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agentrouka-blog · 3 years

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Tyrion and Tysha murder mystery hints - first mention in the text

This thing just keeps tugging at me, and this recent thread made me ambitious to examine it in more detail. So I’ll look at hints for an even darker edge to the story of Tyrion and Tysha in the parts of the text that actually mention her.

Since I have limited time, I’ll do several posts. This one is about how we learn about Tysha in A Game of Thrones.

We head into AGOT, Tyrion VI via a chapter transition from AGOT, Jon V, where Jon talks Maester Aemon into choosing Samwell as his assistant. In the presence of his current assistant Chett, who - it is revealed later in the ASOS Prologue - murdered a girl he liked for rejecting him.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”

“Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.

Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”

“Does that mean …?”

“It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”

(AGOT, Jon V)

The chapter is followed by AGOT, Tyrion VI, where Tyrion and Bronn rest on the high road after being kicked out of the Gates of the Moon, after he won his trial by combat:

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering dead-wood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.”

The entire conversation between Jon, Aemon and Chett sets up Tyrion. A lordling, bad with manual labor, but smart and a reader. Yet we know he is no Samwell Tarly in his sensibilities, and the last sentence is dedicated to Chett.

Chett...

The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.

But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.

Like Tyrion, Chett is rejected by others for his appearance, has a violent father and a lot of resentment that comes out in the shape of murdering “slatterns”. He also mixes it up with the idea of marriage. Like Tyrion, the cold night reminds Chett of the girl in his past.

He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him?

Chett killed her in a rage, but the truth is layered and haunts him.

But back to Tyrion.

Tyrion VI emphasizes Tyrion’s cleverness as he converses with Bronn, explaining his strategy in the Vale for how to steal Bronn from Cat’s service and make use of his practical talents, and his strategy for their travels in the Mountains of the Moon. Tyrion talks, Bronn listens and agrees to serve him.

The point is, Tyrion is very observant and smart. Reader, trust Tyrion’s judgent and words, is the message. Then we get more personal.

As they light a fire and eat a goat, Tyrion remembers his goaler Mord who treated him cruelly in the sky cells.

(Mord, btw, translates to murder in many a germanic/Scandinvian language.)

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.

The image of coins spilling from hands is picked up later.

Tyrion was hoping to lure in the mountain clans, but they take their time showing up, so he tries to be even more conspicuous.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.

He chooses the “terrible” tune himself. It leads straight to his memory:

“Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats.

Myrish, as in the Myrish lens. The object Lysa sends Catelyn, which has a false bottom hiding the real message in a secret language, a message of murder and conspiracy. A secret language, a foreign language, like Mord.

"A lens is an instrument to help us see." (AGOT, Catelyn II)

Bright and merciless as truth.

My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed … yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to … well, nowhere, really.

Where Tysha went will become a theme. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir examines that beautifully here.

But even right here, the tone is ominous, and GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize it with the ellipses.

We get the story of Jaime chasing after the outlaws and Tyrion and Tysha falling into bed at an inn after drinking, eating and talking, and the story of their marriage, and its end.

Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

“He sent the girl away?”

“He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

NOTHING about this makes sense, which is ridiculous when you consider we were just hammered over the head with how smart Tyrion is supposed to be.

Since when is Jaime prone to setting up complex schemes? Why would feel the need to push Tyrion to have sex at thirteen, and why would be ever do it this way? Why would be hire him a virgin for his first time? We don’t question it because GRRM has told us not to question the smartiepants. But as we later learn, that was all. not. true. So maybe other things aren’t true, either.

“After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she …” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”

The parallels to his memory of Mord are striking. Silver and gold, coins spilling from hands, a “price” beyond expectation... and a promise of something very sinister at the next meeting.

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”

1) Nice how Bronn makes it about Tyrion’s pain. Tysha’s pain does not exist to them. And so the reader is also drawn away from it. Poor Tyrion.

2) Another reference to killing. It foreshadows Tyrion’s murder of Tywin over this very matter, of course, but at the same time...

Tyrion gestured impatiently with the bow. “Tysha. What did you do with her, after my little lesson?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Try harder. Did you have her killed?”

His father pursed his lips. “There was no reason for that, she’d learned her place … and had been well paid for her day’s work, I seem to recall. I suppose the steward sent her on her way. I never thought to inquire.”

“On her way where?”

“Wherever whores go.”

Tyrion’s finger clenched. (ASOS, Tyrion XI)

I don’t think it can be emphasized enough that this happens right after he murders Shae. Shae the whore.

“Did you ever like it?” He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he’d slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. “Did you ever like my touch?”

“More than anything,” she said, “my giant of Lannister.”

That was the worst thing you could have said, sweetling.

Tyrion slid a hand under his father’s chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm,” he said. He gave cold hands another twist as the warm ones beat away his tears.

And just before he asks him about Tysha, Tywin assures him he was meant to be sent to the Wall. Whether or not that’s a lie, we’re looking at another Chett parallel. Murdering a “slattern”, facing life at the Wall.

We close Tyrion’s memory of Tysha:

Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”

He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss …

Like Chett, his thoughts return to the girl. He turns into the goaler, Mord, his rage comes through, his capability of great violence. In ASOS, his lashing out at Tywin is preceeded by directing his violence toward the “whore” who allegedly betrayed him. Which is preceeded by a truth about Tysha.

“Thank you?” Tyrion’s voice was choked. “He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me … watch.” Aye, and more than watch. I took her too … my wife …

“I never knew he would do that. You must believe me.”

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!”

“Tyrion—”

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(ASOS, Tyrion XI)

The turnkey here is interesting. Once again, Tysha’s memory is associated with a cell and the presence of a turnkey. In his anguished memory, Tyrion almost stumbles over him. The last turnkey was Mord.

So, just looking at Tysha’s first mention, there are so many ominous connections. Murder murder murder.

The chapter ends with Tyrion meeting and “hiring” the mountain clans. How? To avenge himself on Lysa Arryn, he promises them the entire Vale. Really driving home that “a Lannister pays his debts” is all about disproportionate retribution.

A few chapter later, to create some distance to this dark tale, Tyrion meets Shae and sets up to re-create his entire Tysha trauma. The two are intertwined, so why should their ends not be?

That’s fodder for a different post, though.

#asoiaf #anti tyrion lannister #tysha #murder mystery #long post #Shae #tywin lannister #bronn #mismemory #memory edit

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stupidocupido · 4 years

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Jonsa recs

Or, some of the Jonsa fics I subscripted to over the years. Some of them are nsfw. All are multiple chapters!

I also kinda made this list so I have all of them stored in one place lol.

You Don't Get Her, Kingslayer From the tumblr prompt: jaime rides to winterfell and bends the knee to sansa and becomes an honorable advisor, Jon is very jealous. (bonus points if he walks past dany who thinks he's bending the knee to her instead of sansa)

Wildling Lover (series) Jon Snow is a Wildling who encounters the beautiful Lady Sansa Stark by chance in a wood one afternoon as a youth and falls in love with her.

touch her again, and i'll kill you This bastard boy would not dare to dishonor her so. His own half-sister, Petyr thinks with a smirk. What does it matter, what may be brewing between them? A man of Ned Stark’s blood would never indulge himself so sinfully. Petyr will make sure of it.

Thieves Among Us Let Jon have his armies and his devoted wildlings and the love of their people, she thinks. Let him have his dragon queen. She’s in possession of a secret, tragic as it may be, but at least it’s entirely her own. For Sansa, that’s more than enough. It has to be.

The White Wolf's Prey He had been watching her. For the past three moons now he had been silently watching her, a shadow and whisper within the vast gods wood trees of the immense castle. Silent, tucked and hidden beneath the trunk of the mighty heart tree. Ever vigilant. Ever observant. Always watching with his intense grey eyes...

The Pirate's Mistress Based upon the following prompt on Tumbr: Jon Snow/Targ &Robb Stark are pirate captain of 2 different ships. They’re friendly rivals/frenemies but have common enemy in the Lannisters. Shenanigans ensue,Sansa lands on Jon’s ship/Jon meets and falls in love w/ Sansa. I just really want a Pirate!Jon and fluffy or smuty JonSa.

The last thing he needs is another pair of panties "So," Sansa started. "What you're saying is that all of that underwear belonged to different girls Jon has slept with?" "Yep," Theon confirmed, making the 'p' pop. "There was a lot of underwear in that drawer," Sansa mused.

the demons around you (Or, the one in which Jon Snow knows his heritage, and the day Lord Stark betroths Sansa to Joffrey fucking Baratheon, he packs his things and travels to the other end of the world. The other end of the world turns out to be Astapor.)

The Alliance After decisions Jon has made, Sansa must deal with the consequences. With the Vale making up a bulk of their army and threatening to leave, Sansa must come up with an idea quickly to keep them aligned.

Stranded Sansa sets sail for King's Landing to marry Prince Joffrey with her bastard cousin Jon to serve as her personal shield. Then, disaster strikes and the two of them flee only to find themselves lost on a deserted island. Stranded, Sansa and Jon find themselves growing closer.

rumor has it Sansa is receiving some strange phone calls and she doesn't know who could help her. Maybe her brother's best friend could be the help she needs.

By Her Hand (series) Sansa burns Winterfell as the Night King approaches. Somehow, her story continues.

Nothing to me Picks up after season 7 with Jon's return to Winterfell. The longing for the dead is not the longing for the living. Sansa knows it by heart.

Not All That Glitters Is Gold Sansa is leaning on the armrest of his chair, her face close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose. She pretends to watch the guests as she patiently waits for his answer, only her teeth worrying her plump bottom lip betraying her nerves. "I did what I had to do in order for all of us to survive," he finally sighs. "We need her. My feelings are of no consequence." She blinks at him slowly and nods. Across the room Daenerys is staring at him again, the smile on her face replaced with a slight frown.

(we are all looking for) a place to call home Sansa knows that this is a second chance, a second chance at life and a second chance to do things right this time around. But the question is, what can she do?

A Caged Songbird “I will be a silent, and dutiful wife,” Sansa spits. “I will be their pretty little songbird, and wear their ugly crown, and sit on their painful throne. I shall give him a babe, and my love, and I will wait until he thinks that he has won. And then I shall take his life." Shae goes still. "You ... you plan to kill the King?" "No," Sansa says. "I plan to kill my husband."

Queenscrown (series) The night before, as Sansa oversaw the packing of her trunks – her chamber at Winterfell being emptied of her possessions to take to her new home with her – she had asked her brother to describe her soon-to-be husband because Robb hadn’t even supplied a sketch of the man. “Well, he’s… pretty,” Robb decided after a moment’s contemplation. “Pretty?” Sansa’s eyebrows both raised at that.

An Uninvited Guest Jon is a Wildling and volunteers to be Mance Rayder's eyes and ears in Winterfell during King Robert Baratheon's visit. But it is not necessarily for this purpose that Jon is so eager to go. He longs to see the highborn maid, Lady Sansa Stark, who he met during a chance encounter a moon earlier when he stole a kiss and she stole his heart.

bestow a kiss on me, sweet love Jon had always wanted to kiss Sansa, but he hadn't planned on kissing her more than once. a man would do anything for a kiss from his beloved.....

I'm Holding You Closer Than Most (Cause You Are My Heaven) Perhaps she deserves more than a man who loves another woman, but it's him she wants, so she'll take whatever part of him she can have. She's grown used to pretending, how hard can it be?

Let Them Lay Swords at Your Feet (I Just Want to Put My Sword in Your Sheath) Jon Snow didn't expect things to go swimmingly with the Northern lords or his family when he returned North after having bent the knee. He was prepared for that. He'd do anything to keep them safe even if it had meant a thousand walks of shame through the streets of Kings Landing. However, what he wasn't prepared for was facing his feelings of extreme jealously when he returns to his fair sister again...and finds a lot of guys lining up to swear themselves to her service.

Probably will add more later. But for now, have fun reading!

#jonsa #jonsa fics #jon snow x sansa stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #fic recs #jonsa recs

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

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Sinners & Saints-Chapter 5

Thanks to @statell for your help and guidance

Previous chapters at AO3

Chapter Five

Jamie walked his newly planted fields and saw green shoots coming up in every direction. He prayed for a good harvest this year. Not because he was poor or starving, he just wanted to win at something this year. He answered his cell phone and stood up straight, listening intently.

“Are you sure it’s Casper? I’ll leave within the hour and meet you in Paris.”

Jamie felt exhilarated and ran back to the house and into the shower. Casper had come out of retirement and stolen a painting from a private gallery. He did the same thing at a London gallery the previous weekend. It seemed a bit low end but at the very least, it would buy him more time. He got packed and headed for the airport.

Claire sat in her office at the University, staring into gray space. Her pencil tapped absently and when Geillis called to her she jumped.

“Calm yerself, Claire. I had hoped you could settle down a bit, especially with your gorgeous high-security apartment, and it’s been five months without word from that snake Randall. But yer still very unhappy. Why?”

Claire looked up at Geillis and shook her head, saying she didn’t sleep much the night before and not to worry. She packed up and went home for even more quiet time with her gray thoughts and more time to worry she was losing her mind. Jamie lived in her head now, always with her, always heartbroken because of what she did. She didn’t think he would ever speak to her again, and if he did, what would she say? Looking at the clock she wanted to scream because it was only seven o’clock. That was the worst part of missing Jamie, an hour took forever to go by so the torture never ended.

Claire grabbed some lined paper and a pen to see just what she would say to Jamie. Maybe getting it all out is what she needed to start feeling better. She could burn the letter after it was written.

Jamie poured over the reports and studied the crime scene photos of what were now three thefts. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He spent two full days checking his contacts in the black market, but no one knew the fence for this art, no one knew anything. The last guy he spoke to said someone told him a Monet would be in play soon, but he didn’t know which one. Jamie thanked him and promised the standard reward if the information was used to apprehend Casper.

Jamie sat on the same bench he shared with Claire six months ago and he let himself remember her smile and whisky brown eyes. She was playful and sexy, and he believed she had feelings for him. He shook his head and opened the newspaper. Flipping pages to the art section he scanned the ads and bam, there it was. A mid-range gallery hosting a private collection of Monet the following weekend. This, it seemed, was Casper’s new normal. Private showings and small galleries. Jamie had a good feeling about the location, and they had one week to set the scene to catch Casper.

There was one piece of evidence left by Casper that wasn’t shared with the world. It was how they identified him as the thief. Casper took great pains to keep the art intact, unlike many who pull the canvas from the frame basically ripping it out. Casper used some kind of tool to pop the nails that held the canvas in the frame. Whatever this tool was left distinct marks on the wood, a half-moon indentation. It was all they had so it was a guarded secret.

Claire pulled another piece of paper, the fourth piece, and continued writing a letter she would never send. Her feelings opened up to her like a blooming flower and she let it flow thinking the answer to her continuous sadness would reveal itself so she could fix it. When she was ready to end the letter and had said all there was to say, she wrote, ’I have never shared this much of me with anyone and I hope it cures my broken heart. I can summarize these four pages by saying I love you, Jamie, with all my heart, I love you.’

Claire sat up and looked at the paper. The words I love you seemed to jump off the page and she just stared at them. Before she could stop herself she sent a text to Jamie, ‘I love you, please forgive me. Claire” Send.

She didn’t expect to hear from him but hoped this would give her some closure. She went to bed.

Jamie stared at his phone and felt his heart ramming in his chest. Those words were the absolute last he expected to see, six months after they parted. He wouldn’t be returning the text, but as he fell asleep he said out loud, “I love you too Claire.”

