#Robb the Protector | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plus-size-reader · 5 months

Text

Gentle

Sandor Clegane x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2737 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Ned Stark’s eldest daughter finding herself interested by the King’s loyal protector, and even more disenchanted by how he’s treated

—————————————————————————————————

The King’s arrival in Winterfell wasn’t of much interest to you, if you were being honest.

Of course you understood that it was a great honor and that his Grace was very important to your father, but outside of that, you had no real reason to pay the caravan much mind as it moved through the streets of Winterfell.

Had it not been for the pretense of duty and honor, and more severely, the pressure of your mother’s wrath, you truly believed you would have skipped the entire affair.

You weren’t the object of their visit, after all.

As the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you were much too old to be of much interest to the young Prince compared to your sisters, and the King only came to Winterfell with your Aunt Lyanna on the mind.

Really, you weren’t sure why you needed to attend.

Until, you found yourself staring down the traveling party of the King’s guard, and the striking presence of the man they called “the Hound”

You had heard stories of the man over the years, and you knew where the title had come from, but never could you have imagined the man before you now and that man were one in the same. He hardly struck you as some ravenous monster, even then.

…and as the days went by, you found your opinion unchanged.

You existed in Winterfell simply, a privilege afforded you by your father’s title and the love the families of the North had for the Starks.

For the most part, you did what you wanted and didn’t call too much attention to yourself, content to read on the sidelines and follow after your siblings as they grew into their own. That meant that you escaped a lot of the formalities of nobility, as no one really needed too much of your attention.

If they were looking for a Stark to talk to, you were always fairly low on the list and you liked it that way, especially given all the excitement in Winterfall over the past few days.

With Sansa entertaining the Prince, your father entertaining the King and Queen, and the charms of the North keeping the guard away, you finally had a moment to yourself which only meant one thing. You could finally finish your book.

It was all set, just as you wanted it.

The weather had yet to get so bitter cold that you couldn’t stand to be out, so you grabbed a blanket and set it in the clearing near the market, under a big tree. The septa’s rarely bothered you these days, so you should be able to get some peace and quiet.

Not that you got too far before something else caught your eye.

You had only been reading your book for a short time when you heard the familiar sing-songy tone of your sister’s voice, followed unsurprisingly by the nasally pitch of Prince Joffrey.

They were to be married following this trip, and you knew she was excited. You could tell by the way she skipped lightly as she walked, and how she hung on his every word.

You had never been in love yourself, but you had to imagine that was what it looked like. Perhaps that was why you found yourself watching them as they walked, or maybe it had more to do with the Hound, loyal as always, who was trailing behind them steadily.

He was an interesting man, you’d decided.

Even as he walked, he studied the world around him as if he wasn’t a part of it, rather that he was peering in at it from the outside. You felt that you could relate, in some way, as you had always been that way.

They’d chastised you for being a dreamer as a girl. The Septa would take your books and keep them from you, your mother would beg you to engage in your duties as a lady and even Robb and Theon teased you.

Your head was always far away and even now, you had managed to keep it that way. While other women your age married and had heirs for unimpressive Lords, you remained in your father’s homeland.

A place where you could keep your books and your dreams, without having to endure the ugliness.

Not that ugliness was really the problem in the first place.

You were certain that some found the Hound ugly in all his violence and impropriety, but you couldn’t dare count yourself among them. Even now, as you stared at him over your bound paper novel, you saw nothing short of a dream like all the others.

It wasn’t even something you could truly understand, if you had any desire to try. There was just a softness to him, a quiet contemplation that made you feel as if no harm would ever come to you.

That wasn’t a feeling you’d known before now, as that was one of the things the North had never really had. Your father and brothers would rather die than let something or someone hurt you, you knew that, but it wasn’t so simple.

The comfort his presence held went beyond any physical threat or danger, it was almost warm.

Not that you would have ever ventured to admit it.

After all, you had never even spoken to the man and if you tried to explain the way you were feeling to anyone, they would surely have you committed. The hound was a lot of things, but none would have called him warm.

None outside of you that was.

You continued your staring for quite some time, only occasionally looking away from the sight before you to mindlessly turn the page in your book. You imagined you may have sat there all evening if you remained uninterrupted.

However, when your attention returned to the imposing form of the King’s dog across the way to find him already looking at you, the illusion fell away entirely.

Surely he thought you were demented.

In the entire time he and the King’s guard had been in Winterfell, you had yet to speak a word to a one of them but that didn’t mean he was unfamiliar with you. Every time he turned around, he found you sitting somewhere over his shoulder, that same book perched in your lap.

Anyone else may have just brushed you off, assuming you were a bit out there as your family always had, but Sandor couldn’t quite do that.

After all, he had grown used to the weary glances and fearful whispers between people as he passed, but no one had ever paid him so much mind as you seemed to be.

