out women, and they took ‘em again. When they was done, they butchered them as if they was animals.”

Why were you seeing blonde hair against dark browns and blacks?

“They covered out children in pitch, and lit them on fire.” The man before the court was trying his best not to cry and you felt a boil inside of you at the dismissive tone to your left of Grand Maester Pycelle, dismissing it as nothing more then the act of brigands.

The farmer spoke louder, an insistence in his voice. “They weren’t thieves, they didn’t steal nothing. They even left something behind, your grace.” Once more, Pycelle sounded on the air of board and uncaring as he corrected the man for using the wrong title.

As he did so, one of the farmers stepped forward, emptying a sack out onto the floor and the sight was that of slimy, reddish fish. Your eyes narrowed as the court murmured and whispered around. Lord Baelish speaking up, “Fish. The sigil of House Tully.” You could hear him lean towards Lord Stark in a whisper that came off as purposely condescending. “Isn’t that your wife’s house, Tully? My Lord Hand?”

Not looking nor addressing him, Lord Stark kept his attention on the farmer. “These men, were they flying a sigil? A banner?”

Shaking his head, “None, your...Hand.” He paused and seemed, distressed, that like when describing the horrors inflicted on his village. “The one who was leading them, taller by a foot then any man I’ve ever met. Saw him cut the blacksmiths son in two, saw him cut the head of a horse with a single swing of his sword.”

That was a sight most in this court had seen first hand, a man so large one would think he had that of giant’s blood if not knowing better. A man who sliced his horse’s head clean off before throwing his sword into the shield of Ser Loras Tyrell.

“You’re describing Ser Gregor Clegane.”

Pycelle arguing why would such a man commit atrocities while being appointed as a Knight. Your heart feeling unsteady thinking of what the King had commanded his own men to organize in murder of an unborn child. Leading you right down a path to the very Knight in question and the whispers of the unrecognizable state of Aegon Targaryean once the murdered infant was presented to the Lannisters.

Lord Baelish spoke, “I’ve heard him called Tywin Lannister’s mad dog. I’m sure you have as well.”

Pycelle spoke slow, trying to work through the scenario. “If the Lannisters were to order attacks on villages under the Kings protection, it would be..”

Staring forward your voice rung loud in the quiet room. “That would be as likely as them attacking the Hand of the King in the streets of the captiol.” Pycelle mumbled to himself, and for just a moment you and Lord Stark shared a look. You both could feel the growing tension the Lannisters seemed to be involving themselves in. Ser Gregor was not a man smart enough to come up with using fish as a message to send on his own, no that was of strategy something which laid with someone higher.

Lord Stark looked back to the people, your eyes left to meet the unchanged cockiness of Lord Baelish before you peeled them back to that of the court. Lord Stark’s voice was full of a sympathy that felt as real as it sounded. “I cannot give you back your homes, or restore your dead to life. But perhaps I can give you justice, in the name of our King. Robert.”

Calling forth Lord Beric Dondarrion, he commanded the assembly of one hundred men to ride to Ser Gregors keep. Standing from the seat, Lord Stark shaking slightly at the pain put in his leg. Much of his muscle relying on the cane by his side but refusing to give an order sat down to the men who stood before him.

“In the Name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhyoynar the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I charge you to bring the King’s justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane and all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him, and attaint him. I strip him of all ranks and titles, of all lands and holdings, and sentence him to death.”

There was no question, and no waver in Lord Stark’s voice.

The crowd a mix of outraged murmurs and shocked whispers as you stared out to the court. Something in you feeling unsettled at how shocked they seemed to be hearing such a harsh judgment despite the disgust of the actions taken.

Standing up, Grand Master Pycelle’s face had twisted into that of the same kind of outrage you could see on the other highborn lords standing in attendance. “My Lord, this is a drastic action. It would be better to wait for the King’s return.”

“Grand Maester Pycelle,” Just as he had the confidence it died with such conviction in the strength of his voice. Yourself, you glanced forward to Lord Stark and it felt much like your years on Dragonstone watching your father stand before the smallfolk of the island, and the steadfast in his own voice commanding only that of justice and no glammer. “Send a Raven to Casterly Rock. Inform Tywin Lannister that he has been summoned to court to answer for the crimes of his bannerman. He will arrive within the fortnight, or be branded an enemy of the crown and traitor to the realm.”

The air of court was in shock, but you stood up as it was dismissed with no regard for such feelings on the matter. Faces of thank and a heartbreaking plea from the farmers of the Riverlands had been enough for you, not the corrupted care of those with enough as it was. Until it was their homes being burned down, their women being raped, and their children being massacred they cared not.

Only fanfare served this loud court and you couldn’t help but wonder what it was about Kings Landing that felt like it caked you in a grime that made you ashamed for still caring.

Such a man of grime, he had caught you walking through the gardens, leaving the needed quiet a memory of the past despite in desperate need. Your head needed silence, there was to much noise around you to make sense of it all and yet, here was the voice calling you before slinking up to your side. “You’re a hard one to find, Lady Stark.”

Looking forward at the greenery which was vibrant against the summer sun you considered the scenario to put a few more inches in between him and your person but of course it didn’t work. “What is it you want, Lord Baelish?”

“We haven’t spent much time in each others company since you’re return, never had the chance to congratulate you on your marriage.”

Unconvinced you needn’t pretend as if you were to this man of all people. “We aren’t friends, you have no reason to.” He chuckled and without a glance you could see the smug smile on his face that somehow tricked all too many. “Is that all?”

“Just because we aren’t friends, doesn’t mean I can’t have interest in your affairs. Afterall, it must be hard to spend so many years walking free, only to find yourself a wife within a months time.” Passing servants around, you cared not to consider who belonged to which but no doubt as you walked alone with Petyr Baelish, more then one spy had their eye on you. “Duty can be such a taxing thing for a lady.”

The half smile on your lips didn’t come close to reaching your eyes. “I’ve known the Starks far longer then it was my duty to marry them. My husband isn’t a taxing man. I assure you, I have no need for your concern.” Northerners were indeed made of something different it seemed sometimes.