The Monet show was one day away, and Jamie called Javier to ask about the gallery. He seemed genuinely happy he called and suggested they meet for lunch and he would answer any questions he could. Seeing the older man’s happy face was bittersweet for Jamie. They met at a sidewalk cafe and Jamie told him about the show. He asked about the gallery, if there were hidden entrances, a second vault, a basement, or structural abnormalities. Javier answered what he could and asked Jamie who it was they were closing in on.

“Casper.”

Javier almost choked on his coffee, “Casper you say? Well, that is wonderful, I hope you get him.”

The men talked a bit about sports and Jamie thanked Javier for his help and then bit him goodbye.

Claire came home early and saw a coded message from Javier. Once Tom deciphered the message, she couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Lunch with Jamie, he is preparing to arrest Casper tomorrow on a tip about a Monet. Needless to say, I was very surprised but not worried because you are in Chicago, right?’ Claire held the Chicago Tribune in front of her chest and took a selfie that she sent to Javier. She needed some air.

Jamie and his team had installed close circuit tv monitors in the gallery office and extra cameras throughout the exhibit. They scrutinized each visitor until their eyes were blurry. Jamie noticed a man standing in front of one of the pictures for a very long time. When he moved away the picture was still there, but Jamie’s gut was telling him the guy wasn’t normal. He radioed to his men near the door and described the man as he started running. The man was already being led out of the gallery when Jamie got to him. This was surprising since he would expect a man to fight harder for his freedom. The art thief had switched the painting with a reproduction and was arrested. His pockets were searched and a small Leatherman multitool was handed to Jamie. It was a link to Casper he thought, and a billion other people.

Later that afternoon, Jamie questioned the suspect who knew all the details of the last three crimes but was confused about the others.

“Tell me, sir, why did you rip the Rembrandt canvas out of the frame? Was someone coming?”

“I don’t remember, probably.”

Jamie made a sound of disgust, “if you intend to impersonate someone, sir, at least get the details straight. You are not Casper, nor could you ever be. You’re not smart enough.”

Jamie left the suspect handcuffed to the table and left. The pressure from his employers had let up with the newly revived Casper chase but now they would learn it was a copycat crime and his nightmares would start again.

“Yes, sir. It was a copycat, sir.”

“This is not good news for us or you Mister Fraser. We gave you an additional six months and you failed to fulfill your end of our bargain. I’m sorry Mister Fraser, it is out of my hands. The court will be notified of your failure to abide, sadly our agreement will be nullified.”

Jamie put the phone down and walked outside for some air. All of his tomorrows suddenly vanished and the nightmare of his captivity came back in living color. He was terrified. Not of monsters or torture, but of loneliness, desolation, no hope of escape. Jamie realized he left his phone at the office and jogged back before he lost that too.

Once back at his hotel, the phone vibrated an incoming text and Jamie’s heart sank, they don’t fool around, he thought. He looked with disbelief at the text message. ‘Come to Greece Jamie, please give me a chance to fix the hurt I caused. Two weeks on a yacht, just you and me going from one island to another. My heart aches to be near you. We can spend the first day making rules we are comfortable with. Claire.’

Jamie held his phone while the heartbreak over missed opportunities crushed him. “I love you too, Sassenach. Forget about me and find your happiness.” No text was returned, instead, Jamie got back to his reports and the grief settled into his bones.

Claire had battled herself for days over sending the text. The semester was over and she was getting out of Chicago for two weeks at least. She owned a yacht that was moored in Greece and the open water always made her feel better. For days Claire waited to hear back from Jaime, but no text came. This was the second time she extended an olive branch, leaving herself vulnerable, and he did not make contact. He was lost to her forever she concluded, and try as she might, the tears came, her legs buckled, and she sobbed into a gray pillow on her gray couch in her gray apartment, like her heart would never mend.

Jamie spent three days closing his case on Casper and the successful arrests made during the past year. He checked out of the hotel and headed for the airport. He considered calling Javier, but he wasn’t strong enough to show a brave face. Javier reminded Jamie of his own father in many ways and he didn’t want the reality of who and what he was to be known. Not to anyone in her world. Her perfect, sparkling world would be repelled by him. Like a muddy pig running through a fancy white living room. Jamie swiped at his eyes in the taxi and tried to stop thinking about it. His phone buzzed for email and he brought it up.

Good afternoon, Mister Fraser.

We have ironed out the details of your return and would like to ask for your complete cooperation. Our agreement is not to be known outside of the agency and we want you to extract yourself slowly to avoid anyone looking for you or filing reports that you are missing. You will return to us as quiet as possible. I do hope you agree, the alternative is rather brutal.

I understand you have a small farm in Scotland and will need time to sell it and conclude any other business such as liquidating assets and the like. We are offering a four to six-week window and ask that you keep us informed.

Any questions you can reach out to this address and I will receive the message.

Jamie paid the taxi driver who looked at him with sympathy and told him life will be brighter tomorrow. He wiped at his face and nodded. Sorry mister, wrong about that, no sun where I’m going, no love, no hope, no redemption, he thought.

When Claire landed in Athens, she spent half of the first day getting reacquainted with the captain and his girlfriend who lived on the ship. There were living quarters connected to the bridge and they were happy there, living on a luxury yacht waiting to be called to duty. She and Maia made three trips to the grocery store to stock food for a two-week journey.

Claire walked down the long dock with her arms full of last-minute purchases. She could feel one of the bags slipping through her arm and she felt sweat drip down the side of her face from the effort.

“Here, let me help you with that.” The man rescued the slipping bag and took all the others. Her subconscious smelled him and sent a cascade of neurotransmitters through her body that felt glorious and tense at the same time. She looked up at his face and just stared at his icy blue eyes and crooked smile.

“You invited me, remember Sassenach?” He asked the question nervously as he could not read the shock on her face.

“And here you are,” was her breathy response.

Jamie wanted to drop the bags and crush her to him. She was like the gift of air to a suffocating man.

Claire was so overwhelmed it took a few seconds to see the man that had stolen her heart was right in front of her. She pulled his head down and kissed him with all the pent up passion and loneliness of the past six months. Someone pulled the bags out of Jamie’s arms and he wrapped her up and held her to him. The kiss was a surrender to love, an invitation to leave the chrysalis of loneliness and fly into a world of their making. When she finally pulled away from him, she was the definition of happiness.

“It is so good to see you, Jamie.”

“You just restarted my dead heart Sassenach, thank you for that.”

He kissed her again and as time passed for the rest of the world, for them it didn’t exist. Jamie heard the musical sound of the Greek language and looked up at the biggest boat he had ever seen up close. Two beautiful people were on the top deck waving and laughing, beckoning them on board. He heard Claire laughing as she waved back.

“Do we get on that then?”

Claire was giggling, “we do, come on I’ll show you around.”

Jamie was astounded at the size and luxury of the yacht, three bedrooms, two decks, a large living area with a huge flatscreen, phones, and a bar. The galley had two refrigerators and a chest freezer, two ovens, microwaves, and large food preparation counters. The opulence was staggering and if not for the beautiful girl walking in front of him he would have looked closer. When they found the back deck, Claire pulled his mouth to hers and they were lost in love.

“Time for trunks or something more comfortable.”

She led him back to the master bedroom and helped him put his clothes away, noticing he packed for any occasion. She unbuttoned her shirt and Jamie watched her with interest as she pulled off her cut-off shorts to reveal the tiniest bikini, bright melon colored against her tanned skin. I will meet you on deck. Maia has been cooking since yesterday, so I promise you won’t starve. She looked at him and wanted to pinch herself in case she was dreaming. He was here, with her, he came.

Claire handed Jamie a cold glass of champagne and offered flatbread and several kinds of dip that were made from scratch while they chatted at the bar. The sexual energy was palpable, and Claire looked out at the ocean to think about something other than the mere twelve inches of space between them.

“My God, I haven’t noticed how blue the water is until now, I can’t remember the last time I saw blue.”

There was so much to discuss but every sentence fell stunted, unexplored because both were captivated with the other.

Claire picked up a ringing phone at the bar and told the captain they were ready to go. She smiled at Jamie and promised open ocean and sunshine for the next six hours.

“This is my first launch, you want to see it from the front deck?”

Jamie watched her mouth and nodded yes.

They got comfortable and sipped champagne as the captain eased the vessel away from the dock and toward the open ocean. It wasn’t long before the huge engines pushed the boat forward to cruising speed and Maia appeared with the cold bottle of champagne to refill their glasses.

“Maia, what do you have on?”

Maia was a Greek beauty with all the attributes this country was known for. Large brown eyes, a wide smile, and flowing hair to her waist. She looked down at her clothes and shrugged her shoulders,

“Uniform.”

Claire rubbed the highly starched shirt sleeve between her fingers and noticed the ill-fitting shorts. This would not do, she thought.

“You have been in cut-offs or a swimsuit since I arrived. Unless you love that uniform, I want you to be comfortable. Please, get that off.”

Maia thanked her and left them alone.

“I think we left the dip on back deck. Let’s go find it.”

Jamie noticed her voice was quiet and nervous sounding. When they walked to the other deck Claire closed the sliding glass door and locked it. The glass was black and Jamie wondered if it blocked the view from the other side. Claire led him to a lounge with a comfortable mattress and pillows to aide whatever ailed you. She walked back to the bar removing her button-down shirt revealing her exposed butt cheeks. She looked naked from behind and Jamie almost choked on his tongue. Her skin was already bronzed with a bit of sunburn on her cheeks and shoulders. She brought the tray of bread and dip and laid next to Jamie on the large lounge.

He took in every gorgeous inch of her and ran his hand down her hip and leg. He wanted to touch everything and tried to hold himself back.

“I promised we would go over the ground rules first thing.” She ran her hand across his massive chest and down his arm. When he saw her ramming heart pulsing in her neck, he let it go and pulled her on top of him to smother her with kisses. In his delirious mind, he decided this was enough, to have her body on his and her tongue in his mouth. When she broke the kiss, he chased her mouth as she sat up and straddled him. He watched her reach behind and pull the strings of her bikini top dropping it on the floor. She never took her eyes off his until he pulled her down and kissed her.

Their bodies were covered in sweat that made contact difficult, causing them to overheat or slide off each other. Claire stretched her arm until her fingertips touched the bridge phone.

“Darius, were you kidding about sea spray …ahhh…on the back deck when you dropped speed. Okay, do that please.”

She dropped the phone and used that arm to pull on the string holding Jamie’s trunks on. They slowed enough for the wake to slap the sides of the boat and lovely, cool, sea spray brought their temperature down for more vigorous activity. Jamie ran his tongue from her waist to breast and sucked a nipple while caressing the other. She was losing her mind and asked him to pound into her which he did in short order, gasping when he filled her. Claire felt the throbbing, almost painfully. She begged him not to stop, she was about to come. His next two strokes pressed into her and he twisted his hips. That did it. He held her and watched her face register the euphoria, he had never loved her more. When she pressed his butt, he pumped into her soft wetness until he stiffened and his body convulsed as he emptied himself into her.

They kissed and found their favorite resting position to snuggle and nap the afternoon away. Claire called the bridge and asked Darius to set whatever cruising speed he wanted, and the boat lurched forward.

Later, Jamie felt a cool breeze on his stomach and opened his eyes to a breathtaking sunset.

“Sassenach, sweetheart, you must see this beautiful sky.” Claire sat up and declared it the best sunset she had ever seen. What finally drove them inside was starvation and Maia served them a beautiful meal of lobster bisque, steak, and several Greek sides that were delicious but unknown to them.

Later they cuddled under a quilt on the top deck and let the heavens entertain them with shooting stars streaking across a black sky with billions of stars as a backdrop.

“It’s important to me that you really know who I am, how I got this way, how I could screw up so bad in Paris last Christmas. Would you mind?”

“Please Sassenach, there is nothing I’d like more.”

Claire turned on a battery-operated light and handed him her four-page burn letter. She couldn’t bring herself to burn it because it was all she had to remember him by. It was shoved into her wallet and now it was in Jamie’s hands. She felt self-conscious and rolled away to leave him to his reading. He caught her hand and pulled her back, “not without you love.”

He read every line and then, to her surprise, started at the first line and read it again.

“Jesus, lass, I hardly know what to say. Completely alone at five years old except for a man who dragged you from one archaeological dig to another. He wasn’t there for you emotionally, I see that, I also see how you slip easily into emotionless relationships. And why I didn’t hear from you for six months. It makes sense now, so many things. Come here, sweetheart.”

Jamie hugged Claire and pulled her to him. She was so grateful he read her letter, and then read it again. She hoped he would have more faith in her this time because now she knew how much she loved him.

“What is happening with Frank Sassenach?”

Claire was quiet just a little too long while she considered telling Jamie the truth. If she didn’t, the letter meant nothing and he still couldn’t trust her. She reached for her phone and launched her gallery.

“This is my new apartment that Javier rented for me, and that is all my new furniture. He arranged everything from the lease to filling the apartment with furniture, kitchen stuff, even clothes. The reason he had to do all this is because…”

Claire swiped to the next picture of her destroyed apartment showing various rooms and angles. Then she swiped again, and Jamie’s intake of air was loud enough for the sea creatures to hear. He grabbed her phone and sat up, studying the picture of her face after being knocked out.

“No, no, no, no, no, my God, how did this happen, who did this? Oh my God Claire, this is sickening.”

He stood up and walked the deck around their bed under the stars. He kept looking at the picture as she told him exactly what happened. When she was finished, he pulled her from her sitting position down on the mattress and covered her. He spoke into her ear, telling her she was loved and protected, and Frank or anyone else would never touch her in anger again. His kisses were love affirming becoming heated and passionate causing her to pant.

Claire was trying to get his shirt off and panting in his ear when the voice of reason took over in his head. You will love her, tell her you will always be there for her, make her feel safe, and then break her heart like everyone else in her life. The lovemaking came to a crashing halt and Jamie looked like he had been kicked in the head.

“Sassenach, I…I’m sorry love. I’m too much in my head, I can’t right now. I’m sorry.”

“You are here in the flesh Jamie. You took a leap of faith and came on this trip with me. Your hands are still warm, and your heart is still open. That’s what I want. There is time for us to find our way.

He hugged her for over a minute, trying to come to terms with his reality. He had, at the most, six weeks of freedom left, and he needed to find a way to tell her. Claire suggested a hot shower and sleep and he agreed.

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virareve · 4 years

Link

Summary:

“Didn’t you hear? Kit Tarth’s a Lannister!”

Twenty-five years after Brienne and Jaime went their separate ways, they reunite for their daughter Catelyn’s wedding.

Chapter posted at link and below (for those who prefer reading on Tumblr):

When was the last time Brienne had allowed herself to dream about love?

When she was a girl, still blessed with naivete and optimism of the young, she dreamed of marrying her fairytale prince on the shores of Morne. She would join herself to her husband in the shadows of the castle that Ser Galladon had once resided. Her parents would stand in witness, eyes filled with tears. Alysanne and Arianne would be grown women with loves of their own by then, excited for the day they too would marry. Galladon, her beloved brother, would be the one to walk her before the septon. The sun would shine its familiar, gentle warmth, and the sea would shine its brilliant blue that her father claimed was matched by no other blue but her eyes. The wind would make her hair flutter around her like a halo, and as she promised herself to the man she would stand by forever, he’d see her at that moment, sunlit and wild. He would think her the sun and moon made flesh.

For reasons tragic and practical, that dream would never be. The cliffs in Morne had become unstable from years of tourist use. Her mother and siblings had all died before her tenth year, and her father had passed just the last year. She had no prince.

But The Seven had given her a different gift. Her daughter, Catelyn, Kit as she was called early on, was Brienne’s greatest accomplishment. Brienne had once wanted to be the fairytale princess, but raising one, gave a different sort of pleasure from what that fantasy prince would have.