Naturally he was curious.

No one had voluntarily spent that much time looking at him in all his life, and he needed to know what it was about you that was different.

You tensed the moment you noticed his attention, not daring to look away from the weathered pages beneath your fingers, not when you heard him nearing where you sat and certainly not when he stopped at your side.

Neither of you spoke, and you weren’t even sure if you drew a single breath, but he certainly did as he waited. Waited for what he wasn’t sure, but it just seemed to be the thing to do.

As if you would somehow explain yourself if he stood in your presence long enough.

Though, after a long moment passed between you without so much as a glance from you, he decided to just end the torment for you both.

There would be no sense in just standing here all evening.

“Why do you stare so much?” he wondered aloud, his voice just as gruff as it always was, though you caught something else hidden there too. Just beneath the surface, hiding beneath the walls he’d built hugh within himself.

It almost sounded like a sort of nervousness, though you would have imagined him incapable of something so common.

You didn’t answer at first.

Whether it was due to the humiliation of being caught that held your tongue or the nerves of facing down such an imposing man on your own, he wasn’t sure. All Sandor knew for sure was that this was one of the strangest interactions he’d ever had.

If only he knew.

The real reason for your silence wasn’t some twisted interest or shame but because there was no real answer at all. At least not one you’d confidently admit while those brown eyes had you locked in a stare.

You hadn’t meant it to be disrespectful, of course, because the nature of your admiration couldn’t be farther from distaste. However, to a man like Sandor, that was exactly what it looked like.

…What it felt like.

Naturally, after a life of rejection, Sandor assumed that your staring was like that of every else when they looked at him. He assumed you were disgusted by him, and his grotesque face, or perhaps that you were afraid.

He hoped you weren’t afraid.

In any case, he never could have imagined that you would answer him in the way you did, even if it took you a moment to summon the courage to string any words together at all.

“I suppose I’m interested in you” you decided finally, twisting your face up slightly at the way that must have sounded.

It wasn’t quite right, of course, though it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

You were interested in him, but that seemed too simply a phrasing, like all the gravity and sentiment was missing even still.

Sandor only grunted in reply after a brief pause, his gaze drifting across the market, watching as the surrounding northerners studied your interaction, only to drop their eyes when they met his.

They all feared him, and they were right too, because they understood what he was and what he was capable of. Though, maybe that was another thing that you had done since he arrived that was unique to you.

Never once had you looked away from him.

You had never shrunk away or grimaced as they did, even at a time like this when anyone else would have run for the hills. It was certainly new, even he couldn’t be so stubborn as to ignore that.

“What’s so interesting about me?” he wondered, not daring to move closer or join you as you sat, but not moving further away either. Even though it felt wrong to speak freely with an unmarried noble woman like you, it really wasn’t.

You certainly didn’t think so, and you believed that anyone else would agree.

If anything, you were simply making conversation while he did his duty, watching over the Prince and his future bride.

Now, it was your turn to pause, regarding the words on the page only a moment more before you closed it, and discarded it in the snowy grass.

“We don’t have men like you here,” you allowed, considering his imposing frame as he stood above you.

Though you had only seen him from afar until now, at his impressive height and with your current low position, Sandor seemed even larger than he had before. Still, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be frightened by him, which had to have been because he wasn’t frightening in the first place.

The rest of the realm may have treated him like a monster but you hardly believed that made him one.

You could tell in the way he glanced down at you, surprise painting his features, that he wanted to argue with you but he faltered, because he didn’t understand. He wanted to tell you that there were violent men everywhere, and that most were just better at hiding it, but somehow, he knew that wasn’t what you meant.

No matter how diluted that may have made you seem in the moment.

“Gentle,” you clarified, watching as his mind tried to pin down exactly what you were trying to say, because the most obvious answer just wasn’t possible. “Men here are all the same. They’re either ruthless fighters or cowards and fools. On rare occasions, they may be both but neither are gentle as you are”

That was it.

There were the words you had been trying to find before, but it still didn’t feel as if he understood, or perhaps he just didn’t feel as if you had any right to be the one saying them.

After all, you had only ever been in the North and you hardly knew anything about him, or many other men for that matter. What real ground did you have to stand on when it came to this?

“Trust me little girl, there’s nothing gentle about a man like me” he scoffed, washing away any tenderness you’d been feeling in a moment.

Perhaps he was right, but you didn’t think so.

While it was true that there were no other men like him in the North, you had seen your fair share of guarded men hiding from the truth about themselves. Normally they were trying to convince themself that they were braver than they were, or stronger, but it looked the same.

It made them look small.

“It’s in your eyes. You think I can’t see it because you don’t, but it’s there. It’s the same reason you’re still having this conversation with me, even though the Prince snuck off with Sansa” you countered, gesturing to the missing space they’d previously occupied through the pass.