But Lord Baelish leaned in, a whisper that clawed at your ear and made you scowl before the racing of your heart set in. “And what about leaving behind a certain half brother?” You didn’t look at him, in fact it took much of your energy to act as if you didn’t hear him even as he continued. “Such a shame, young love is so lively, and full of passion it would hurt anyone to give that up. Though I feel for the man, I know all too well watching the one you fought for marry off to a strong, more honourable wolf.”

Your jaw clenched, whatever eyes had found you over the years were whispering back to many sources it felt like. Nothing was a secret in this den of liars and spies. “I imagine you do, Lord Baelish. I couldn’t think of what it must feel like to watch it happen twice. Being left behind like that must leave one with a scar or two.”

His hands clasped together, unseen by your avoiding ones there was a darker flash in his eyes that spoke of something deeply kept down inside before he covered it with an aloofness. “Tell me, my lady is this something you wish to keep a secret?”

Stopping, you whipped around in place with a fiery anger in your eyes and a knowing smile that had seen it all coming. “If you are trying to say something, Lord Baelish, have the courage to just say it rather then play word games with me.”

“I’m simply wondering where your allegiance lies.”

Stepping closer to him, you raised your eyebrows as your heart felt as angry as your mind did. “My allegiance, Lord Baelish is with the one I swore a vow too. Perhaps it’s beacuse you are awfully unfamiliar with the practices of marriage, but when a woman swears her love and fealty to that of her husband it isn’t a vow to be broken. No matter what an outside opinion might say.”

His games were transparent. An attempt to pull back the words you say by paring them against something personal that eats at you as a person. He couldn’t care less about your marriage, or the left behind love with dark curls vowed at the end of world. Lord Baelish was asking you, where do you stand when such a vow is tested, and where do you lay when it all drops.

Inhaling, you curbed the anger. Looking at him without the spite in your heart. “Tell me, Lord Baelish. If your loyalty was tested, where exactly would you end up? Which side does your pendulum swing when the time comes?”

He smiled. So close you could feel his breath as he leaned down to you. “I wish you and Robb Stark a long, happy life together, my dear. Many years, with many beautiful children. Those Starks certainly have such a distinct look don’t they. I do hope you get to return to him soon. You suit our summer heats far less then you do Snow.”

It shouldn’t bother you, with anyone else you suspect it wouldn’t. But you couldn’t help but feel as if he was trying to scare you into something that you didn’t yet even see. You sat alone at the gardens for quite a while after that. The serene quiet leaving you alone as the sky draped down around you in an orange tone.

Many passed by, numerous people you’ve never seen and all of them caring of your presence as you did theirs, being none. Everyone seemed draped in rich fabrics, bright colours, hair shining in the sunlight as the ladies dressed high and ornate around or above their heads. Browns, and reds, many shades of black and yellows-

“She had yellow hair.” That’s what the boy, Gendry, had said about his mother. His eyes like Roberts a striking green, a strong face that ran through all the men in the family and just like his father, his uncles, even with your mothers lighter hair you and Shireen both held dark hair that also sat on Gendrys own head.

It was so easy to see Robert in the boys face. It was easy to see Stannis in yours and Shireens. The ones with Baratheon blood rang strong. Your mothers house that of Florent looked as if she didn’t exist in your appearance.

The Starks weren’t the only ones whose traits ran strong, and then the image of gold against brown slammed you in the face. You looked like Stannis, you looked like Robert and Renly. Even the bastards of your Uncle, Barra looked like Shireen, Gendry could be your brother.

But he wasn’t. He was your cousin. A cousin who looked just like you, and yet...

Your stomach turned in an instant. Were you not sitting already you’d have fallen over. The black haired child that Robert and Cersei had lost, and yet each child after with a golden head.

You could hear Grand Maester Pycelle’s words in your head, telling you that of Jon Arryn’s last words repeating. “The seed is strong.”

It was. Baratheon seed ran strong through all who were born from it, except for three. None of you with mothers of light hair had anything close to it. You were all taken by your fathers in appearance.

You had never seen anything of Robert in Joffery. And you never would. You could see only two people in your royal cousins looks, and it had you sick of being out alone in the sun. It had you sick at the mere thought, and suddenly you understood why Jon Arryn was no longer here.

You knew the truth that had your own father, that had Lord Stannis, abandon his duty in Kings Landing.

Arya had accosted you with questions as soon as you walked in. Your mind screaming at you you only caught onto her last. “Are you coming back with us?” She had to call your name just to get you to look at her. There was worry all over her face, and felt a great deal of struggle to mask yours.

“I don’t know. I need to speak to your father.” Trying to pass her by, she circled around with a furrow in her brow to block your path. “Arya-”

“No. You can’t stay here.” Something in her was upset, and you knew the weight of her own father’s injuries hurt her deeply inside. She had been pale when she came into his room for the first time once he was brought back, leg still bloody. Swallowing it down, she shook her head. “You married Robb, which mean’s you’re my sister, and we don’t leave our family behind.”

So there was a bit more to it, wasn’t there?

Inhaling deeply, you willed your racing nerves to ease down. Running a hand down her hair, it hit you in the chest at how easily she looked to you like that already. Like another sibling, who she didn’t want to leave behind.

Leave behind. That was a term that seemed to haunt you now. It wasn’t just leaving you in Kings Landing she was seeing. Arya would be going back to Winterfell, knowing one of them wouldn’t be there anymore. The one she wanted to be there the most. “Let me talk to your father, okay? It’s- things are complicated. There are things I need to sort out before I know if I’m going to Winterfell.”

“You better. Or me and Robb will come down here ourselves and drag you back home.” Pushing her gently to her room, you told her to pack her things.

Knocking at Lord Stark’s door, he hesitated before calling you to enter. Sat at his desk, the tome open in front of him, you both looked to the other with a horror wide in your eyes. He put it together as you had, as Jon Arryn had, as Stannis had. The truth was there and it couldn’t be forgotten.

Words caught in both your throats, your voice shook as it spoke up. “Joffery’s almost seventeen, how long have they, why would-”

“Lysa had wrote to Cat that the Lannisters murdered Jon Arryn. They murder him just as he finds out, then what? A month later, my boy falls from a window and an assassin is sent to murder him in his sleep all after the same Lannisters come into my home?”

There was pain in his voice, pain and an anger that sat so close to the surface for what they had done, tried to do. You pushed off the door, coming to sit in the chair across the desk. “Robb wrote saying Bran had no memory of it. He doesn’t remember falling, or any of it. But maybe that wasn’t good enough for what he saw, was it.”