Fortunately, Kit would never know the same heartbreak Brienne had when it came to love. Love came to Kit early on in life in the form of Sansa’s oldest boy Ned. It took over two decades for the best friends to articulate the deep-seated feelings, but they were past that now. And had reached the stage few made where fantasy turned reality. Oftentimes as she contemplated Kit and Ned over the last few years, Brienne wondered if she had ever worn the same look of love.

“Champagne?”

Brienne startled as someone slid into the chair beside her and held out a glass of chilled bubbly.

“Jaime,” she greeted, surprised to see him. They had not spoken in two days. She glanced speculatively at the glasses in his hand, raising a brow. “A bit past the point for champagne isn’t it?” Speeches and toasts had all well been hours ago and if what she remembered about Jaime still rang true, bubbly was not his preferred choice of drink.

“Tyrion is going around trying to convince people to drink more of that godsawful Northern shit he gifted Kit and Ned,“ Kit’s father smirked. “Arm yourself before he tries to convince you to take a horn.” He passed a glass over to her. His fingers were dry and warm.

If she were a lesser person, Brienne thought her breath might have hitched, shocked to press even the slightest skin against his. “I can’t believe he bought 800 horns of fermented goat's milk. We’ll be lucky if the Giantsbanes can finish one.”

Jamie snorted. “He just found out I was once with someone who wasn’t Cersei. And had a kid at that. To him, it’s like Sevenmas came early.”

Brienne nodded, giving him a stiff smile and looked at the dance floor...only to end up cringing with motherly embarrassment. A horn toting Kit looked like she was about to perform a very public lap dance for a delighted and equally sloshed (and horn holding) Ned to the tune of the wedding party hit “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” by the Brave Companions. Several guests had their phones out, hooting the bride and groom on, and Brienen resigned herself to a 4K replay on Ravenbook tomorrow.

Her eyes slid over to Jaime, curious to see what he would think. He looked amused and directed her to check out Tommen on the opposite side of the dance floor.

“Ree’s going to eat him alive,” she commented as Tommen looked equally terrified and aroused as Sansa’s oldest girl plastered herself all over him.

“If she wasn’t the spitting image of her mother, I’d be certain she was Margaery’s,” Jaime laughed.

Brienne missed that sound. It was genuine, light, and carefree. It tugged and plucked at her wound up heartstrings. She’d worked so hard to prepare herself for seeing him again, but their twenty-four years of separation had done little. Maybe if he’d been angry at how long he’d had to go before Kit would reach out to him to meet on Tarth for her wedding week, it might have been easier to brush off any residual feelings. Jaime was not. He’d been genial from the beginning. The only friction, if it could be called that, was his continued insistence that he help pay for the wedding but even that was a pleasant insistence to help out.

From his first interaction with Kit at the Sunday family clambake to the ceremony and reception, he’d been nothing but pleasant and civil with her. And he was absolutely enamored with his youngest child. He hadn’t tried to bring up either time in Winterfell and only brought up Kit, his children, and his work when they were near each other for placid small talk. It was all going along extremely well and yet Brienne could not relax, she couldn’t stop waiting for something to go wrong now that he was here.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Jaime said, breaking the quiet spell between the two. There was a rhythmic thud starting on the ground near their feet. Brienne looked down instead of looking at him and noticed the heel of his shoe sole was tapping against the ground in a discordant beat.

“What’s it now?” she sighed, “The DJ? The videographer? Sansa and I already settled it.”

Jaime gave her a measured look.

“Wench, you know I’m not here to talk about the bill.”

She shook her head. “Don’t call me that,” she said, severely. She got up from her chair. “Thanks for the drink. That reminds me that I should check in with the bartender.”

Jaime jumped up. “Brienne,” he huffed, “I’ve been treating you with kid gloves all week. I gave you space at the rehearsal last night and then today because I understood how important Kit’s wedding is, but you can’t seriously expect us not to talk about this.”

Brienne pursed her lips. “It would be easier for us if you didn’t.”

“Easier for who?” he asked, waving a hand between them. “It doesn’t make it easy if we don’t talk.”

Brienne stepped past him. “I’m not doing this with you again.”

Jaime released a deep exhale.

“It’s a little late for that,” he called after her. “I was hoping we’d get to talk yesterday morning but we never got to have a proper conversation because someone decided to leave before I woke up.”

Brienne was thankful everyone had vacated this area of tables for the dance floor so that there were no witnesses when she blushed. But not too far off some of Kit’s friends watched them curiously. Everyone was clearly interested in whatever her shared history with Jaime was. After it became known among the guests that small town, island rose Kit Tarth was actually the child of one of the wealthiest men in the Six Kingdoms, friends and distant family were eager for further details. But no one outside Sansa, not Kit, not Margaery, not the rest of the Starks, knew. And Sansa and Brienne were not willing to divulge details.

Brienne released an annoyed exhale and looked back at him. “Fine, follow me.” She hurried them out of the view of the celebrating couple, out of the sight of nosy guests, and past the observing eye of the knowing few who looked at them with some sort of expectation. She brought him to the unlit, cordoned off gardens of Evenfall, and he followed her, hovering like an impatient puppy at her heels. She stopped abruptly when they reached her mother’s old hibiscus garden. She whipped around to face him. Jaime stumbled back. A nighttime breeze caught in his shirt, rippling under his shirt and exaggerating his step back.

“Why won’t you leave this alone?” she hissed, trying to make herself look looming and menacing.

Jamie made a grumbled complaint under his breath. “I love you,” he declared, deadpan and apropos of nothing.

Brienne’s jaw dropped. “ Excuse me? ”

“I love you,” Jaime repeated, briefly looking as if he might enjoy seeing how much he’d shocked her. “I never stopped.”

“You can’t mean that! You don’t know me,” Brienne countered, feeling half dizzy and half breathless from the whiplash of Jaime’s declaration. “It’s been too long. I’ve changed! You’ve changed!”

“I’ve had a week to see you’re still everything I fell in love with,” he argued, “I know I’ll fall in love with all the new things about you that I haven’t learned yet.”

“You’re insane,” she declared, backing away.

“Wait.” He stepped toward her, holding a hand up like he was approaching a skittish animal. “Please listen to me.”

“Jaime,” she warned. She warily watched him. The breeze continued to dance around them, picking strands of her hair up and causing them to glint as they refracted moonlight.

He stopped, mesmerized by the vision of her cast in luminescence. “Did you know I dream of you?” he confessed in earnest. “Even after all these years, you still visit me from time to time when I sleep. And when I wake, I hate myself for breaking your heart.”

Brienne pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to revisit Winterfell and revisit those experiences in the frozen North. But her mind disregarded her and she flashed into those dark memories. And despite the warm summer air, Brienne turned cold as if she was back in Winterfell, and the chill was seeping into her bones.

“I let you disappear from my life to make up for how I wronged you,” Jaime continued. “And I know it was the right thing to do, but every time I think about it, it feels like I made a mistake.” She watched his hand ball into a fist at his side. “Brienne, there’s never been anyone else for me.”

Once upon a time, Brienne had hoped to hear such ardent words from Jaime but he’d firmly shown her she wasn’t enough. “Why are you talking to me like a Hallmark card?” she asked, “Is this about Kit?”

“Kit?” Jaime looked at her, incredulously. “Why the Seven would it be about Kit?” he grumbled. “This is about you..”

“Why?” Brienne pressed him.

Jaime rubbed a hand down his face, “Because you’re worth going head-to-head with your willful bullheadedness until you hear what I’m literally spelling out for you.”

“What about Cersei?” she reminded him, invoking the specter.

“There is no Cersei. There hasn’t been for years.”

Brienne’s mouth dropped open into a wide “O” of surprise. “Why? When?”

“I was different after the second time in Winterfell,” Jaime admitted. “Realizing what I lost with you and Kit...it forced me to confront everything that led me to that point and I couldn’t be what Cersei wanted anymore once I was back. Eventually, she ran off with Osmund Kettleback and I got custody of the kids. I’ve tried to reach out to her, but she’s virtually gone. I’ve heard of her appearing on the arm of some billionaire or another at society events but she’s never contacted us and the children gave up on her years ago.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, relieved to know she might never see Cersei again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Good riddance works.”

“Oh.” Brienne was surprised by his vehemence.

Jaime looked at her, and stepped closer, pulling one of her hands into his. “I know I have no right to ask it of you, but I can’t have you not understand. I didn’t bring you back to my room for a drunk romp, I brought you back because I’ve wanted you for so long. And I thought you understood my intentions until I woke up and you were gone. I’ve missed you all this time. I just need you to understand and I want to know what it will take. If I have to climb the Eyrie barehand, backpack the furthest edge of the True North, walk the Wall coast-to-coast, I will. Let me prove to you how serious I am.”

Brienne swallowed. She rarely thought of it these days, but every time she turned to those days in Winterfell, she felt herself sink under it’s emotional weight. But this man before he wasn’t him and that had to be worth exploring at the very least. So very softly, she whispered, “Okay.” She squeezed the hand that held hers right back.

Jaime grinned and tugged her closer to him, asking her a question that went in one ear and out the other.

She searched his face, dazed to be this close. “What did you say?”

Jaime chuckled, “Don’t play coy with me, wench. How about it? One dance. I’ll go easy on you tonight but tomorrow I’m turning up the Lannister charm.”

Brienne sputtered. Her mouth opening and closing in a pantomime of a beached fish.

Jaime waved a hand, “Okay, got it. So no Lannister charm tomorrow. Monday then. So how about it. One ‘no-stakes’ dance?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in that,” she agreed.

“Of course there isn’t,” Jaime beamed, but his face wavered, seeming to jump back and forth with the earnest and passionate soft underbelly he had exposed to her and the charismatic front he was choosing to fall back on in the hopes it would make her more comfortable, “but there’s no harm in dancing all night with me if you feel so inclined. With the exception of our daughter, Myrcella, and Tommen, if Ree Stark ever lets him go, my dance card is reserved exclusively for you.”

Brienne blushed. “One dance,” she reiterated, “and then we’ll see where we go from there.”

Jaime’s face lit up and she remembered how good it had actually felt to fall in love with him in the ruins of the Stark’s ancient castle. Perhaps it could be easier now. He held up their hands, fixing their hold so that her hand was being held delicately in it like a princess’. He leaned forward and kissed it. “I can work with that.”

#braime #jaime x brienne #brienne and jaime #brienne x jaime #jaime and brienne

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orangeflavoryawp · 4 years

Text

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 4

Thanks for your patience, guys. Been dealing with Real Life Bullshit and it’s not been fun. But this piece has been my refuge. Hope you guys feel the same. :)

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Four: The Downfall

“Ours, she’d promised. But it’s getting harder and harder to see the Stark behind all that Targaryen. (And maybe this is her own fault. Maybe this is her thinking too well of people again. Maybe this is what all naïve, self-righteous girls get for their wanting hearts.)” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

“And who will your brother be squiring for?” Aegon asks Sansa from across the table.

She sets her wine glass down, smiling gratefully at his interest. “My father has not yet found a position for him.”

“Not yet?” Daenerys asks coolly, cutting into her ham. “Your wedding is in a fortnight. Your family is to return North shortly after, yes?”

Sansa sags with the remembrance. “Yes.”

“Then arrangements should be made rather quickly, don’t you think?”

Sansa nods stiffly, looking down to her plate. “I’m sure my father is looking into it.”

She’s grown used to these dinners with her future husband and siblings. Sometimes King Rhaegar joins them. Sometimes her father or brothers. Sometimes she takes her dinners back in the guest wing, with just the Starks and Theon and Margaery. There’s much more laughter then. Her smiles come more freely. And she does not miss the way Robb and Margaery glance at each other across the table.

Sansa smiles to herself at the recollection. She cannot blame her brother. Margaery is wicked charming, after all, and even Theon has warmed up to her, grudgingly admitting to Sansa once during their stroll through the gardens that Robb could hardly find better and Sansa had swatted his arm good-naturedly for the low compliment before Theon was laughing at her, surrendering, granting his reluctant admiration for the lady. Sansa had beamed.

She wonders if it’s too soon to hope for a sister, rather than a friend, in Margaery.

The thought reminds her suddenly – “Lady Margaery recommended Bran squire for her brother Ser Loras. He is a rather renowned knight, after all. And Margaery’s word gives me hope that the Tyrells would be in favor of such an arrangement.”

Rhaenys scoffs softly across from her.

Sansa swings her gaze over to the princess, catching the way Jon reaches for his wine glass beside her. “Is there something strange about it, Lady Rhaenys?” She cannot help the soft bite that echoes after the words. She still remembers how the other woman had humbled her at tea several days past, the memory unpleasantly sharp and vibrant.

Sansa clenches her jaw.

Ice, she tells herself, breathing deep.

“That woman will sink her claws into anything once she gets a whiff of power,” Rhaenys says.

Sansa’s brows furrow. “Lady Margaery?”

Rhaenys takes a bite of her buttered turnips. “The very one.”

“I don’t see how – ”

“Tell me, Lady Sansa, does your brother Robb take kindly to her?” Rhaenys offers a close-lipped smile, chewing carefully.

Sansa bristles at the insinuation.

“Come, Rhaenys,” Aegon interrupts, “You’re being rude to our guest.”

“I’m only giving her fair warning,” Rhaenys says, spearing another vegetable with her fork. “Lady Margaery wanted you first, brother, and when she couldn’t have that, she went for Jon – ”

“Rhaenys,” Jon warns lowly, and it’s the first Sansa has heard him speak all night.

“ – and when that didn’t happen, she went for the next best thing: the heir to Winterfell.” She takes a vicious bite of her food.

Daenerys reaches for her wine glass, an amused smirk at her lips. “You’re simply mad that Mace Tyrell has offered his son Willas for your hand.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” she snaps. “Bunch of vultures, the whole lot of them.”

“Lady Margaery has been nothing but sweet and considerate towards my family and I, and I don’t think it right to besmirch a lady based on assumptions,” Sansa gets out breathlessly, hardly believing the words have left her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Jon’s fingers twitch over the stem of his wineglass, drawing it toward his perpetual frown.

Her cheeks heat instantly, fingers tightening over the cutlery in her hands.

“And you’re absolutely right, my lady,” Aegon agrees gently, sending a warm smile her way. He glances to Rhaenys then, a flicker of warning to his violet gaze.

The subtle shift is somewhat jarring, even if his agreement has tempered her bout of sudden vexation.

Rhaenys sends a baleful look toward her brother but doesn’t argue further.

Beside her, Jon shifts in his seat, setting his glass back to the table. Sansa feels acutely aware of every minute movement he makes, anxiety from this maddening silence of his rooting her to her seat.

She’s tried accompanying him in the library, sharing the quiet with him as they each devour their chosen books in turn, hoping to draw some sort of conversation out of him regarding his reading, and yet he offers little more than acknowledging grunts at her attempts. She’s tried sharing stories from home, enlightening him about the North, and Rickon and Arya back at Winterfell, the godswood, the crypts, the hot springs, but he hardly even meets her eyes let alone grants her any seeming interest in her tales. They’ve been riding, they’ve walked the gardens, they’ve shared a meal nearly every evening for the last fortnight she’s been in King’s Landing, and still, he is no more known to her than the first night he swung her about the dancefloor and slated her honest questions with quiet anger.

She’s never been spurned so. It smarts, she finds – when she’s brave enough to admit to it.

“Rhaenys is right though, you know,” Daenerys says over the rim of her wineglass. “In some respects,” she finishes.

Aegon gives a decidedly unprincely eye-roll and throws a smirk Daenerys’ way. “Seven, but you do love to disagree with me, don’t you, wife?” Even as an urge for caution, there’s a fondness to his words that startles Sansa somewhat, the quiet intimacy of it warming her with embarrassment at being present for the exchange.

Daenerys lifts a brow at Aegon, setting her wine glass down. “I’m not disagreeing either way. But you have to admit that the woman certainly isn’t letting the opportunity pass her by.”

Sansa frowns, eyes drifting down to her plate. She stares resolutely at her half-eaten ham, taking a deep, calming breath. Her eyes prick with a stinging wetness she hates.

She does not want to think that her time with Margaery has been disingenuous. It is too cruel a thing to consider.

Sansa curls her hands tightly along her fork and knife, hovering at the edge of her plate, blinking back the wetness.

Maybe she thinks too well of people. Arya’s berated her for it before. Robb’s consoled her because of it, as well. It hurts her more than it helps her, she finds.

But she’d rather think too well of people than too ill of them.

Sansa glances up fleetingly at Rhaenys.

(No, if thinking too ill of people likens her to Rhaenys Targaryen’s sort, then she doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want it at all.)

She can’t have imagined the hidden quirk of Margaery’s lip when Robb had kissed her hand for the first time in greeting, eyes alight on hers as he bent into a courteous bow, and she’d thought Sansa wasn’t looking. Or the unhindered laugh she’d let loose, hand clamped suddenly over her mouth, when Bran tried to tell the story of how he caught Theon kissing Jeyne Poole in the kitchen pantry before Theon nearly vaulted over the dinner table to stop him. Or the way her face had gone slack with tender disbelief when she’d taken the hand-sewn silk handkerchief Sansa had offered her just the other day, beaming proudly as Margaery fingered the edges with a fond reverence.

There are many shadows in the Red Keep, but some things Sansa still sees clearly.

She swallows thickly, straightening in her seat, missing the way Jon watches her with muted, grey eyes.

“And is this the norm in the capital? This rank suspicion? Is it not tiring to always assume a second layer of meaning to what people say and do?” she asks. It’s a barb, of course, a frank observation, but there is also a genuine need to the question. She clamps her mouth closed at the tail end of the words, feeling suddenly small and naïve and childish. But even still –

Surely it can’t be all shadows in such a sunlit place.

Daenerys and Rhaenys offer piqued brows at the question while Aegon graces her with a consolatory smile. Beside her, Jon smothers a rueful chuckle into his wine glass. Sansa nearly glares at him, but reins the instinct in, cutting into her ham instead, perhaps a touch too forcefully.

“You’ve a kind heart, Lady Sansa,” Aegon says, leaning back in his seat as he watches her. “Be careful with. It seems too beautiful a thing to break.” His violet gaze is steady, candle-lit and searing.

Sansa swallows thickly at the look, setting her cutlery to her plate. Daenerys takes a large swig of wine across from her, eyes averted. Jon sets his glass down loudly, a gruff exhale leaving him. Sansa nearly startles at the noise.

“Your brother would do well under Ser Loras,” he says to her suddenly, voice low and tight, a gravelly quality to the words – the most he’s said to her in days.

Sansa blinks at him, only to find him watching Aegon intensely.

Aegon hardly notices, having returned to his plate with a gingerly swipe of his knife into his meat.

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, finds her voice finally. “Thank you, my lord.”

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, dragging his wine glass back to his mouth.

“What about Jaime Lannister?”

Sansa looks up at Daenerys’ question. “My lady?”

The Targaryen heiress settles back in her seat, her finished plate abandoned atop the table. “I daresay your brother wouldn’t find a better knight to squire for, and a Kingsguard at that. I’m certain Rhaegar would approve the arrangement.”

Sansa does not miss the way Jon stiffens beside her, but it’s Aegon who responds.

“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” he drawls dismissively. “Let the Stark boy squire for the man who killed their father’s dear friend and helped end his people’s uprising.”

Sansa startles at the blatant way Aegon says it, her mouth parting, her gaze fixing to him. Something brews in her chest – something Northern. Something winter-hewn.

Jon leans his weight to one armrest, scowling at his brother. “Robert Baratheon got what he deserved,” he snarls. “If only Stannis had shared such a fate.” The words are too full of bite to truly be called a lament.

That incessant winter, tugging at her veins – it batters around her chest now.

“And Ned Stark took a knee for it,” Daenerys muses, “So the North may live on.” She scowls softly at her husband. “I see no reason to dismiss the suggestion. Ser Jaime squired under Ser Arthur Dayne, after all. Any lord would be overcome to have their son squire for such a knight.”

Sansa watches as Rhaenys goes stiff with the mention of Arthur Dayne. Jon lets out a near growl into his slowly emptying wine glass. Sansa’s skin feels tight, uncomfortable, her eyes blinking furiously, lungs clenching in her chest.

To speak so casually about her people’s independence, their failed rebellion – Sansa finds the words tart and smarting along her tongue.

Robert Baratheon got what he deserved. And Ned Stark took a knee for it.

Sansa’s chest heaves, her cutlery clattering to her plate.

Jon glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry, but I…” She trails off, eyes fixed to her plate.

Aegon leans toward her, a concerned look on his face. “Lady Sansa?”

Jon takes a long gulp of wine.

Sansa steals a breath through her nose, hands going to her lap. “Robert Baratheon may be a traitor to the crown but he was – ” The words stall in her throat, thick with unspoken meaning.

He was her father’s brother, in truth, as much as Uncle Benjen ever was. As much as Uncle Brandon, too.

Her hands curl into fists atop her lap.

“You’re not about to defend him, are you?” Jon asks quietly beside her, still as the grave, eyes dark, even by candlelight.

Sansa glances up at him, mouth parted.

Daenerys trails a slender finger slowly up and down the stem of her wine glass as it rests atop the table. “Careful, Jon,” she says, eyes glinting, “Your soon-to-be wife seems to have wavering allegiances.”

The panic is instant, throat closing around spent air. “I’m not – ”

“The Baratheons are a gutless sort,” Jon sneers. “No honor amongst them.”

Rhaenys is uncharacteristically silent, dragging her fork across her plate almost disinterestedly. But Sansa hardly has a mind to notice. She’s too overcome with a new, threatening ire. “And thus my father, by association?” she asks on as ladylike a scoff as she can manage, teeth rattling behind her heated exhale.

Jon narrows his eyes at her. “That’s not what I said.”

“You may as well have,” she argues, chest heaving.

Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s turning in his seat, facing her now, the brunt of his attention fully trained on her. She shifts to face him in return.

“Lord Stark knelt to save his people, aye, but only when the rebellion was truly lost. That hardly fosters good faith, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say burning your lordships alive hardly fosters good faith,” she quips back instantly, brows furrowed sharply, tongue smarting with her indignation.

Daenerys smothers her amused laugh into the rim of her wine glass. Aegon intones his wife’s name warningly, stiff and unblinking. Sansa’s eyes prick with a heated wetness, frustrated and helpless. She keeps her gaze fixed to Jon.

He blinks at her, mouth curling into an aggravatingly familiar smirk. “Citing past grievances won’t help you now, my lady. This is a new era – a new dawn. Our father is a fair ruler, but you can be sure, he will not tolerate treason.”

Sansa smarts at the admonition. “’Past grievances’?” she asks incredulously. “The mad king murdered my grandfather and uncle in open court,” she hisses, voice rising. “Your grandfather and uncle,” she reminds him, the accusation as much a plead as it is a damnation. She blinks furiously at him, the anger rising easily.

Jon swallows tightly, eyeing her with a searing gaze.

“There is no excuse for what our grandfather did,” Aegon says suddenly, voice low and practiced. “No one denies that such an act was atrocious, and certainly un-kingly of him.”

Sansa does not even spare the prince a glance, her eyes still fixed to Jon. He stares resolutely back at her. Neither seems able to relent.

“But you’re looking for villains now where there are only men,” Aegon finishes, and this does draw Sansa’s attention finally. She stares at him, mouth a thin line, hands curling tightly together over her lap.

She hears Jon’s scoff beside her, catches him in the corner of her eye, dragging his wine glass back to his mouth. She swings her hardened gaze back to him instantly. “And I suppose ‘villains’ are all you see when you look at Starks and Baratheons, my lord?” she prompts, voice hard, lip curling into a sneer.

Jon does not wilt beneath her gaze. “I stand by what I said,” he says lowly.

“Am I to assume honor and brotherhood mean nothing to you?”

“Am I to assume fealty means nothing to you?”

Sansa huffs, an incredulous breath drawn through her rattling lungs. “My father is a good, faithful lord.”

“No one is denying it. I’m simply warning you, in hopes that it stays such.”

She feels her nails digging half-moons into her palms. That splinter is back – but oh, how it digs. A stinging reminder beneath her skin.

She wants to claw it out, now.

A seething cold settles over her. “Then tell me you would have done differently,” she gets out in a low voice.

Jon’s gaze shifts between her eyes, brows drawn down in a confused furrow.

Sansa licks her lips, breath raking from her. “If it had been your father and brother murdered so, tell me you would have done differently,” she challenges.

The silence is deafening – a sundering weight between them.

Sansa catches, just barely, the flicker that passes over Jon’s face when the words leave her, before it’s shuttered away, a dark look overtaking him. She watches as he leans back from her, arms going slowly to his armrests, never taking his gaze from hers.

It’s static between them, frenzied air, a heavy draw in her lungs.

She can feel the hammering of her own heartbeat at her ears and wonders – frantically – if he can hear it, too.

She drags her gaze away eventually, eyes fixed to her hands. It seems terribly unfair, this frustration he brews in her.

Because he is so agonizingly still, even now.

She wants to shake him for it, wants to rattle this silence clean out of him, bring back the disparaging remarks, the heated admonishment. But her pride still smarts. And she won’t admit to the hidden, spiteful part of her that revels in being able to reduce him to such silence. So, she sits, and she breathes, and she tries to steady her thunderous heart. She takes his quiet, searing stare as a notion of victory, even when it tastes like chalk on her tongue. Even when the triumph languishes beneath her wounded Northern pride.

Someone clears their throat across the table and Sansa finally glances up, catching Aegon’s violet gaze. It’s closed off, giving nothing away, his mouth a thin line, one slender, poised hand stilled over his wineglass. “Lady Sansa, I would advise you to abandon the topic.” His fingers glide around the rim, slow and measured, and the motion is startlingly lulling to watch. “I do not wish to ruin dinner any further.” He offers a light quirk of his lip. The expression lights a strange mix of comfort and forewarning, and Sansa’s gut clenches, remembering herself suddenly.

“Of course, my lord. I apologize,” she answers, shifting slightly in her seat, decidedly away from Jon, reaching for her own glass and taking a distracting gulp.

Daenerys chuckles ruefully. “All this because of a squire?”

At her side, Jon grunts his displeasure at his aunt’s remark.

Daenerys sighs dramatically, ignoring him. “I still say Jaime Lannister.”

“Gods, Daenerys,” Rhaenys snaps, “You have absolutely no tact, do you?” Sansa finds she is as eager for the princess’ silence as Rhaenys seems to be, though she finds the comment rather hypocritical herself.

But Daenerys only gives the other woman a piqued brow in response. “Training under Ser Arthur Dayne is no common feat, after all. You of all people know the value of that,” she intones meaningfully.

Rhaenys glares at her, jaw quivering.

Jon throws his napkin to the table.

“I beg pardon, but I think perhaps…perhaps it’s time I excused myself,” Sansa says suddenly, drawing her napkin from her lap as well and setting it primly atop the table.

Aegon notes her half-eaten plate with a raised brow. “You’ve barely finished, my lady.” The words are not unkind.

Sansa’s gut churns regardless. “I’ve no appetite tonight, it seems,” she says in apology, looking to him with almost pleading eyes.

Almost, but not quite.

(She will not plead for such a low thing – to be excused from the table like a child.)

“Of course,” Aegon says, nodding to her.

She stands swiftly, hands smoothing her skirts over as she offers her farewells, before she retreats from the room as quickly as she can.

She’s partly through the door when she hears the scrape of a chair behind her, and Rhaenys’ startled “Jon!” before her heart slams up into her ribcage and she’s stalking as fast as she can through the corridor without breaking into a dead run, her hands bunched in her skirts, her chest heaving, eyes stinging with humiliation and ire.

“Lady Sansa.”

She comes to a halt in the torchlit corridor, her back to Jon. “Please,” she says, hating the way the word falters, a quake of air past her lips.

He says nothing behind her at her heavy exhale, says nothing as her hands fist in her skirts. The line of her shoulders is a trembling, vulnerable thing. She swallows, tongue heavy, words rasping as they leave her. “Please, just…let me go, my lord.”

Still, he says nothing. And Sansa hasn’t the patience to turn to him, to humor whatever argument or censure he wishes to sling at her.

Ours, she’d promised. But it’s getting harder and harder to see the Stark behind all that Targaryen.

(And maybe this is her own fault. Maybe this is her thinking too well of people again.

Maybe this is what all naïve, self-righteous girls get for their wanting hearts.)

After many moments, she finds he still has no answer for her but silence. Not even the rustle of his leathers, or the familiar expel of his aggravated breath.

She doesn’t wait around for him to change his mind. She stalks from him, never looking back.

She feels the weight of his stare all the way down the corridor, even still.

* * *

“Come on, Stark, you’ve got better than that, don’t you?”

It’s the cocky way the words are spoken that catches Jon’s ear when he makes it to the end of the opening hallway, turning past a column where the courtyard opens out.

“Any better and you’ll be wiping that mouth off the ground,” Robb taunts back, barking a laugh. A clattering, steely sound follows. Jon rounds the bend into the training yard, looking out in time to see Theon parrying a blow from Robb.

Jon stops to watch the spar. Robb is clearly more disciplined in his training, but Theon is agile, swift. They’re a fair match for a time, but Jon can tell Robb’s endurance will win out. There’s no wasted energy, no move without purpose. Robb conserves himself, doesn’t move without purpose, no mind for theatrics or flashy tricks. There’s a single-minded determination to his motions, his face pensive even in the midst of the fight. He is thinking three moves ahead already, Jon can tell.

A smirk streaks across the Stark’s face.

It is not the pleasure of the spar itself, but the inevitable victory.

Jon watches as Robb delivers the final blow, bashing Theon into the ground, his back hitting the dirt, Robb’s sparring sword stopped just at Theon’s throat, a gleam in his eye when the Greyjoy curses his loss.

Robb steps back, smirk spreading into a full-on grin, reaching a hand out to help Theon up.

Jon blinks at the motion, at the way Theon grunts in reluctance as he takes his hand, even as his own grin is tugging surreptitiously at his lips. He thinks of his own spars with Aegon, the heated fervency of them, the deadlocked resolve. There are never laughs, never out-stretched hands in the wake of victory.

You pick your own self up out of the dirt, Jon reminds himself.

“You were saying?” Robb taunts him.

“Oh shut it, Stark. No one likes a boastful ass.”

Jon’s brows dart into his hairline with his surprise. The heir to Winterfell lets a Greyjoy speak to him thus?

Robb’s laugh fills the courtyard and Theon punches at his shoulder half-heartedly. Robb only laughs louder.

“I’d heed your own words if I were you, Theon,” someone says from across the yard, a feminine giggle lighting the end of the words, and Jon swings curious eyes to the other side of the courtyard, catching along Lady Sansa watching from beneath the veranda. She stands arm in arm with Margaery, the Tyrell lady smothering a laugh with her palm. Sansa arches a challenging brow to Theon, her lips quirked up into a fond smirk. The expression is unguarded, affectionate even in its taunting. Jon’s jaw clenches at the look, chest tightening without warning.