As his jaw clenched, he looked at the drawer you knew the blade still sat in. “Cat and Robb think he was pushed. And now we know why.”

What other Lannister secret had had such lethal results before Bran came upon it. Ones that would be killed for? You didn’t imagine what could be worse, and imagining the truth at all felt unseemly.

“Robert needs to know too.”

Eyes widening, you looked extremely doubtful. “You know what he’ll do if you tell him.”

He shook his head, “He needs to be told. If he has no true born sons he needs to know about it, he needs to know what his own wife has done behind his back for twenty years.” But all you could see was the rage in his eyes at the shadow of an unborn child across the Narrow Sea. “Robert-”

“Is not the man you once knew.” Your teeth clenched in your mouth as you leaned forward resting your forehead in your palms before sitting back up with a loud huff. “He finds out the kids he’s been raising for sixteen years are Jaime’s-”

You didn’t finish the sentence, and Lord Stark didn’t finish it for you either. The quiet of the night poured in from the open balcony and whooshed between the two of you as it mocked you for how long it took to find this out. “This is why your father pushed to marry you and Robb.”

Looking at him, your arms now crossed over your stomach with too much behind your eyes.

“He and Jon Arryn found out, and he knows it makes him Robert’s true heir.”

Robert had insisted on the marriage between Joffery and Sansa, to combine the Crowns houses to that of the needed ally of the North. Your father found out the Queens secret, and suddenly that connection of Houses no longer would even exist. If Stannis was the heir, you were his. Which means he would need a new ally ship secured in the North.

At least you were a slightly better candidate as a wife to Robb then Joffery would be husband to Sansa.

“I’ll speak to the Queen in the morning. Tell her to leave the city with her children before Robert returns.”

It was a bad idea, but one that you couldn’t deter him from. This truth was about to come out, and the only fighting chance to save her children from Robert’s wrath was to confront her about it. Tommen and Myrcella were good, innocent kids. They had done less then nothing to deserve it, much like the sickening thought of two other children who didn’t deserve the end they had solely for who their own blood was.

That wasn’t Robert’s doing, but he paid no respects and sung no songs for Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryean. Perhaps this version of your Uncle you saw now wasn’t new. Just hiding under the surface.

You hated the thought of who else hid themselves so well under a veil for so long.

It all fell apart, and you knew this attempt to handle it delicately was over.

A boar, Ser Barristan had said. Blood soaking the white of his cloak and a pain in his face that blamed nothing but himself. The King had demanded everyone step back and let him handle the boar as it skewered him as he did it. Standing by the window, to the side of you was the Queen herself as Joffery sat on the bed.

You weren’t sure you ever saw this look on your cousins face. Not often did he feel something in the same devastating way pain hit the rest, but it hurt something inside the kid and you weren’t heartless to the loss. You’ve never lost your father, but you were about to your Uncle.

As a kid, maybe he would’ve had words for you. Something to say, memories to leave on a good note with. But now, all the dying Robert saw as he looked at you was the splitting image of the Stannis. Your face of steel and posture straight and giving little if anything, away. You gave less away then Cersei did, something human remained in her eyes but it swam with a worry that refused to give as Lord Stark was brought in.

Speaking weak, like each breathe took more life out of him as he tried giving anything to Joffery, but fell short of bringing himself to care like one. “I was never meant to be a father.” Faces in your mind, one young, one your age and yet none of those were really his children either you supposed. “Go on, you don’t want to see me like this.”

Joffery nodded as he pulled himself together before quickly leaving the room without another word to anyone. He was still a child, and that left part of you to still feel for his pain.

Lord Stark stood looking at him like you had when you walked in. This death would be none others fault then Robert’s stubbornness. Smiling at his old Northern friend who approached, it left you and Cersei in the background as she glanced at you. Only to find you already watching her carefully. The mark on her cheek, you hadn’t noticed until now.

Eyes narrowing at the sight, your flickered over to the dying King with a clenched jaw. Was he always this man or did this place turn him into such?

“Too much wine, missed my thrust.” Pulling the sheet back was a gruesome gouge in his side, parts of him out in chunks as it soaked red. “It stinks. It stinks like death, don’t think I can’t smell it.” Of all the things to take out a once strong warrior, it was the very things which led him to fail as a King. He was never meant to be a father, but he was never meant to be a King either.

Some men were leaders outside of war, Robert was not.

“I paid the bastard back, Ned. I drove my knife right through his brain, you ask them if I didn’t.” He was a fool, he would die not even knowing the shambles his Kingdom was at risk of falling apart to. “I want the funeral feast to be the biggest the Kingdoms ever seen. And I want everyone to taste the boat that got me.”

Once more, you and Cersei looked the other. You read the guilty worry in her, and you were confident she could see the known truth right back and it only unsettled her more. Robert got himself killed at either the best or worst possible time. And it all depended on one man.

“Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to talk to Ned.”

“Robert, my sweet-”

No one bought it and Robert had little strength left to pretend as if he cared. “Out, all of you.”

Filing out, you paid no attention to the soon to be widow. Renly stood nearby with blood on him as well looking conflicted. A commonality in this city recently. Coming up to him as Ser Barristan stood not to far off all outside the door. “He was on edge the entire time. Ranting and raving, no matter what I said he just never stopped.”

Turning to look at the door from the corner of your eye, it didn’t miss your notice the suddenly absent Queen. Lord Stark would take down his final decrees of succession and no doubt make him protector of the realm until Joffery turned of age. Honour was losing this fight, and to accomodate him as an heir wouldn’t be honourable. But it would be just. Defy honour for the Kings last words to do your duty by the laws and justice of the realm he served.

You finally turned back to Renly, and no longer was it a grieving brother you saw but a Baratheon with something behind his mind. Don’t do something stupid you thought to yourself, there was enough of that going around in this family.

Ser Barristan blamed himself, saying he should’ve stopped him from all the wine. Shaking your head you looked at the closed door. “There’s not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who could stop Robert from destroying himself.”

Lord Stark reemerged enough to close the door, giving the dying King privacy. “Give him milk of the poppy.” You crossed your arms at the shiver down your spine. You’d rather just have it ended for you, rather then laying there withering away in the stench of death and barley conscious. Grand Maester Pycelle and Renly both going in.