He’s never seen such an expression on her face before – certainly never directed at him.

He thinks back to the other night when they’d argued about Northern fealty and Baratheon treason. The remembrance brings a sourness to his tongue. If only she knew, if only she –

But she doesn’t know. And how could he expect her to?

Seven years ago, when Stannis had –

Jon stops that train of thought, burying the memory instantly, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“You wound me, Lady Sansa,” Theon says dramatically, drawing Jon’s attention back with a hand braced at his chest in mock offense. “You know I mean everything I say.”

“And that’s the problem,” she says back, laughing.

Theon offers her a roguish grin. Jon curls his lip at the sight. “You think I can’t beat your brother? Have you no faith in me?”

“A very little,” she says teasingly. Margaery shakes her head beside her, clearly entertained by the banter.

Theon hoists his sparring sword to rest along his shoulder, chest puffing out at the challenge, but when he turns to face Robb once more, he catches sight of Jon at the edge of the courtyard, their eyes meeting on a halted breath. His grin falls instantly, replaced by a tight-lipped frown, very near a sneer if Jon thinks too long about it. But the Greyjoy seems to have just enough deference not to keep the expression long, straightening, a short bow of his head accompanying his greeting. “My lord,” he says stiffly, all hint of his earlier amusement bled out from his voice.

Robb turns at the address, finding Jon easily, bowing himself with a similar greeting. When Jon finally drags his eyes back to Sansa, she purses her lips, curtseying politely, eyes falling to the floor. Margaery settles a hand along her arm at her side.

Her clear disinterest rankles him, nostrils flaring beneath his heavy breath. “Do continue,” he says to the men, turning back to them. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Robb seems about to say something, before he thinks better of it, tapping his sparring sword in the dirt in apparent contemplation. It’s Theon that speaks then.

“Join us, my lord.”

Sansa’s head snaps up at the words.

Jon raises a brow at the offer. Robb glances to Theon, a cautionary look to his features. But Theon ignores Robb, chin hitching high, lips settling into a self-satisfied smirk. “That is, if your lordship would deem to cross swords with a Stark.”

“You’re not a Stark,” he says without bite, only bluntness, but he sees the way the words strike him regardless.

Theon’s face goes dark, lips twitching, the hand at his sword tightening over the hilt.

It puzzles him, how Theon Greyjoy could take such offense. Is it such a grand thing, to be a Stark? Does it mean so much?

His chest constricts at the thought. It used to mean much. He can hardly recall the feeling now, though. But even still…

A Greyjoy.

Jon finds himself sneering at the other man.

“I’m sure Robb could accommodate that,” Margaery calls out from her place beside Sansa. The other woman turns to her, eyes wide, clutching at her arm.

She only shrugs a shoulder, an impish grin to her features. “Though I daresay it should be rather hard for our dear Lady Sansa to choose who to pledge her favor to,” she says slyly, grin turning devilish.

“Margaery,” Sansa hisses beneath her breath.

Jon is already stalking forward, unlacing his leather jerkin, possessed of something he hasn’t a name for. Sansa swings wide eyes back at him, catching the way he’s staring at her all the while, shrugging out of his jerkin to just his cotton tunic beneath. She swallows thickly, mouth parting as her breath hitches. He doesn’t admit to the rush that overtakes him then.

So she isn’t so unaffected by him, is she?

“I think a spar is an excellent idea, Lady Margaery,” Jon says. Margaery excitedly pats at Sansa’s arm linked through hers with the affirmation. “Assuming Lord Stark here is up to it.” He glances to the man finally, buttoning up his sleeves over his forearms and reaching for a sparring sword along the rack of blades beside them. Theon moves out of the way grudgingly when Jon circles round to the center of the yard with the Stark heir.

Robb nods, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “It would be an honor, my lord.”

“Don’t take it too hard when he knocks you flat on your ass, Targaryen,” Theon mutters off to the side.

Jon flashes him a condescending grin. “You and I are not the same, Greyjoy.”

Robb can’t seem to help the bark of laughter that breaks from his mouth at the words, though he smothers it quickly, offering an apologetic look to Theon as he stews angrily at the dismissal.

They get into a ready position quickly. Robb rolls his shoulders, eager and focused. “I do hope you will be entertained, Lady Margaery,” he calls out teasingly, “even if I should lose.”

She chuckles prettily, head cocked as she watches the men slowly start to circle. “Then I will cheer for you, my lord.”

A singled raised brow, a saucy smirk gracing his lips. “Will you now?”

“It only seems fair,” she muses, glancing at Sansa beside her. “I suppose it would be improper for your sister to grant her brother favor above her betrothed, so I shall have to do, my lord.”

Sansa gives a sidelong glance to Margaery, a barely discernible huff passing her lips. Margaery’s smile broadens at the tease.

“I think I can live with that, my lady,” Robb says, fingers flexing over the hilt of his sword.

The comfortable, playful teasing stirs something in Jon. It’s a strange sort of yearning, a coil in his gut. He glances to Sansa over his shoulder. Her smile wilts instantly.

It grips at him suddenly – a thunderous need.

That coy smirk she had graced Theon with. That flutter of a laugh. That easy, endearing crinkle at her eyes, shoulders shaking lightly in her mirth, red tendrils of hair brushed back with fine-boned fingers.

(A need he doesn’t recognize – not fully, not yet.)

She stares back at him, face a blank visage, a sheen of ice overtaking her.

She has no such smiles for him, especially not since he’d berated her so condescendingly at dinner the other night. No more walks in the garden or accompanying him in the library. He’d grown used to her presence, even when he’d kept a purposeful distance. He’s been too forceful with her, too familiar with his touch. She’s to be his wife, yes, and touch is inevitable, touch is…

Jon swallows, his skin tingling with the anticipation he won’t admit to.

Touch is the least of what will occur between them come the wedding night, but even still, until then, he will not take such liberties with her. She’s clearly not amenable to such intimacy, not yet at least, and Jon is loathe to think she considers him a brute.

But has he given her any reason to think otherwise?

And why should it matter in the first place?

Jon snarls, looking back at Robb. His opponent seems to recognize the shift, the signal, because his face hardens, all mirth leaving him, and then the game begins.

Jon is the first to strike, and Robb parries his swing easily, foot bracing back in the dirt. He pushes off, swinging low. Jon dances out of the way, circling round, eyes trained on Robb. They meet again, a stinging clash of their mock blades, and Jon shifts left, knocking Robb off balance with an elbow. Robb stumbles back, righting himself immediately, just in time to parry another swing from Jon, this one almost vicious in its intensity, and his arms buckle slightly, locking at the elbow. He grunts beneath the force of it. Jon hears the sharp intake of Sansa’s breath, the hushed murmur of her brother’s name issuing forth in concern.

The sound coils something hot and unrelenting in his gut. He shoves off of Robb, panting, circling round again.

Robb circles similarly, a weary smile gaining on his face. “Not a leisurely spar then?” he chuckles, already winded.

Jon scoffs, but it isn’t a scornful sound. A dark mirth fills him. He thinks he might have liked this Robb Stark, had he known him before.

(Before – when Jon had once yearned for his mother’s family like a stupid, lost little boy. Before – when he’d been a stupid, lost little boy.)

“You don’t fight for leisure, either,” Jon muses, breath raking from him. “You fight to win.”

Robb shakes his head, still chuckling. “Aye, but at least I’m not so dour about it.”

Jon raises a brow, smirk tugging at his lips, unbidden. Another clash of their blades, a parry, a missed swing, a shove to the shoulder, grunting, feet shuffling across the yard, a kicked-up cloud of dust when one stumbles back, chests heaving, tunics soaked through with sweat. A clang, metal ringing sharp in the courtyard. Again, and again, and again. Neither knows how to relent.

Yes, he’d have liked this Robb Stark. If he thinks too long about it, he likes him even now. But Jon knows well enough to be wary of wolves.

Sansa’s image floods his mind, for she is a wolf, too, even in all her silk dresses and pretty courtesies. There is a flash of teeth behind that primly, pursed mouth, Jon knows. A bite as cool and cut as winter.

And he wonders suddenly – wildly – what that bite might taste like, whether that cool ice of hers would persist against the hot press of his tongue, what sounds she might make when he’s spreading her milk-white thighs apart to sink inside her.

Would she howl for him, as wolves are wont to do?

Jon’s chest heaves, a maddening heat suffusing him, and he blinks the image back furiously, barely managing to avoid Robb’s incoming swing. The edge of his blade swipes close to his chin, and Jon stumbles back at the near miss, ears catching the sudden intake of breath from the watching ladies, as well as Theon’s whoop of satisfaction. Jon steadies himself, wiping a hand across his sweat-slicked brow, dark curls plastered to his skin. He growls lowly, shifting his sword into an overhold, advancing on Robb. He is waning, he knows, but he will not lose. Not here, with her watching. Something about the thought lights a flare of resolve in him.

Jon feints right, parrying Robb’s blow and swinging round, blade coming at his side, and Robb barely manages to swing his sword back in time, but the force of Jon’s strike, caught at an awkward angle, trips him up, and he’s stumbling back, hand going out instinctively to brace his fall before righting himself just in time.

Except, not just in time.

Jon swings hard, sweeping Robb’s legs out from under him, and Robb lands back along the dirt with a rough grunt, breath winded from him, looking up to find the tip of Jon’s sword at his throat, a mirror to his earlier victory against Theon.

They stay staring at each other, breathing heavily, Jon’s eyes dark and focused, his hand never lowering.

“Well,” Margaery says with a smack of her lips, “That was a riveting win, wouldn’t you say, Lady Sansa?”

Jon blinks away the heady battle haze, arm lowering, stepping back a pace. He glances to her, still panting, tunic stuck to his chest with his sweat.

Sansa lifts her chin. “Valiantly done, my lord,” she says tightly, a hint of a scowl gracing her features, “For a man with royal training against an opponent already flagging from previous spars.”

“Sansa,” Robb admonishes from his place on the ground, looking up at her aghast.

Theon smothers his laugh in his fist, but not enough for Jon to miss it.

Margaery raises both brows at her friend in surprise, her amused smirk still steadily put.

Jon lets out a rueful laugh, voice rough. “It seems not much impresses you, Lady Sansa.”

She doesn’t answer, keeping her chin high. Theon steps toward them, picking Robb’s fallen sword up off the ground. “I think it’s one of her many virtues, actually,” he says smugly.

Jon throws a disdainful look his way. “I’m not particularly interested in what you think about my betrothed,” he warns.

Theon opens his mouth but never gets the chance to retort.

“Alright, Targaryen, you’ve had your fun. Now, are you going to help me up or not?”

Jon looks down at Robb leaning back in the dirt with an expectant look and a hand held out. He catches the laugh that threatens to escape at the image. His throat tightens, an unfamiliar ache settling in his stomach. He reaches out and grabs his hand, hauling the man up. Robbs dusts himself off, groaning softly when he stills with a hand to his side.

“Are you wounded, my lord?” Margaery asks, voice lilting gently, though the subtle thrum of concern is apparent even to Jon.

Robb scoffs, straightening. “Aye, at my lady’s complete lack of appreciation for my battle prowess, even considering such a brutal defeat.” He flashes a grin at Jon.

The expression is jarring in its ease. An honest grin, goading and friendly. Jon’s frown deepens, that soft, unexplainable yearning battering around his chest.

These damn Starks.

“I was breathless for the whole affair, I assure you,” Margaery promises, a charming smile accompanying the words.

Robb glances back to her, brow raised. “Is that so?” His voice is breathy, labored.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Oh, go take a bath, Robb, you’re utterly filthy.”

Robb looks down at his muddied tunic and then narrows his eyes at Theon’s guffaw.

“You too, Theon Greyjoy. You’re worse than Robb.”

Theon’s laugh cuts off abruptly, glancing back at Sansa with a petulant frown.

Jon stares at her at the edge of the courtyard, eyes boring into hers. He doesn’t miss the way her gaze rakes quickly over his form, and he wonders if she will give him the same kind of fond tease, if she will remark on the way his tunic is fitted to his chest with sweat, or the way his curls are disheveled and damp from exertion. But she only purses her lips after her brief appraisal, turning fully to Margaery beside her. “Shall we go for a walk?”

Margaery links her arm more surely through Sansa’s, turning them already. “Yes, let’s,” she agrees.

With a duo of curtsies, Sansa and Margaery leave the courtyard, skirts swaying in their wake. Jon watches her go for long moments. When he looks back, he finds Theon staring at him, a deep furrow to his brow, not even bothering to hide his scowl.

Jon cocks his head at him, inviting whatever scathing comment is languishing on his tongue. But Theon only shakes his head, hefting both his and Robb’s swords over his shoulder, turning to the Northern heir. “I should go find Bran. Reckon he’s dodging his lessons with Ser Rodrik.”

Robb nods, clapping him on the shoulder in farewell, and Theon leaves without a backwards glance.

“You know,” Robb says, once they’re left alone in the training yard, “You don’t seem to be making much headway with my sister.”

Jon arches a brow at him, unsure whether to laugh or groan or sneer at the jab. A disbelieving scoff leaves him. That curl in his gut, it doesn’t seem to leave these days. Certainly not when he’s surrounded by maddening Starks.

“She can be…” He stops, considers, rolling the words along his tongue, “Difficult.”

Robb snorts a laugh. “And you haven’t even met Arya, yet,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Jon gives him a questioning look.

He sobers up easily, gaze going to the space Sansa had occupied. “The thing is,” he says, tone disconcerting and inexplicably low, “Sansa generally gives people the benefit of the doubt. Looks for the good in them. And she’s never discourteous.” He looks to Jon sharply then, eyes probing. “Which makes me wonder what the hell it is you’ve done to make her so.”

Jon sucks a breath through his teeth, gaze never relenting on Robb.

Just a common brute, he imagines her thinking, remembering the heat of her glare when he’d dragged her into his arms.

(And why should it matter? The thought pesters at the edge of his mind, insistent.)

“I’ve not harmed her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he near growls.

Robb considers him a moment, cocking his head at him. “No,” he muses softly. “No, she wouldn’t allow that.”

You will unhand me, my lord.

It’s not a line he means to toe again.

“And I don’t believe you would,” Robb says finally, eyeing him still.

It shouldn’t make him feel like this – grateful and relieved and seen. Least of all, by a Stark. And yet here he is, greedily taking in his words, that recognition.

A tendril of copper hair just out of reach, a glance of frost-blue eyes, throat pale and slender and gulping beneath his calloused touch.

The searing impression of her earnestness, frail and genuine.

No, he would not hurt her.

The realization is startling in its sincerity.

“Forgive me, my lord, for my bluntness,” Robb begins, face grave, “But Sansa is a tender sort, too tender for her own good sometimes, and whatever it is that’s between you two, whatever it is that’s…hardened her, I do not care for it.”

Jon blinks at Robb’s sudden fervency, mouth parting, but no words coming forth.

“As a brother yourself, I think you can understand that,” Robb says.

The bile is ripe at the back of his throat, and Jon has to swallow back that slice of shame.

(Not how one is supposed to love.)

His head feels too foggy, his chest too tight. The words sink, weighted, along his tongue, until his throat is rife with them. “I’ve no intention of hurting your sister.”

No intention, it’s true, but he thinks he might have already, all the same. He grinds his jaw, hand curling over the hilt of the sword still in his grip. “She’s to be my wife, after all. And I take care of my own.”

I don’t want anything from you.

He pushes the words from his mind, the remembrance carving a place between his ribs to anchor there.

Because what could he possibly mean to her outside of duty?

“Then take care of her,” Robb says, the hint of a demand coloring his words, “Properly.”

Jon gives an incredulous chuckle, rueful and unexpected, hand tightening over the hilt of his sword. “From one brother to another?”

“Aye.”

“She’s not been an easy sort to live with, has she?”

Robb barks a laugh. “Aye, I’ll give you that.”

Jon flashes a knowing smile at Robb, the ease of it unfamiliar and jarring. It’s not an unwelcome feeling though, and perhaps this is where it begins.

The blur. The downfall.

Robb’s smile wavers somewhat, a hesitancy marring his charm. He takes a breath, his sudden frown thoughtful, his eyes a soft-hued blue. “Do right by her, my lord. I promise, she will always do right by you.”

It’s not said as a demand or a warning or a compromise. It’s said like a promise, knowing and comforting. Like an embrace.

Like a brother.

She’ll always do right by you.

Somehow, he believes it.

Jon glances to the spot Sansa had previously occupied, his recollection of her playing like shadow on his mind.

“Valiantly done, my lord.” A paltry concession.

And why should it matter? That thought – that plaguing, insistent thought. He thinks he understands now, loathe as he is to admit it.

It matters because suddenly, inexplicably, Jon finds he cares what she thinks of him.

It matters because her opinion of him means something now.

Jon swears beneath his breath.

Fucking Starks.

He’s going to regret this, he knows. He’s going to regret every bit of this.

#jonsa #from instep to heel #my writing #jon snow #sansa stark #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #jonsa fic #game of thrones #got fanfic

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argentvive · 4 years

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Jaime and Brienne Reunite

It’s been a LONG time since I posted about alchemy in the Jaime-Brienne relationship in the books, so to review--

Jaime and Brienne joined in the final, permanent Chemical Wedding in ASOS. Jaime is tried and tested by his imprisonment and his journey back to King’s Landing under Brienne’s protection. Jaime is transformed from a cocky, ruthless, bloodthirsty warrior to a merciful, even self-sacrificing peacemaker. A key moment of his transformation occurs in the baths of Harrenhal, inspired by this alchemical image or the many similar ones.

After Jaime saves Brienne from the bear pit and they reach King’s Landing, their joining is cemented and symbolized when Jaime gives her his sword, Oathkeeper. They take on each other’s characteristics and goals. They become one person alchemically--the rebis, androgyne, hermaphrodite, as in this image from Das Buch der heiligen Dreifaltigkeit.

In AFFC, Jaime and Brienne are apart. Brienne searches for Sansa and Arya while Jaime secures the peaceful surrender of Riverrun. Nevertheless, their bond is preserved: thoughts of Jaime bring Brienne strength. Thoughts of Brienne bring Jaime moral clarity.

The last we see of Brienne in AFFC is when she is about to be executed by Lady Stoneheart. (This is my short post about that: https://argentvive.tumblr.com/search/Brienne+Stoneheart ) The chapter ends on a cliffhanger--Brienne thinks she is about to be hanged, and the reader doesn’t know whether she survives or not.

There are no Brienne chapters at all in ADWD, and the first and only Jaime chapter comes about two-thirds of the way through that book.

In Jaime I, Jaime is clearing out the last bits of resistance in the riverlands. He has now reached Raventree Hall. He realizes that he will soon be able to return to King’s Landing. He doesn’t regret burning Cersei’s summons to return and save her from the High Sparrow:

She was guilty of every treason laid against her...

In his thoughts--and even out loud--he calls her a whore:

“...My little brother has known a hundred whores, I’m sure, but I’ve only ever bedded one.”

Jaime meets with his commander, Lord Jonos Bracken, and makes it clear that he plans to continue on the path of peace and reconciliation that he adopted with Edmure Tully at Riverrun.

“...I mean to offer him [Tytos Blackwood] terms and accept him back into the king’s peace.”

Jaime intends to take a hostage, as usual in such situations, and Bracken suggests Blackwood’s only daughter, a girl of seven.

Jaime enters the castle alone and meets with Blackwood. Blackwood knows he must surrender, but Jaime chooses not to add further humiliation. The two men go to Blackwood’s solar for private conversation. From the window Jaime sees the castle’s weirwood tree, which the Brackens poisoned and is now dead. Raventree Hall is named for this tree, which attracts hundreds of ravens every night. Blackwood explains:

“They come at dusk and roost all night. Hundreds of them. They cover the tree like black leaves, every limb and every branch....”

This is a very odd bit of detail to throw in here, and the story goes nowhere. I suspect that the idea of a “raventree” comes from this wonderful image from Splendor solis.

This image shows the philosophical tree, a common symbol for the Great Work, the opus alchymicum. The alchemical process has three basic stages: black, white, and red (nigredo, albedo, rubedo). This image shows that the black birds that commonly symbolize the nigredo are turning white. It shows the passage from nigredo to albedo.

In this chapter, the Blackwoods of Raventree Hall are passing from siege and hunger and despair to peace and hope--as a result of Jaime’s actions. Jaime is the White Stone now, and he is fulfilling the projection stage of alchemy by bringing peace, without more violence, to the wider world.

Jaime still cares about honor, but his priority is reality, not empty show. Blackwood asks if he should get down on his knees to show his allegiance, Jaime replies, “If it please you. Or we can say you did.”

He further shows mercy by taking Blackwood’s bookish son Hoster as a hostage instead of his very young daughter. He even declines dinner, realizing that “no good would be served by Jaime stealing food from their mouths.”

When Jaime rides back to the camp and reaches Bracken, he tells him to “Go home and plant your fields.”

To me this is a very strong echo of Isaiah 2:4:

And He shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.

I believe this is the moral of ASOIAF that GRRM intends to convey.

Jaime and his troops leave Raventree Hall and proceed to the small holdfast of Pennytree to spend the night. Hoster fills in Jaime on the backstory of the hundreds-years-long Bracken-Blackwood feud, and why peace has never prevailed:

“So long as men remember the wrongs done to their forebears, no peace will ever last....”

Jaime responds that his father Tywin had a solution: kill the entire family, sons and daughters as well. But that’s not what Jaime has done himself--he tells Hoster that Eddard Stark’s daughters still live. And of course Jaime’s thoughts turn immediately to Brienne:

Brienne, where are you? Have you found her?

Pennytree is a large village that is recovering from the ravages of war. The villagers hide in their tower, but Jaime promises he will do not harm. He refuses the suggestion of storming the gate:

“It would be a bloody business, and for what? These people have done us no harm. We’ll shelter in the houses, but I’ll have no stealing. We have our own provisions.”

As a half-moon crept up the sky, they staked their horses in the village commons and supped....

Well, based on ASOIAF so far, if there’s a moon about, half or otherwise, Jaime will soon see--or at least dream about--Brienne. She is the Moon to his Sun, the White to his Red.

And, in the very next paragraph, Brienne arrives, captured by two of his scouts.

Jaime scrambled to his feet. “My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon.” Gods be good, she looks ten years older than when I saw her last. And what’s happened to her face? “That bandage . . . you’ve been wounded . . .”

“A bite.” She touched the hilt of her sword, the sword that he had given her. Oathkeeper. “My lord, you gave me a quest.”

“The girl. Have you found her?”

“I have,” said Brienne, Maid of Tarth.

“Where is she?”

“A day’s ride. I can take you to her, ser . . . but you will need to come alone. Elsewise, the Hound will kill her.”

The chapter ends there. We find out that Brienne is alive, but not how she escaped hanging. And we don’t know how she found Sansa. But Jaime and Brienne are together again, still joined in their Chemical Wedding, symbolized by Oathkeeper.

If the sixth book is ever published, I expect to see Jaime and Brienne on the road together again, in a quest to rescue Sansa Stark.

#game of thrones meta #alchemy #a dance with dragons #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #braime #jaime x brienne #oathkeeper #chemical wedding #splendor solis #philosophical tree #nigredo #albedo #rubedo

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empressofmankind · 5 years

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A Wind of Change - Part I: Departure - 02. Loren I

O O O

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#Imperial Fiction #Imperial Shenanigans #a saga of bears & lions #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and FEELS #game of thrones #house lannister #loren lannister #kevan lannister #tywin lannister #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #lannisters #the most bullshit fam of westeros is what I am saying #asoiaf fanfiction #agot fanfiction

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him-e · 7 years

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Different anon. What do you mean about the marriage symbols in Brienne's chapters? I didn't see any?

In the mêlée at Bitterbridge she had sought out her suitors and battered them one by one, Farrow and Ambrose and Bushy, Mark Mullendore and Raymond Nayland and Will the Stork. She had ridden over Harry Sawyer and broken Robin Potter’s helm, giving him a nasty scar. And when the last of them had fallen, the Mother had delivered Connington to her. This time Ser Ronnet held a sword and not a rose. Every blow she dealt him was sweeter than a kiss.Loras Tyrell had been the last to face her wroth that day. He’d never courted her, had hardly looked at her at all, but he bore three golden roses on his shield that day, and Brienne hated roses. The sight of them had given her a furious strength. She went to sleep dreaming of the fight they’d had, and of Ser Jaime fastening a rainbow cloak about her shoulders.

She was dressed in silk brocade, a quartered gown of blue and red decorated with golden suns and silver crescent moons. On another girl it might have been a pretty gown, but not on her. She was twelve, ungainly and uncomfortable, waiting to meet the young knight her father had arranged for her to marry, a boy six years her senior, sure to be a famous champion one day. She dreaded his arrival. Her bosom was too small, her hands and feet too big. Her hair kept sticking up, and there was a pimple nestled in the fold beside her nose. “He will bring a rose for you,” her father promised her, but a rose was no good, a rose could not keep her safe. It was a sword she wanted. Oathkeeper. I have to find the girl. I have to find his honor.Finally the doors opened, and her betrothed strode into her father’s hall. She tried to greet him as she had been instructed, only to have blood come pouring from her mouth. She had bitten her tongue off as she waited. She spat it at the young knight’s feet, and saw the disgust on his face. “Brienne the Beauty,” he said in a mocking tone. “I have seen sows more beautiful than you.” He tossed the rose in her face. As he walked away, the griffins on his cloak rippled and blurred and changed to lions. Jaime! she wanted to cry. Jaime, come back for me! But her tongue lay on the floor by the rose, drowned in blood.Brienne woke suddenly, gasping.

Let’s unpack this.

Brienne was betrothed three times.

The first time she was a child, but the boy she was betrothed to died of fever.

The second time she was thirteen and Ronnet Connington was six years her senior. When he came to see her, he insulted her looks, tossed a rose at her and told her it was the only thing she would have gotten from him.

Her third and last suitor, a ser Humphrey Wagstaff, told her she would have to learn how to behave as a proper lady. So Brienne challenged him to duel, telling him she would only accept such demands from a man who could beat her in combat. He couldn’t. And the betrothal was broken.

When Brienne was in Renly’s camp, Hyle Hunt and some other guys made a wager to get her maidenhead, and started wooing her (aka lowkey harassing her). Though Brienne knew it was all a game, a mockery, it still hurt. (because deep down Brienne wants to experience this romance stuff for real, from a man who really means it, and who is not gross to her.)

later on, in the melee at Bitterbridge where she won her rainbow cloak, she beat them all. She also beat Loras, who didn’t take part to the wager (but had three roses on his shield and Brienne hates roses because Red Ronnet but also because obviously Loras had Renly’s love, which Brienne would never have).

this establishes a pattern in which we have Brienne beat in combat potential lovers (husbands) who don’t deserve her (reflected in their inability to keep up with her superior strength and martial skills) and keep her maidenhead intact over and over again. This is (in large part) because of the trauma Red Ronnet inflicted on her when she was thirteen, that made her decide she will not be humiliated again and fight anyone who dares to ask for her hand.

the rose Red Ronnet tosses at her is an OBVIOUS homage to beauty and the beast, but wonderfully subverted: Brienne’s “offense” is being too ugly and witch!Ronnet “curses” her by making her forever insecure about her appearance and completely destroying her trust in men to the point that she won’t accept to be betrothed OR courted by anyone EVER AGAIN. Like the Beast is forced to hide in his castle, in sadness and isolation, Brienne is forced to build “a fortress inside herself” and hide behind it.

… until someone unexpected comes and breaks the curse.

Remember the part about Brienne beating her suitors? Fast forward to ASOS:

Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang. Somehow Brienne had gotten her own blade out in time. Jaime laughed. “Very good, wench.” “Give me the sword, Kingslayer.” “Oh, I will.” He sprang to his feet and drove at her, the longsword alive in his hands. Brienne jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did she turn one cut than the next was upon her. The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s blood was singing. This was what he was meant for; he never felt so alive as when he was fighting, with death balanced on every stroke. And with my wrists chained together, the wench may even give me a contest for a time. His chains forced him to use a two-handed grip, though of course the weight and reach were less than if the blade had been a true two-handed greatsword, but what did it matter? His cousin’s sword was long enough to write an end to this Brienne of Tarth. High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster… until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged. “For a wench.”She took a slow deep breath, her eyes watching him warily. “I would not hurt you, Kingslayer.” “As if you could.” He whirled the blade back up above his head and flew at her again, chains rattling.

Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke. He drove her away from his cousin’s corpse, drove her across the road, drove her into the trees. She stumbled once on a root she never saw, and for a moment he thought she was done, but she went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a beat. Her sword leapt up to block a downcut that would have opened her from shoulder to groin, and then she cut at him, again and again, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke. The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with fallen leaves. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an iron cage around her that stopped every blow. “Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a second to catch his breath, circling to her right. “For a wench?” “For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”

(look at all the sexual innuendos and strangely flirtatious language here and all the chasing around and slipping away and tell me if it doesn’t sound like sexual foreplay.)

JAIME IS BRIENNE’S MATCH. Jaime is the worthy adversary that could (and probably would) beat her (thus, unknowingly earning his right to claim her as his bride) if he hadn’t spent the last months in captivity and if his hands weren’t chained together:

You’re a virgin, I take it? Childhood must have been awful for you. Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They laughed at you, called you names? Some boys like a challenge. One or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne. But you fought them off. Maybe you wished one of them could overpower you, fling you down, tear off your clothes. But none of them were strong enough. I’m strong enough.

(show!Jaime, making this concept REALLY EXPLICIT in 2x10)

But Brienne is Jaime’s match, too:

Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was Jaime struggling to keep steel from skin. One of her slashes raked across his brow, and blood ran down into his right eye. The Others take her, and Riverrun as well! His skills had gone to rust and rot in that bloody dungeon, and the chains were no great help either. His eye closed, his shoulders were going numb from the jarring they’d taken, and his wrists ached from the weight of chains, manacles, and sword. His longsword grew heavier with every blow, and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he’d done earlier, nor raising it as high. She is stronger than I am. The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him, to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so… by rights, she should be the one wearing down. Instead she forced him back into the brook again, shouting, “Yield! Throw down the sword!”

Then Jaime does something:

A slick stone turned under Jaime’s foot. As he felt himself falling, he twisted the mischance into a ping lunge. His point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of her blood before his knee slammed into a rock.

Jaime wounds Brienne (in her upper thigh, with “his point”, lmao) and “a red flower blossomed” which is a shameless allusion to deflowering (combined with “savor the sight of her blood”… see also Barbrey Dustin’s “I still remember the look of my maiden’s blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes”).

Then they keep rolling and “kicking and punching until finally she was sitting astride him” (WHAT) and it gets really violent from here and Brienne slams Jaime hard underwater and yells him to yield or she’ll drown him, but it doesn’t matter because Jaime has already metaphorically claimed Brienne’s maidenhead: he made her bleed.