You moved to stand on the side of his bad leg, noticing Lord Varys was near the wall like a spider having slunk in from the dark corners. “I wonder, Ser Barristan, who gave the king this wine?”

Credit, Lord Varys was far better at playing the concerned role then Lord Baelish was. The lack of an ego likely having something to do with it. “His squire, from the king’s own skin.” Lord Stark glanced at you, but it almost didn’t matter if it was Lancel. The King lay in there with the stench of death, while you stood out here starting to wonder what the scent of war was. “Such a dutiful boy to make sure his Grace did not lack refreshment. I do hope the poor lad does not blame himself.”

Stepping forward, you followed Lord Stark as came closer to the spider. “His Grace has had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryean. Whatever arrangements you made, unmake them at once.”

Already walking down the hall, Lord Varys called back and you closed your eyes with a sigh. “I’m afraid those birds have flown. The girl is likely dead already.” The girl would be dead, Viserys as well, but no one mentioned the fate of the unborn child.

You yearned for the cold of the North, at least it’s sting was just how it’s air was. But the stings were not yet over, and you felt like a fool for not seeing the next one coming. Renly calling your name was well as Lord Stark, asking for a moment alone.

“He named you protector of the realm.”

“He did.”

“She won’t care. Give me an hour and I can put a hundred swords at your command.” Leaning forward you suddenly saw him slipping away too. Cersei wouldn’t care, she didn’t leave when she was given the chance but Renly wasn’t thinking of anything close to such a situation.

“And what should I do with a hundred swords?”

Your skin pricked everywhere, blood hot in your veins as you felt much like you had in the small council chamber days ago. Like this wasn’t the man you knew. “Strike, tonight while the castle sleeps. We must get Joffery away from his mother and into our custody.”

You stepped forward, a hiss in your voice and anger in your eyes. “Have you lost your mind?”

Looking at you, he pleaded for you go along with it, but this wasn’t some feast or tournament he wished to drag you along with. You didn’t imagine those swords were there for only threat, and you couldn’t help but think that those swords could be in the drapings of roses.

“Protector of the realm or no, he who holds the King holds the Kingdom. Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies it will be too late for us.”

The growing anger only built, “What about Stannis?”

Renly looked at you as if you’d grown a second head, like you had just said the dumbest thing imaginable. “Saving the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei and delivering them to Stannis? You have odd notions about protecting the realm.”

Lord Stark spoke, but you neither moved nor cooled off. He was your father, and he was the heir but Renly had a lifetime of having Robert hand things to him which belonged to Stannis. It seemed still now as Robert lay dying he still expected such treatment. The childish notions of a man who has no idea what the world outside his luxury looks like.

“Stannis is your older brother.”

“This isn’t about the bloody line of succession. That didn’t matter when you rebelled against the Mad King. It shouldn’t matter now. We all know what Stannis is. He inspires no love or loyalty. He’s not a King.” If the Starks had a temper, the blood in you which was born a Baratheon raged to that of their fury.

Renly knew nothing of what his brother was capable of, he got to sit in Storms End as a child and have advisors rule for him until he was summoned to Kings Landing where he got the same treatments. Only then he got to rub it into his brothers face directly what he got instead. He spent years telling you that you seemed to have too much in common with your father and he had the audacity to speak to you like it didn’t matter.

If Stannis wasn’t a king, then could be? Renly had an answer for that too. “I am.”

Were Lord Stark not here, you wondered how easily that fury would have let itself be known. And you were far luckier that the he was as calm as he was in the face of what was being presented. “Stannis is a commander. He’s led men into war twice, he destroyed the Greyjoy fleet.”

His face twisted into denial, as if the two of you were the mad ones. “Yes he’s a good solider. Everyone knows that, so was Robert. Tell me something, Do you still believe good soldiers make good kings?”

He looked surefire, cocky, but yet he didn’t look at you anymore. Dancing around the truth and spouting honeyed words to bend things to his side instead of having the courage to say what he truly means. It had nothing to do with Stannis. It had nothing to do with any of this.

Lord Stark’s word was final. “I will not dishonour Robert’s last hours by shedding blood in his halls, and dragging frightened children from their beds.” Leaving to rejoin his guards, you were left standing in the halls with your uncle.

“You know what he’ll do. You know he won’t let you do this. Not anymore.” You stepped into his space as Renly raised his head high. “Don’t tear us apart now, not while your own brother is still laying in a pool of his own blood.”

“And you? Whose side are you on, my dear niece. For someone who claims to be on Stannis’s side your spending an awful lot of time next to your new father.” Closing the gap you two would only hear the other, words just for you as he said your name. “You don’t want your family to be torn apart? Then consider what family it is your siding with exactly.”

Renly stormed off before you, and the halls choked you with the scent of war. It had been some time since you had heard from Robb, and he you. Not that he could know the extent, but the Lannisters putting a spear through his fathers leg sent a pretty loud message that Kings Landing was not a place that was trusted. Not even with written words in the sky. The distance didn’t feel like it made the heart grow stronger. You felt only isolated.

Lord Stark had called upon Lord Baelish. He didn’t say to you why, and you appreciated that he knew you well enough that it didn’t need to be said. It didn’t feel good, it wasn’t honourable what he was to ask and yet it seemed this place demanded it. You didn’t know what Renly was doing, or what he had planned but as you stood against the wall watching Lord Stark write, you only wished he wasn’t so stupid this time.

Just this once.

Taking it upon himself to write of Roberts death, and choosing his words carefully just as your father would his. Only, you couldn’t shake what Renly had said. Condescendingly calling Lord Stark your new father and yet imploring you to side against your father by birth. Consider what family your siding with?

What was that answer?

You had shaken your head a silent no when he asked if you wanted to look over it. Yes you trusted his words, but it didn’t feel good. Bells ringing in the distance of a dying king and bloodshed waiting the halls of it’s kingdom. Summoning one of his men, Tomand, Lord Stark sealed the letter with his sigil and with firm instructions left no room for question.

“You will sail to Dragonstone tonight. You will place this in the hand of Stannis Baratheon. Not his Steward, not his captain of the guard, and not his wife. Only Stannis himself.”

It was that day in the godswood that you truly felt the comfort of a father. As he stood with you an arm comforting you around your shoulder as the panic boiled inside of your chest. That same feeling returned now. Did not assume, nor even ask if you would want to be the one to deliver it to him.

He said at the wedding, once you married Robb you would be part of the pack. A pack which protects each other. He kept you at his side, not sending you off alone once more and it made your limbs weigh down with metal to the floor. A pack leader does not let one of them go off all alone.

It was then that Lord Baelish arrived. The bells of death in the background as he bowed with a low whisper and smile. “My Lord Protector.”

Lord Stark looked at you, and you tilted your head with a grimace. It indeed, beyond all doubt as of this moment was his choice alone. Looking down to the desk, before back up he ripped the bandage off. “The King has no true born sons. Joffery and Tommen are Jaime Lannisters bastards.”

Eyes narrowing, he sat down. “So when the King dies...”

Your voice was rough from the silence, “The throne passes to his brother. Lord Stannis.”

Lord Baelish had the audacity just as your uncle before. Starting with the word “Unless” before the fed up sensation passed on finally to Lord Stark. “There is no unless. He is the rightful heir nothing can change that.”

“And he cannot take the throne without your help, you would be wise to deny it to him. And to make sure Joffery succeeds.” Were you not his family anymore truly or did this city fill itself with that of heartless rats who would turn on the other in a snap of fingers? You stood up straighter as he cared not much to consider the betrayal hurting your eyes.

Leaning forward, Lord Stark’s voice as ashamed to be in the same room with him as you. “Do you have a shred of honour?”

The answer was no, but not in so little words. “You are now Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. All the power is yours you need only reach out and take it.” And yet here he was asking Lord Baelish of all people for help, that didn’t feel like power to you. “Make peace with the Lannisters. Release the Imp, wed your daughter to Joffery.”

You could throw something sharp through his neck the second he looked at you with his words covered in grime. “We have plenty of time to get rid of Stannis.” He didn’t even flinch at the step you almost took forward. Your heart feeling as if it was carving itself out a new hole just filling with hatred and anger. “And if Joffery seems likely to cause problems when he comes into his throne, we simply reveal his little secret and sit Lord Renly there instead.”

Renly. “He’s not a King. I am.” How far did this web of betrayals spread? It was treason, and you spat out as such but he only smiled with surity.

“Only if we lose.”

Lord Stark was as unconvinced as yourself, his own anger locked away in his rigid tone pulling open the drawer. “Make peace with the Lannisters you say. The people who tried to murder by boy.” The ornate dagger, he placed it onto his desk and you only could see again.

How many children in his fight are to be the victims and none of the perpetrators?

“We only make peace with our enemies, my lord. That’s why it’s called making peace.” Lord Stark refused, saying he wouldn’t do it and it seemed to shift the confident smugness right out of his bravado and slithering onto the floor and out the window. “So it will be Stannis. And war.”

“There is no other choice, he is the heir.”

It was fitting it seemed. To your father, it was not a choice either. It was his, and that would be where the question ended.

Asking why he was even brought here, you once again shared a look between you and Lord Stark. It seemed that today was a day to give many things up. “The Queen has a dozen knights and a hundred men at arms. Enough to overwhelm what remains of my household guard. I need the gold cloaks. The city watch is two thousand strong and sworn to defend the Kings peace.”

Was that all though? No it wasn’t, and Lord Baelish once more returned of his pride. A smirk growing wider at the more the silence between you stood in the air. “Look at you two. You know what you want me to do, you know it has to be done but it’s not honourable. So the words stick in your throat.”

His hand reached up, slowly toying with the daggers edge as he started to swivel it. “When the Queen proclaims one King and the Hand another, whose peace do the Gold Cloaks protect? Who do they follow?”

Lord Stark couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t bring himself to admit to needing such a favour and it made you hold a need to reach out to him. But here, in this place? You would be the one to summon the guts.

Looking off to the other side of the room, your arms crossed as you leaned against the wall an almost ironic smirk fell over your lips. Lord Baelish wasn’t an honourable man, or even a good one. But here you were, the daughter of the Lord which hated him arguably the most. Pleading for his help.

You felt gross as you said the words. “The man who pays them.”

The day was bright as the bells continued to ring. Lord Starks men split between readying things to send Arya and Sansa back to Winterfell as the others remained by both your sides. Arya wanting one last lesson with her dancing master she never took a chance at missing a lesson. At this rate she could give you a run for your money, and you’d welcome it even if just to shake you momentarily out of the feeling you had in your gut.

It was the same one that you had before, the screaming throttle that twisted your insides just as it had that day on the Kingsroad. You thought it was a result of parting ways but it seemed that it was just as strong now despite him having nothing to do with the current issue.

Morning bright and no news yet having reached either of you when one of the throne’s pages came up to you both. The guards at the ready, and Lord Stark having to ease them as you turned to look at the man. “Lord Stark, King Joffery and the Queen regent request your presence in the throne room.”

Heart slowing a shiver danced down your spine as your words came out breathlessly. “King Joffery?”

The bells tolled in the sky but it sounded like they were ringing in your head, each boom smacking you with the steps you took towards the throne room. The pit in your stomach grew as the weight of the paper in your hand was doubled, tripled, turned to metal from paper. In the courtyard stood many of the city watch as your own group approached Lord Baelish and Lord Varys.

A calm and confident look on the formers face, as the nerves ran ragged as much as your blood ran hot in your veins. “All is accomplished, the city watch is yours.”

One was missing. One person was missing and despite knowing it was fruitless you looked around like a child as if he was just hiding. “Is my Uncle joining us?”

Lord Varys for his part, looked genuine in his words. He was the one man you found hard to read but his eyes didn’t speak favourably. “I fear lord Renly has left the city.” Your heart sank down as your limbs froze in the summer heat. “He road through the old gate an hour before dawn with Ser Loras Tyrell and some fifty retainers. Last seen galloping south in some haste.”

Lord Stark beside you could hear the yells of war over the bells. You had one chance today, one last plea to Cersei to do this one thing and at the least you would be the five kingdoms against two. The paper in your hand felt like a beg, an ask for mercy knowing Renly would not find any.

If you could sit your father on the throne, only Renly would be the obstacle and he stood no chance with only Storms End and Highgarden at his back. But as you swallowed hard and your eyes fell to Lord Stark? The sharpness and grim tone in both of you felt that dread loom.