And, important, the fight doesn’t end with a clear-cut winner, because they’re interrupted by the Bloody Mummers. And that’s when the sexual / wedding night metaphors stop being subtext and become TEXT:

Brienne lurched to her feet. She was all mud and blood below the waist, her clothing askew, her face red. She looks as if they caught us fucking instead of fighting. Jaime crawled over the rocks to shallow water, wiping the blood from his eye with his chained hands. Armed men lined both sides of the brook. Small wonder, we were making enough noise to wake a dragon. “Well met, friends,” he called to them amiably. “My pardons if I disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”

(thanks, Jaime)

Now consider:

Brienne nursing and cleaning Jaime after he is maimed (the kind of intimacy you would expect from a married couple)

Brienne and Jaime being naked together in the bathtub scene (and Jaime popping a boner after stealing a glimpse of Brienne’s pubic hair)

the Oathkeeper scene, in which they act all awkward and compliment each other like a newly wed couple in honeymoon (“Blue is a good color on you, my lady. It goes well with your eyes” and “You look…” “…Different?”) and then Jaime gives Brienne his invaluable sword

aside from the obvious sexual metaphor, the sword is a symbolically charged object: it represents the very heart and soul of a warrior, so giving your sword to someone is like giving a piece of you. And sharing the same sword (like Jaime and Brienne share Oathkeeper) is like sharing one soul. From this meta (which I recommend reading because it explains a lot of the stuff I’m trying to get at and much more):

“the ‘soul trapped in a sword’ idea is a frequent trope in myth and fiction for this very reason. Swords are never given away lightly. Think of the reverence of a knighting ceremony or why we kneel whenever a ceremonial blade is presented to someone or why Samurai’s are dishonored should they be parted from their swords. Think of why oaths sworn on a blade are considered very serious. You are swearing on your own soul.Swords are often present during wedding ceremonies among the nobility whereupon the wife sometimes kisses her husband’s blade and her husband swears his loyalty to his wife on his sword. There is also the custom of the sword and bride ceremony to consider, wherein the bridegroom’s sword takes his place in his absence. Or why a man’s sword is always brought back to his widow should he die. Or why a knight like a member of the Kings Guard or a knight of the Faith pledging service to his lord on his blade is seen as a kind of marriage ceremony. Because swords represent UNIONS. You pledge to take no other duty beyond your lord’s wishes, much like a husband and wife pledge their duty to no other. You are bound, body and spirit, in your oath to one another—on the sword shared between you.” [desidangerous]

remember how the cloaking ceremony in the westerosi wedding ritual symbolizes the man taking the bride under his protection?

in the show, Jaime gave Brienne a full body armor

so Brienne is now walking around literally cloaked in Jaime’s steel and with his sword at her side.

All of the above is merged together in the two dreams I quoted at the beginning of this post.

in the first quote she dreams of Jaime in Renly’s place, “fastening a rainbow cloak about her shoulders”. The rainbow cloak is obviously Renly’s kingsguard cloak, but this sounds a lot like a wedding ceremony, too. Especially considering Brienne’s romantic feelings for Renly.

in the second quote she dreams of Red Ronnet, the suitor who rejected her so cruelly, which proves how that failed betrothal still haunts her—not because she cared for Ronnet in particular but because Brienne is a romantic and was even more so at 13 and Ronnet destroyed her hope of having, eventually, a happily ever after with someone who loves her.

Then suddenly Ronnet changes into Jaime as he walks away from her and she’s starts to desperately scream for him and wakes up.

This shows how Brienne already subconsciously associates Jaime with marriage, but has internalized so much insecurity that even in her dreams Jaime rejects her.

Which is why “a rose was no good, a rose could not keep her safe. It was a sword she wanted. Oathkeeper. I have to find the girl. I have to find his honor”: Brienne thinks the only way she can make Jaime “come back for her” is to be a good knight for him. Keep her promise and find his honor. Since romance (the rose) was tossed in her face and used to hurt and humiliate her, she will only care for swords, because swords she can handle; she’s good at it. I think this quote wonderfully depicts Brienne’s complex vulnerability and how she still longs for something she claims she doesn’t care for, while also being completely and sincerely committed to the True Knight persona she chose to embody.

oh, and of course, “the Kingslayer’s whore”.

and Hyle Hunt, who represents Brienne’s chance for… I guess normalcy, in the form of a married life with someone who isn’t her One True Love, but is somewhat decent enough to form a family with. Something that she’s probably going to consider for a while and reject, but whose lesson is “yes, marriage can be an option for you if you want it to be”.

This could be just foreshadowing of Brienne’s romantic feelings for Jaime, but the recurring theme of Brienne’s suitors / broken betrothals, her virginity, her absolute certainty that she will never get married, and her being house Tarth’s only heir makes me think marriage is a central theme in her arc that will come to a resolution one way or another.

To conclude this long ass meta (and I didn’t even discuss Jaime’s weirwood dream, lol), there’s also the fact that Brienne spends some time in the Quiet Isle, which significantly doesn’t allow men and women to sleep under the same roof unless they’re married. Seems a pretty random piece of information to give away in a Brienne chapter… unless it will become relevant again in some future (post Lady Stoneheart) scenario, either in a “pretend to be married to avoid being separated for the night” or in a “let’s actually get married because we might not survive the night” way.

#*cracks knuckles*#anon #asks #jb**#jaime and brienne #jaime x brienne for ts #got for ts #got asks #marriage symbolism #brienne**#the swordfight

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castaliareed · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV) Written for Day 7 of @jonsakinks Read below the cut or on Ao3

Yes, this one is a day late but you’ll be getting one more installment of this series. So woohoo!

Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark Series: Part 7 of Bound and Betrayed Summary:

"'Aegon had two wives, Rhaegar had two wives, but I can't have two husbands?' Sansa said turning her attention back to the jewels and chains on the side table. Choosing something for herself this time."

Sansa stood on the battlements of Harrenhal watching the dragon swoop and soar in the dark sky over the God's eye. Bran had done it. Samwell Tarly had found Bran's message bringing it to her just as Daenerys reached the south side of the lake with her armies. He could fly.

Jon had called the banners. And they rose. When the proclamation made it's way to the Stormlands and the Reach, half of the Houses rose as well. Sam had promised what was left of the Tarly forces of Horn Hill. The men had seen his father and brother burned, they feared Daenerys but Sam assured them. Ned Dayne, being the Lord of Starfall, promised his house's allegiance despite what the rest of Dorne might decide. Even Tyrion Lannister had joined his brother in their cause, abandoning the dragon queen's side.

Many of their bannermen had already arrived to fight. Still more were on their way to join them. Sansa prayed they would never have to raise a sword.

When word reached Daenerys that House's and bannermen were flocking to his side, she marched for Harrenhal. She claimed she came to parley with her Consort who was now said to be her nephew. A parlay earlier in the day had come to naught, Westeros did not want her rule, not even in the southern half of the land. 'By morning Harrenhal will become an oven again," were her last words.

Those words, made Sansa thankful, Serena and Robbyn had long been sent with Gilly and Brienne to Riverrun.

Tonight, Sansa watched three figures ride out to the edge of the lake. Jon would not allow anyone else to attend them. No one else knew of their plan. The dragon descended on to the island in the middle of the lake.

Samwell Tarly came to stand next to her. "It'll be alright, my lady," he said.

Inhaling, "Yes, yes it must," she said. Arya and Jon rowed the boat while Ser Jaime crouched in the center. By now the dragon would be asleep. Bran had started wearing the dragon's skin while they were at Winterfell fighting the army of the Dead. It had been difficult and he had not been able to stay in the dragon for very long. He kept practicing, more than two years of practicing. Now, he could enter the dragon from even hundreds of leagues away.

The small boat reached the shore of the island, Arya would wait. Sansa doubted her sister would listen. Jon and Jaime hurried off into the darkness carrying no torches, moving by the light of the moon and stars. Just as Sansa thought, Arya waited until they could no longer see her, before she too left the boat to follow them.

The sleeping dragon would be bound to the ground. Its mouth tied shut and when they were sure Bran had left the dragon's skin. Ser Jaime ran through its eye with his Valyrian steel sword Widow's wail. The beast woke to fight its bindings. It was no use, in a matter of moments Rhaegal was dead.

Sansa breathed when she saw all three, Jon, Ser Jaime, and Arya emerge on the shore of the island. They made their way back across the lake and to the castle.

Jon came to Sansa's chambers, the darkness was on his face. He took her like a wolf as silent as Ghost. After he stared into the fire of her hearth, tears streaming down his cheeks.

In the morning, when the dragon did not rise, a messenger came from Daenerys' camp. The dragon queen was suing for peace.

*****

Jon

Jon stood in front of Sansa in the chambers he had been given at Harrenhal. She looked beautiful, he paled in comparison. The pale blue-grey gown with silver and gold wolves and dragons woven into the skirts. Her hair was pulled high, away from her face with auburn waves cascading down her back.

Pressing his forehead against hers, Jon ran his hands along the neckline of her gown. Her breasts had grown very full. A roundness was starting to show around her midsection. She did her best to conceal it. I want them to know. I want them all to know she is carrying my babe.

"You're to be king," she said. Jon nodded. "I was already a king," he reminded her.

"And after today you're to rule the entire realm, not just the North," she said brushing a lock of his hair back.

For his coronation, Jon wanted to wear his hair loose away from his face, his beard trimmed. His clothing was a black and grey doublet with black breeches all trimmed in silver. The high leather boats Sansa had picked for him gleamed.

"I should punish you for this," he growled.

She giggled giving him a light push, "Later, your grace," she teased and returned to the side table with chains on it. Trying to decide which he should wear.

Jon watched her. He had insisted on the black and grey clothing. Though, he let Sansa decide the chains and cloaks. This had all been her doing. Her and Sam and Bran. They'll never say it though.

Moving close to Sansa and grabbing her from behind, "I only meant to end my marriage and yours." Instead, we slew a dragon and you put a crown on my head.

A great council was held three weeks after Ser Jaime killed the dragon with the help of House Stark. The second Great Council in as many years. The lords and ladies came to together to decide their new ruler. They also accused the dragon queen and her army of crimes against them. Some old crimes from her battle for the throne, others were newer crimes, others Jon knew were falsehoods. When all was said after two days of debate, they declared Jon their king. Samwell and Sansa had made sure of it.

"Well, you got your annulment," she said after a moment. Turning around she held up a chain with a wolf and a dragon on it.

"A new sigil for your House," she said. "A wolf and a dragon." Jon kissed her deeply.

"It'll be our house," he promised her. She pulled away, "You should've made that one of your conditions."

Jon had agreed to wear the crown on two conditions, The first that he be given an annulment. Ravens flew to the Sept in Oldtown. After, many promises, his marriage to Daenerys was ended. The second being that the dragon queen was sent into exile not executed. He would show Westeros he did not fear her.

No one anticipated that Sansa would not be granted an annulment from her marriage to Tyrion Lannister as well. Yet, the high Septon refused. Nor would he condone a marriage between Jon and Sansa. The North was left seething. They saw their Lady being slighted. It had taken all of Sansa's charm and not a little bit of Littlefinger's gold for public works projects to assuage them.

"If I have to march on Oldtown, by gods," Jon said grasping her arms. He knew he would not have to march to Oldtown. For once, he had planned something Sansa Stark did not know.

"Aegon had two wives, Rhaegar had two wives, but I can't have two husbands?" Sansa said turning her attention back to the jewels and chains on the side table. Choosing something for herself this time.

The door opened, Samwell entered the room, "Jon, it's time," he said. They would crown him here at Harrenhal, in the Great Hall with a Hundred Hearths.

Light streamed into the hall during the coronation. It was Sansa who placed the crown on his head. He wore the Iron and Bronze crown of the North now with two bands of gold added to it. Serena and Robbyn-Rianna stood to the side next to Arya dressed pale blue-grey just as their mother. His direwolf had been washed and brushed and let into the ceremony to sit on his haunches next to the girls. As Jon stood with the crown on his head the Wolf and Dragon banners flew in the hall. He looked around at the crowd, so many faces he knew, and only one thing he hoped to bring them, peace.

A great feast was held that night, here Jon announced his plan to enact a debt relief and rebuilding program. Made with the Faith of the Seven in order to help those in need and continue the efforts to rebuild. The crowd murmured unsure of what this meant for them. No one would not get repaid. The Faith would administer the program he told the Lords and Ladies. And gold from Littlefinger's still-growing fortune would pay for it. Sansa's eyes found his when he spoke, he felt her pride.

Wine and ale flowed heavily. 21 courses were served. Musicians played late into the night. Their bannermen sang and danced. Jon was even persuaded to take a turn with Sansa. The crowds became louder as the night wore on. Jon talked with his bannerman and Samwell while music played.

Jon saw Sansa had taken to sitting, tiredness on her face. He walked to her and asked her why she was not dancing.

"My feet are sore," she said looking up at him. Jon took her by the hand, pulling her up. Without a word, he led her out of the hall.

Taking them away from her chambers, Jon navigated to the Bath House. It was empty with everyone at the feast. They entered one chamber, the steam from the hot water rising around them. He pulled his doublet over his head. Sansa asked him to help her with her gown. She turned so he could undo the laces in the back. It slipped from her shoulders and he kissed her neck.

Stepping away, Jon finished undressing. He lowered himself into the bath letting out a long sigh. Sansa stood on the edge in her shift. She sat down to lower her feet into the water. Jon moved in front of her. Taking one foot, in his hand, he rubbed it, then the other. Sansa lifted the shift over her head.

Jon spread her legs so his fingers could find her cunt. He kissed her inner thighs before his mouth found her nub. Sansa sighed, her hands gripping the stone floor, her head leaning back. Jon licked slowly. Then sucked on her nub, circling his tongue faster and faster. She wrapped her legs around his shoulders. He moved his tongue until she cried out and he could taste the wetness coming out of her. When he stopped, she lowered herself into the water.

They kissed while he pulled her legs around. Sansa ran her tongue along his chin. She whispered my King in his ear. Gods she undid him. He held her so that they could turn putting his back up against the edge of the bath. He sat on a ledge underneath the water. Sansa straddled him. Taking his hard cock in her hand first then guiding it to her cunt. She moved on top of him. "Gods, seven hells," he said. He lifted his hips up pushing deeper inside of her. The moved together. He sucked on her neck until she whimpered. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. Pushing into her harder and harder, Jon knew he couldn't last much longer. She moaned in pleasure. Jon spilled his seed wishing he had made her find her release again.

Sansa moved off of him, to sit on the ledge next to Jon. He put his arm around her while she leaned into him. The warm water coming up to their chests. Jon closed his eyes letting her trace the lines of his jaw with her long slender fingers.

"The ceremony was like magic," she said. "And the feast was wonderful. The food, the songs." Jon grunted in response.

"I'm not so happy, you didn't tell me of your plan, your grace," she said. Jon smirked. I surprised you for once, my lady.

"The Faith will be very happy," she said. "We'll make them look very good."

"Better than they deserve," his eyes still closed.

"Mayhaps, now, they'll be more favorable to my annulment," she said.

"I believe they will be," he said with a smile, resting his head against hers. "And if they continue to be insolent. I'll decree all women are allowed two husbands if they choose." Sansa threw her head back in laughter.

"Oh your grace, you're much too jealous for that," she said. Jon's mouth found her lips, he thought she was right. They would never find peace if Sansa Stark had two husbands.

#jonsa kink week #day 7 #jonsaff #jonsa fanfic #jonsa #jonxsansa #jon snow #sansa stark #asoiaf fanfic #got fanfic #bound and betrayed #sex in the bath #ao3 jonsa

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justanotherdumpingground · 5 years

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Chapter Reviews: April 23-27, 2019

Wishful Thinking Chapter 3:

So far, it's mildly enjoyable. I enjoy investigating Tilly and finding out that she has kept a menagerie of animals after getting mixed up with animal traffickers. Pity I couldn't adopt her cat Jinx because I'd love to see the MC hear an animal's thoughts on a regular basis.

Still miffed at the MC's dad for doubting his daughter's capabilities. I get that he's concerned for her, but because she's an adult, he's practically hindering her from reaching her full potential. I mean, she just became junior reporter after that moment with Tilly, so he shouldn't be worried.

Anyway, let's see how Jaime reacts to the MC having the ability to read minds.

High School Story: Class Act Chapter 11:

Why didn't MC and Skye use their phones to record footage of Lorenzo and Amber talking about how they staged Lorenzo's heroic act? That would've saved them the effort to expose Lorenzo for the fraud he is. I guess they aren't crazy prepared after all.

So Danielle's back and suggesting that Rory kidnap the kitten. That's just too risky and dumb. To be honest, I consider her neutralized instead of redeemed, but then again, she had Amber fund the play just for Rory's sake. It was stupid of Rory to nearly consider that offer as well.

Honestly, how dumb is Lorenzo? Campaigning to divert all school resources to throwing parties not only shows skewed priorities in his part, but also comes across as a moot point. After all, the school staff will just nullify his platform if he wins. What made me cringe is that these students act like the student council is more powerful than the principal and teachers. Even worse is when Myra dropped out from the running after receiving a shirt from Lorenzo.

Man, it's so awesome to see Skye urging Rory and the twin to cooperate together. Seriously, I've had enough of this election drama, especially when the most popular candidate will ruin the school. Even worse is that it ruins the purpose of this reboot, which contains the words "Class Act", yet there's no focus on preparing for a play aside from Rory's campaign to strengthen the arts.

Across the Void Chapter 19:

Wow! That was an intense chapter that really captured my entire interest. Evading the Void's patrols through disguise and then destroying their ships was awesome, to say the least. Now it's just up to the MC and the Atlas crew to put a stop to the Void.

Man, Quandry is one walking nightmare. The way he behaves and tortures Zekei scares me so much. I thought he might go after Aquari because she's a minor character, but going after Deimos? Man, that's just scary. I spent diamonds to save her life, mainly because she's growing on me. Nevertheless, it's well done, and I just can't help but praise the writers for punching my guts in this scene by aiming for a character growing on me.

America's Most Eligible Chapter 15:

This is it, huh? Honestly, I'm disappointed at Pixelberry's mishandling of this story by not making relationships affect dialogue. I get that it means spending more time and resources and putting more effort, but considering Pixelberry's history of mismanagement, can't say I'm surprised.

Still miffed that I have to pay diamonds to get Eden and Kiana together. Why can't you do this on your own, Eden? As much as I like her and Kiana, their lack of free will just makes me question the credibility of the diamonds and keys system.

Picking the flirty choices during the quiz on how much I know my partner is fun, especially when Ivy complains about how my MC turns everything into a speech about how sexy and gorgeous he is. It was the only part of the story that I enjoy, though I also can't wait for this book to end.

Nightbound Chapters 1-2:

This is off to a good start so far. I cringed a little when the male MC faces were recycled from TE because they look too young for a 25 year old, but the story's setup makes up for it. I was scared when Kristin got attacked by a bloodwraith that is magnificently terrifying. And the encounter with supernatural beings like Vera got me curious on the setting even more. I like Garrus, Krom, and Ivy so far, and I hope to see more of them as the series progresses.

I picked Face 3 for Nik, and he looks good. I still find him rather fishy because of him not saying much about his job as a hunter. Anyway, let's see how this goes, and it better not disappoint me.

Passport to Romance Chapter 7:

On one hand, it's true Ahmed's coach is a jerk, but on the other hand, could he actually go to the nearest airport and fly himself and his friends to Berlin? That would've saved precious time. Honestly, this stop at Lucerne comes across as a mere ploy to add more screen time for Elliot just because the creators love giving details on him for free while paywalling others. It's a disingenuous self-fulfilling prophecy that drives all kinds of players other than the ones you're targeting away.

Speaking of Elliot, on one hand, I feel bad that he's struggling to get through the grief of losing his parents last year. Nevertheless, my opinion of him is still the same because while it explains his objection to Ahmed and Sumire making jokes at the catacombs, he still has yet to decide whether to improve or worsen, and it has to be done in a logical way. Not to mention that he has no excuse because of his status as the writer's favorite.

Honestly, what is wrong with this MC? Forgetting to ask your friends for their last names is one thing, but snooping on their private stuff without asking for their permission is a whole another level. They should've asked Elliot for permission first, but no. Let's just invade his privacy and rummage through his stuff. In the meantime, I'm amused to see that Bartholomew Chambers's face has been recycled for Elliot's brother.

Open Heart Chapter 11:

Wow! This chapter is intense. First Dr. Banerji coughs blood, a sign that his life hangs in the balance. Next, Mrs. Martinez says she wanted to travel but couldn't because of her Rhodes disease. Finally, Kyra reveals that her cancer's back and initially decides to just ditch chemo because she thought her cancer will come back anyway. I admire the MC's determination to treat their patients and do whatever it takes to get them better, and the team work their friends.

One thing that I'm still curious about is when will the investigation on the saboteur resume. Between the patients and Panacea Labs's shadiness, that might be the reason why it's on the sidelines.

I'm proud of Kyra's ultimate decision to go through chemo and not give up any hope for survival. That's the spirit. Definitely have a huge respect for her.

Ride or Die Chapter 15:

I finally caved in and spent diamonds on having my MC reconcile with her dad. Well, the dad still believed that the MC must answer for what she has done, regardless of whether I picked the premium option, but I'm still glad they have one last talk before she goes out to get back on Shaw.

The driving sequence was pretty intense, and I was nervous that the MC might end up at a disadvantage. It seemed like that at first, but I was impressed at her laying a trap for the Brotherhood with Toby and Ximena's help. Still keeping an eye on Mona and what she'll do.

For the very first time, I'm actually excited to see what will happen next. It doesn't mean I like this story, but at least it does grab my attention that I'm excited for what will happen next.

The Elementalists Chapter 7:

This story continues to be the highlight of my Saturdays (I'm more than half a day ahead from where I'm at :P). First, I'm worried for Atlas and their outbursts for anger and hope they get help as soon as possible. Second of all, the MC and Atlas attuned to all elements was a huge curveball. I thought my MC's personality will change from being like an Air-att, but it was a relief that it won't change. Third, I messed up with Alma training my MC to prevent themselves from suffocation. Kane's method of suffocating air out of people's lungs reminds me of Avatar: The Legend of Korra, specifically the third season big bad Zaheer using his airbending to kill by bending air from one's lungs.

Lake Tempetua looks so beautiful I hope to see it again in a future chapter. It was also fun to see my MC and their friends having fun during the party. Not to mention that I had my MC kiss Cyran because I'm still trying to figure out who my MC will date. Now that I finally get to encounter merfolk, I'm wondering whether there's at least one non-human race that corresponds to a certain element. I might be wrong, though.

Wood nymphs=wood

Djinn=moon

Merfolk=water

Satyr=?

The scene where the MC attacks Atlas shocked and horrified me. I was certain that the choice I picked was the mildest, only for the MC to severely injure their twin. Talking about a curveball on my part. I'm becoming even more worried at what might happen and when Kane will strike back.

#choices stories you play #chapter reviews

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renlyisright · 5 years

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Season 7 Episode 3: The Last Flower Before the Winter

So in the end of the last episode I was optimistic? Things can go very bad for a while but the end will be somewhat happy, that’s how I deluded myself? Fine, let me have some more Rains of Castamere and then ask again.

I have to apologize for this part, as it only works in Finnish. There was a lyric writing contest this autumn, and one of the series of the contest was “songs for drinks”, and I decided to write one for the long drink, a popular drink in Finland which sadly has few songs written about it. I took inspiration from this episode’s end. It is written to fit with “Rains of Castamere”.

So, the Queen of Thorns has passed from this horrible world. She was my favourite character. Why? Generally people talk in two different ways: The thugs and other horrible people have their obscenity-filled mouths, and then there are the monologuers, who look at something far away while telling about the moment their life changed and why they are who they are now. Olenna on the other hand was simply sassy, and of the school of thought that when you are old enough you don’t need to be polite anymore. In the episode before the Purple Wedding, she almost started a story about how she once got a necklace, but stopped the story short and threw the necklace away. She knew full well who she was and felt no need to talk to anyone about it.

It’s entirely likely that if she was a real person, I wouldn’t want to be in any contact with her. But she was always a delight while on screen. I’m going to miss her.

But before her fate, we see how Cersei deals with Daenerys’ other allies.

Euron brings them to the court, and Cersei lets him have Yara, and takes him as an official ally in the war. The Dornish prisoners she takes to deal justice on her own.

The alcoholic Queen Mother in his father’s shadow, who squabbled over her son’s attention with his wife, or was outmaneuvered by a man with no shoes, is no more. Good for her, but horrible for everyone in her way. She poisons Ellaria’s daughter, and leaves Ellaria to di… to live in the dungeons with the corpse for as long as it amuses the Queen.

So I take it this is goodbye for Ellaria as well, unless she is found when Cersei gets removed from the throne. I never had a positive opinion of her, some empathy when she had to watch her partner die, which quickly went away when she had the bright idea of killing everybody to avenge him, including his brother and nephew. Still, a horrible person being horrible to another horrible person is not my favourite thing to watch. Unless it’s Olenna using her words.

So Dorne is out of the show? After the new rulers there hear of what happened to Ellaria, they will likely just lie low. I mean, there are no previously seen characters from there alive anymore, so that means it’s over for Dorne. Until the next show, if it features Dorne.

Maybe it will feature Highgarden? Properly, I mean. I asked to see it for ages, but I must say that I’m disappointed with the little we saw of it in this episode. Sure it was winter, and so no pretty gardens of which the place is famous, but why show it then in its poor state, when it could be shown in its proper glory in the next show. Okay, now I’m sounding like a choosing beggar, I’ll stop.

Cersei continues her “I don’t care anymore” -policies by sleeping with Jaime so that soon the whole kingdom will know. No need for a Targaryen queen, she can fulfill that role easily. She also meets with the Iron Bank’s representative, and promises that the Lannisters will win this war, and also promises the moon from the sky while she is at it. The banker perhaps believes her. And with Dorne and the Reach removed by the end of this episode, Cersei may well be the winner. Unless...

The dragons.

Jon arrives to the Dragonstone, and sees them flying around the castle. Cersei may defeat Daenerys’ armies, but the Stormborn has the nuclear option of just burning down the Red Keep and becoming the de facto queen. You reap what you sow, Cersei.

Melisandre doesn’t want to see Jon, and confesses to Varys that she didn’t leave him on good terms. She is going to Volantis, but will return to die on Westeros. That is both her and Varys’ destiny. Spoiler alerts. Melisandre admits to having done horrible things because of her god. I appreciate that, after bringing Jon and Daenerys together she doesn’t try to preach her god to either of them. The Lord of Light is not a god you want to take instructions from.

Varys’ death is pretty much confirmed (or not if he lives to old age on Westeros). He and Littlefinger have gathered their players, they will have one last game to play.

Jon and Daenerys meet at last, and their conversations are surprisingly productive, considering how at odds their goals are. Daenerys has arrived to Westeros, only thinking about the throne. Now Jon arrives with a totally outside-context problem of the army of the dead. At this point Daenerys doesn’t yet know what happened to half of her fleet (and what will happen to the other half later), so she can afford to think only about getting the throne fast. But maybe she will have to save the realm to get the throne.

Tyrion trusts Jon, which shows how worthy a good first impression can be, and talks Daenerys into allowing Jon to mine dragonglass. Good, some good news. Otherwise there was little to cheer about in this episode.

Theon is being put as low as possible, either so that he can triumphantly kill the Ramsay-expy that is Euron, or he will be more and more humiliated with the end result for him being more like Ned Stark’s. I’m rooting for the first option, since therapy being non-existent that might be the best that he can hope for.

Sansa governs Winterfell, and receives a report that they are not going to have enough wheat for the winter. The situation is likely the same everywhere in Westeros. That means that even if they just quickly burn the Dead, they are still going to have a very hard winter. The White Walkers have already exterminated the Children and the Giants, the humanity is next.

But Bran is back! Another reunion! He and Sansa have a discussion about what being the Three-Eyed Raven means, and Bran tells her that he saw her getting raped. Not… not the best thing to say after such a long absence. Seriously, Bran, you could have picked some other moment.

So can Bran see anywhere he wants anytime? He can see the Dead, did he also see their location? Can he spy Cersei, can he see what Jon is up to with Daenerys? Can he make Cersei say “hodor” for the rest of her life? King’s Landing has a godswood, are they needed for visions?

Sam’s little experiment actually worked? So well that Jorah is free to go, and Sam also gets off with a small reprimand instead of a guarantee or anything like that. Fantasy problems need fantasy solutions.

Sam says that helping Jorah was the least he could do after everything his father did for him. It’s great to see how good deeds also have consequences, not just the bad ones.

I read A Feast of Crows between these episodes, and it’s funny how, in these commentaries, I have kept saying that Sam and Gilly and little Sam are super lucky and nothing can come between them, they will survive everything together, and… oops, two chapters in and Jon has already swapped little Sam with Mance Rayder’s son. Seriously? There are some changes that I am happy the show has made, and removing this is one of them.

But reading A Feast of Crows made me realize how big a challenge adapting that book must have been. If season five had some points where it felt like going nowhere, the book had everyone except Cersei just moving on the map, meeting some new people, acting like narrators on a Westeros sourcebook, and just before the end getting themselves into a cliffhanger. Brienne had it worst, ending the book on a noose. I didn’t exactly mind the slow pace or finding out more of the world (I bought The World of Ice and Fire, and will start that after A Dance with Dragons), but I can get the world documentation from source books, from the actual novels of the series I’d want more plot.

Speaking of more plot, the latter half of this episode was super fast. Casterly Rock falls during Tyrion’s small speech, the rest of Daenerys’ fleet is destroyed by Euron’s fleet, and Jaime and the new lord of the Reach storm Highgarden and conquer it.

Both Jaime and Euron cheated, of course. The implicit rules are that you can move to the next part of your story, no matter where it is, as long as you do it between episodes. You get bonus points if you miss an episode because you are travelling. But they both, Euron especially, moved to the other side of southern Westeros in the span of a couple of scenes.

I may have to get used to that. The less characters to keep track of, the more they get to move around when they are not watched, like little weeping angels.

From last episode: “Randyll may be a horrible person, but is he an oathbreaker? The Lannisters and their former allies Freys and Boltons have broken oaths, killed people in a wedding and blown up hundreds of people, does Randyll want to join them?” Sure, why not? He decides to become the lord of the Reach, and betrays Olenna, just like that. You sir have officially moved into my “die as soon as possible, if possible”-list.

Olenna and Jaime have a talk before he leaves her to die. It’s a great scene, and hopefully makes Jaime to think about his relationship with Cersei. It’s not healthy. But he is the only one even a little sympathetic on the Lannister side, so if he jumps ships, the rest of the story in the South will be just Cersei and Euron thrashing around until they are put down and everyone can put their minds on the White Walkers, another enemy devoid of any sympathy.

Argh, Olenna. The glee she has when she finally can confess that she murdered Joffrey. Not Tyrion, not the one whose accusation brought about the deaths of Oberyn and Tywin and all that followed from those two, she. So sweet, and Jaime has already killed her so there’s nothing he can do about it anymore.

Farewell, Queen of Thorns.

#renly is right #queen of thorns #olenna tyrell #game of thrones

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