Coming up to the main doors, behind you were Lord Varys and Baelish, around them was the remains of the Stark household guard that served at his side and all around you and beyond were the gold cloaks. To the side of you was stood Lord Janos Slynt, standing with as much posture as a man such as himself could manage. “We stand behind you, Lord Stark.”

The doors opened and the throne room was ready. In the Iron Throne sat Joffery, dressed in gold and the crown atop his head with a smile that sliced at you. You saw none of Robert and only of the Lannisters which spawned him. Approaching the air was thick, thick enough to cut with a sword should one attempt.

“All hail his Grace, Joffery of Houses Baratheon and Lannister. First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

You and Lord Stark stood together, the Kingsguard all standing in a path to the throne as Cersei sat with a knowing look in her eye that made the anger rise. Renly wanted war, but he was also right. She wouldn’t care and this was the last chance you and Lord Stark had to escape this unscathed.

Joffery, now King Joffery you supposed sat at his Throne not even standing in anyway. No hint of the tragic child losing his father with watery eyes was to be seen. “I command the council to make all necessary arrangements for my coronation. I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today, I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors.”

The room was deathly silent. All eyes on the pair of you as Lord Stark nodded. He would do his duty and you would not blame him for that, but it didn’t make it any easier. Your voice for all your bad luck, came out dutiful and strong. “Ser Barristan. I believe none here could dare question your honour.”

Stepping forward as you did him, you handed the paper to him as you both looked at one another firmly. His hesitation to the blazing look and serious harshness in your eyes and gaze took him back for something he was not prepared for. Looking it over, he turned to the crown.

“King Roberts seal. Unbroken.” No movement from the Queen, she wouldn’t care he was right. “Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm. To Rule as Regent until the heir come of age.”

Joffery looked confused and offended, as your eyes met what you once thought of as your cousin. He said nothing, but his mother did. Always running to her for the hard work as he sat like a spoiled brat and eyed you like you were the craven, not him.

The Queen looked it over, “Protector of the Realm? Is this mean to be your shield Lord Stark? A piece of paper?” Tearing it into pieces, you felt those nerves turn to anger once more. She won’t care, Renly said. She won’t care and yet he rides off knowing war is inevitable.

Ser Barristan looked up to her, his own face betraying his conflict. “Those were the Kings words.”

“We have a new King now.”

Perhaps it was your position, but you couldn’t deny no matter how you felt about the side of your family. You were now the daughter of the rightful king, and there on the throne sat a product of disgust and dishonour that looked at you with eyes of hate. Cersei’s eyes were on Lord Starks and it seemed now the wolves had their opponents in the lions.

“Lord Eddard when we last spoke you offered me some council. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my Lord. Bend the knee and swear loyalty to my son. And we shall allow you and the Lady Stark to live out your days in the grey waste you call home.”

He spoke with no hesitation to admit the truth, and in a single instance there was no turning back anymore. It was war, and there was no stopping any of it from any side. “Your son has no claim to the throne.”

Joffery screeched out that he was a liar. Your eyes narrowing as your fury raised. Cersei demanding Ser Barristan take you both, Lord Stark pleaded to the immediate closing in from his guard and the city watch. “Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man do him no harm.”

You didn’t look at him, and you didn’t see the true hesitation in his pause. He knows neither of you are liars nor thieves. He knows Lord Stark bound to honour and you carry the weight of your fathers fist of justice. He knew you since you were a girl but all you could see was the possessed demon of gold on the Throne.

“You think he stands alone?”

Swords were drawn, her men showing no hesitation that the man before you did. Joffery screamed to them. “Kill them, kill both of them, I command you.”

Whatever sympathy for the boy at his fathers death bed you held, died in that moment. None left and for whatever reason, all you could think of was how easily Robb overpowered him, tossed him around and left him bruised skin and ego so easily in the training yard of Winterfell. The memory of the boy throwing a tantrum and the smirk Robb sent your way at how little he’d even broken a sweat by that point made you exhale a shaking breathe of fury.

Being a lion didn’t make him brave. It didn’t make him fierce. But you could see Robb Stark as clear now as you glared at the new King and just perhaps he was destined to find out how much a wolf could tear a lion apart.

Have your men, your mother, fight this battle for you Joffery. It won’t protect you forever.

Lord Stark raising his own voice, the tension so heavy the court was choking in it. “Commander, take the Queen and her children into custody. Escort them back to their royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.”

From right beside you, Janos Slynt responded in kind. “Men of the Watch,” The shift and all of their own spears pointed to the swords of the Kingsguard and Lannister men.

You and your cousin staring the other down, that crown on his head looking far too big for such a coward. Lord Stark giving a plea, “I want no bloodshed. Tell your men to lay down their swords, no one needs to die.”

Seconds passed which felt like minutes dragging along the clock. Cersei and Joffery towards Lord Stark and yourself as you waited out their decision. Only they didn’t make one, and neither did you.

From the same voice which assured they stood behind you, Janos Slynt yelled, “Now,”

Blood flew everywhere in an instant. The City Watch turning onto the Starks household guard and without any shame or order taking them all to the ground with horrid shings of metal that screeched in your ears. Lord Stark and yourself moving to the other as you looked around at the horror as you didn’t understand what happened.

In the mess of blood and swords, you turned to look at Lord Stark only to be yanked backwards. Two arms pulling your back up to their front as Janos Slynt held your hands pinned to your body as his other held a blade up to your throat.

In front of you, stood Lord Stark exactly as you were only behind him was the traitor you should have seen coming. Lord Baelish stood behind him, the very blade in hand used to try and murder Bran now sat pointed edge at his throat as the massacre occurred around you. “I did warn you not to trust me.”

You had never been in the black cells before, nor anywhere near them before now. Back pressed up against one the walls with your knees pulled up to your chest, you could see and hear it happening all around you. Lord Baelish had played you and Lord Stark like fools, the slimy lies of Janos Slynt telling you both, “We stand behind you, Lord Stark.”

It was angering, enough you hadn’t even noticed how much your fingernails were cutting into the skin of your palms as you curled them. They would’ve gone after the girls too, they wanted Sansa to marry Joffery they would keep her close, but Arya? You couldn’t imagine what they’d done to her, or where she’d even be. She was fast, and clever you knew, maybe she’d run. But to where?

She was just a child, who could she even turn to rely on? Who was left in this city to care?

The longer you sat in that cell, the more you couldn’t shake the feeling that staying here would be the end for you. Your father wouldn’t bend the knee, even for you. Worse then that, you weren’t just considered a traitor now, you were the daughter of the one man Cersei had reason to fear. Renly had the numbers of Storms End and Highgarden, but he wasn’t a leader. Stannis Baratheon was the one that she would fear.

He was without mercy, and not a man she could ever hope to trick or manipulate. It was what made him so unlikable in a place like this, you couldn’t buy him or trick him because he saw no value in the tricks such things brought. You can’t hold his daughter hostage and assume that would be enough to send him away, no.

He was Robert’s heir, and you were his. You were as big of a threat as he was in Cersei’s eyes.

Your vision blurred the light of the torch as the cell door cracked open. A figure coming towards you, you kept your head high and looking straight, they wanted to see you break, they’d have to do far worse then this. Your name fell from a familiar voice as they knelt down in front of you, repeating it once more until your eyes focused.

“Lord Varys.”

Dressed as a gaoler its likely in a place like this he wasn’t so easily spotted. “My lady, it’s truly a shame to see you in such a place.”

Raising your eyebrows, your face was skeptical. “Is it? You did a fine job at watching us get dragged down here like animals. Tell me, did Lord Baelish surprise you too or was this one big lie?”

Huffing out a laugh, he bent his head before a small grimace. “I assure you, it was not my intentions to have it end up like this. Lord Baelish’s own motives do not often align with my own. I have no interest in seeing Renly Baratheon on the Iron Throne.”

The laugh leaving you was as cracked as it was fake. “What do you want. Really. If you’re here to lecture me, I’d much rather die without one.”

“Unfortunately, you are far more useful to the realm alive then dead. But only if you understand where it is your allegiances should lay.” Watching you shake your head, he leaned forward. “Your father is the one thing Cersei sees as a real threat, and if you can quell her worries that you will be too then she just may let you live.”

Heart weighing heavily in your chest you shook your head once more. “The only reason he or I am a threat to her is because she knows her son has no actual claim to the throne. Why should I turn a blind eye to the thing that murdered Jon Arryn, that had my father abandon me here- you really think I would bend the knee to Joffery?”

A tsk came from his mouth, “I’m not asking you to enjoy it, I’m asking you to do this for the good of the realm.” You said nothing, you found it too hard to believe anything in this place, or most people. “Denounce your ties to your father, swear your loyalty-”

“And what? She’ll let me go? Keep me here as a prisoner for the rest of my life?”

Lord Varys sighed, standing up with a blank stare. “Perhaps there’s someone else you may hear reason from.” Another figure, not quite like him. Taller, leaner and dressed in more commoner rags until they slid their hood down and your eyes widened.

Your back straightened, pushing yourself against the wall as Ser Barristan made his way towards you, a somber look in his eye as well as such frowns they indented lines in his face. He held no weapons, he hadn’t even harmed you or Lord Stark’s men but he was the Kingsguard now. As he knelt in front of you, one knee on the ground as he looked you over with a concern befitting of his profession, you held your breathe.

Gently murmuring your name, you felt your chest close up more. He ran a gentle hand down the side of your head where a mark had been bleeding, you think from when they tossed you in here. “I never thought-”

Speaking before your logic could overtake, “It’s not your fault. You have a duty and you were just following it.” There still was a sting, that he was still sided against you, and yet his very appearance in here alongside Lord Varys said otherwise. Starting to say something about King Robert you interrupted him, nothing left to hide as you sat here. “Joffery and Tommen aren’t Roberts sons. Robert has no true heir.”

His eyes betrayed very little but the length of pause as you saw wheels in his head turning, made him glance up to Lord Varys who tilted his head as if to say you were telling the truth. “His final seal, about the heir-”

“He didn’t know, he died not knowing. He wanted Lord Stark to rule until Joffery came of age, he wasn’t trying to take it from him.” His face twitched in thought as you both looked at the other with a defeated expression, yours threatening to water much to your dismay.

“Then that makes the heir-”

Lord Varys finished for him, a tone of finality that was grim and looming. “Lord Stannis Baratheon.” A moment passed between you and Ser Barristan, there was little confidence in your face nor was their acceptance in your heart. “Cersei no doubt sees her persistence here as a threat to her son. If Stannis is the heir, that would make our dear Lady Stark here second in line.”

Pausing, Ser Barristan opened and closed his mouth before putting things together. “But his brother-”

You huffed a breathe of air. “Renly wanted to take the throne before Robert was even dead. Then he ran off with the Tyrells in toe. My father won’t take kindly to that. If he’s coming here with war, he’ll sure as hell find some of it for being usurped on just one more thing Renly doesn’t deserve.” You still held love in your heart for him, but he was a fool. He was well liked, but that didn’t make you a leader. It wasn’t enough.

“Stannis is a proven battle commander, he gave his eldest daughter a Lord’s education, taught her how to fight and raised her to follow in his footsteps.” Both men looked at you, and Ser Barristan didn’t seem to be okay with the conclusion in your eyes. “He would name her his direct heir in place of a son, and even worse, with Robb Stark at her side-”

“She’ll have the support of the North too.”

You hated it all. You hated that you and Robb had just been pawns in a scheme for a throne you never wanted, your father doesn’t even want it but he will make it his duty to fulfill his rightful claim. That’s why it didn’t matter to him if you and Robb cared for the other, should you succeed Stannis then you’d have an existing ally in the North.

It had nothing to do with how close to family the Starks had become, nothing to do with how at home you felt in the North and where you belonged. It was about the throne this whole time.

“So, what now? Lord Varys. Tell me, you bring him all the way down here to what? Rub in how fucked I am? Have Ser Barristan return to the crown and tell them all about how uncooperative I’m being?”

His head dropped in a sigh that exuded residual anger but the exhaustion was too strong to attempt to pry. There was clearly more that they weren’t saying but they also continued to dance around why they were even here. “Cersei has had Sansa write a letter pleading to her brother to come to Kings Landing and swear his fealty to the new king.”

You laughed, only the air coming from it sounded dry and painful. “The Lannisters try to kill his brother, put a spear through Lord Stark’s leg, now they think telling him they’ve arrested his father and wife, Robb is suddenly going to find it in his heart to forgive them? They don’t know him very well.”

Ser Barristan was a tad on the more gentle side. “The Queen doesn’t know many as well as she thinks she does.” Somewhere in your mind it did register he didn’t come down here as a Kingsguard, when he reasonably would have access to the black cells. “Including myself, my lady.”

Glancing between them, it blurted out before you had fully realized the thought. “Where’s Arya?”

Lord Varys didn’t look grim, but he did look unsure as did his words sound it. “Somewhere still in the city we presume, but no one has found her. Not even my little birds have found any trace.”

“Would you really tell me if they did, though?”

He didn’t answer, and that was as much one as if he said no out loud. “Get out.” Looking up at the spider you had no bite behind the spiting words but the sentiment was seen. “I don’t make peace with backstabbing lions, and I am not starting now.”

Ser Barristan looked unsure of leaving, but rose to his feet anyways. The slight flicker of warmth at seeing him dying as the torch started leaving the light in your eyes. Lord Varys was barley visible before he turned the door, “You might be the only one who can stand in Stannis’s way of the throne, I know that, Cersei knows that. He may be your father, but he is the one thing which scares her the most. There is nothing half as as terrifying as a truly just man, my lady. Denounce him and you will walk out of this cell with your life.”

You stopped looking at him, just into the darkness you would go back too once the door closed. “She will walk me out of this cell alive no matter what, letting me rot to death in here doesn’t send a message to my father. A public execution and sending my head to Dragonstone does.”

Did you dream? Or was it just a hallucination as you hazed back into the conscious world. The sight of fire once more filling your vision, but you were dozy with memories that scrambled to put themselves together once more. You could hear Robb, see him almost. The reddish brown curls and his warm voice like the fire in his room, a comforting touch across the back of your neck as he spoke to you.

The words faded, but they were there and he hummed in your ear so soothingly. But they didn’t stay that way, the warm soothing tone slipped. The red tinted brown grew longer and darker to a black as the voice became an enticing husk, a rasping voice.

The hand on you grew tighter only it wasn’t on the back of your neck, now it felt as if the hands urged you in the opposite direction, the only sight of the faded figure, dressed in leathers and black not furs and armour as before. Fire was in your vision, small like a balled up little flame that the figure snatched with his bare hands.

Tossing it beyond your face as the voice rasped in your ear only for the light to find itself thrown onto the torch now close to your face. And now the voices were gone, and the darkness around you was cold and the isolation fierce.

Your eyes struggled to see but once more Ser Barristan knelt before you gently calling your name. His hands reached to help you stand as you looked in confusion. “You shouldn’t-”

“My lady, I shouldn’t be in this city with how many men the Queen would’ve sent looking for me.” Your eyebrows raised slightly as your lips slightly parted in confusion. “The Crown has decided I’m not fit to serve as a Kingsguard anymore, but I’ll be damned if I let them shut me away in a home where I’m not use to anyone.”

That’s why he wasn’t here as one of them, just in clothes that he could hide in.

“But you are of no use to anyone here either, my lady. We know war is coming to these shores and I won’t have you on the wrong side when it happens.” Pulling you to the door of the black cell, he wrapped a long cloak with a dark hood around you, pulling it up.

“Ser Barristan, I can’t just leave them-” He had to lean down slightly to look at your eyes, his hands comfortingly on your shoulder. “Lord Stark, Arya..they’re my family now I can’t just leave them like this. That isn’t who I am.”

His grip was strong keeping you in place as he said your name firmly. “They are not your only family, and they aren’t the only ones who need you. You are still as much a Baratheon as you are a Stark now, and that means you have a duty. One you can’t do from in here.”

Lord Varys had said only you could convince your father to not make his attack, your other family is locked away or scattered across the country but your duty was said to be that of your fathers.

“He won’t bend, you know that.”

Nodding back, he leaned forward more to a whisper even in the vast emptiness. “Joffery is not a king either of us can stand in court to serve anymore, they have made sure of that. But you were raised to be more then just a lady, perhaps you were meant to serve another king. One that you can actually call family.”

Duty and family. They were one in the same sometimes, but to others they got in the way. Your mind echoed a whisper in your ear, warm and soothing like the first voice in your feverish dreams of moments ago, as it told you “Here. You belong here.”

“We can’t just walk through the gates, not now.” Coming into the dark hallway, you both swiftly made your way to the end of the corridor as you looked to another closed cell. Was he in that one? Was he okay, still alive? But the footsteps pacing down the other hall had Barristan bring you along further.

His voice gruff and low, “The Targaryeans built tunnels beneath the city if they ever needed to escape. We can follow one of them, and end up at one of the small shore docks, and there you need to go to Dragonstone. Rejoin your family and maybe we both can find purpose out of this city.”

In his eyes, Ser Barristan had failed to protect King Robert from himself. Just maybe this was his way of atoning, if he couldn't protect you, the King’s niece and true claimed King’s daughter and heir, maybe he could get you home.

By the time any noticed, Cersei had put a stall on any ship leaving for ports within the Crownlands until they could be searched. The new King, Joffery having yelled over her and angrily about killing you should they find you alive and to bring him Barristans head for helping you escape.

No one knew which ship you had left on, but they were determined to stop you before letting Stannis and his firstborn heir reunite. As you stood in breeches, and a cloak curled around your body as the hood draped over your head you looked out into the water.

You hadn’t travelled this way on a ship of smallfolk before, but the route was all the same. You’d be there in no time should the gods bless you with the winds or the tides. As Kings Landing left your vision, you couldn’t help but see those same images.

The soft touch of Robb that now felt like a lifetime away, a dream showing you the panicked husk of what sounded like Jons voice rasping something you couldn’t recall to you as if he was grabbing fire out of your own hands. You could see their father, Lord Stark and the fear for the others life in yours and his eyes as you were hauled away as traitors. And the worry in manys eyes as they spoke of your own father, Stannis.

The sea didn’t smell of something crisp and it didn’t flush cool on your skin. The sea, much like the skies and the earths all below it, it all looked like blood, like fire, like the stench of war loomed over the horizon.

You just hoped you reached home, before home left for war without you.

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