If he’d truly been keeping an eye on them, and nothing more, he wouldn’t have let them out of his sight.

“Maybe I just want to know what’s wrong with you? After all, I thought the future Lady of Winterfell would be a bit more sociable” he argued, almost poking fun at you in a way you hadn’t seen coming.

Which was a welcome break in that untouchable armor of his.

“I am hardly the future Lady of Winterfell. That title will belong to the wife of my brother Robb,” you informed, gathering your skirts to rise to your feet, only to find his hand outstretched to you, a further invitation behind the curtain.

You took it as gracefully as you could and rose to your full height, though you remained entirely dwarfed by the large man at your side.

“And I have never really taken to being sociable, that’s true. It’s my mother’s greatest upset” you teased, straightening out your gown and taking in the full sight of the Hound in all his glory.

He looked small, if that was even physically possible, as you admired him with those eyes of yours. If you thought his gaze was pointed, you had no idea how he felt beneath the heavy weight of your own.

“You’re a strange little thing, aren’t you?” he grumbled, his question hanging in the air untouched for a moment as you studied him, no longer caring how strange it may have looked to anyone else.

You had been right.

He was anything but ugly up close, and it was a tragedy that so few got to gaze upon him in this manner.

“I suppose. Perhaps that’s why I remain unmarried” you suggested, subconsciously hinting at what you knew to be your own greatest flaw, at least in the eyes of your people and your house.

At the very least, the Hound had been able to make something of himself outside of being a husband or son. He could be a warrior, and he was, one of the most fearsome warriors you’d ever seen.

As a woman, you had never been afforded that kind of privilege and you never would. As far as your mother was concerned, you would live and die a spinster, and there was little you could do to change that.

“Perhaps. Or maybe this place really is full of cowards and fools, as you said” he muttered, sparing you one more heady glance before turning his back to you, his attention fully on the clearing ahead.

That was it.

In all the days you’d been admiring him and making a desperate attempt to understand exactly what lay beneath that shell of his, that was all he had for you.

…and you couldn’t have been happier, because for the first time in a long time, you found yourself looking forward to what the days ahead would hold.

606 notes · View notes

rise-my-angel · 11 days

Text

Heart of the Great Wolf

50 - News From the South

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 16k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, disturbing and graphic imagery, character deaths, illness and disease, mentions of rape and sexual assault, trauma

Notes: An intermission bonus chapter set over a period of many months, covering previous chapters and future chapters. Various different and new povs to establish a plot basis around Westeros. Not every pov switch is made in a chronological order on the timeline. Does not feature Jon and the Reader. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“Ser Barristan, I believe none here could dare question your honour.”

He could not have been prepared for what was about to unfold when those words had come out of your mouth. Things within the Red Keep had been tense longer then only the short hours since King Robert had passed, but now that intensity sat tenfold within the throne room. You had entered to the injured side of Lord Eddard Stark as both held that matching look with blazing expressions.

Something was to come and Ser Barristan had not the knowledge to guess it. When he approached you, you did him as well with but a paper sealed in your hand. You met his eyes when handing it, and he had long since regretted not recognizing it earlier. He had asked you before the King left for his hunt if something was troubling you, and you had been reluctant to answer. It was that very look you were giving him that said, whatever was about to unfold held part of that answer.

Looking down to it, there was no doubt of what it was as he informed the Queen Regent. “King Robert's seal. Unbroken.” Glancing back, you had stepped back to Lord Stark's side as he read forth what his late Kings final words were. “Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm. To rule as Regent until the heir come of age.”

When Queen Cersei had requested she see the letter, Ser Barristan had not thought anything strange yet. It would make sense, Joffery while almost seventeen, was still by all legal standpoints, a child. There was nothing wrong with such a deceleration and yet both sides of the room behind and in front of him seemed to radiate a feeling otherwise. The words and actions which came next only proved it. Ripping the paper she almost huffed a laugh. “Is this meant to be your shield, Lord Stark? A piece of paper?” As he reminded her that those were the Kings words, he was taken back very much as she so callously declared with ease, “We have a new King now.”

She continued to speak, telling them that if the two of you before the throne were to swear fealty to Joffery, the Queen would allow Lord Stark and yourself to simply return to Winterfell. But not only was something not right with pushing away both he and you with ease, there was something Ser Barristan knew was about to go very badly the moment the words left Lord Stark's mouth.

“Your son has no claim to the throne.”

Joffery yelled in an instant that he was a liar, but it was the expressions of you both. Steadfast and sure of yourselves you two stood tall against the power before you, not flinching to what you both clearly thought was right. It made him hesitate when the Queen demanded of him. “Ser Barristan seize these two traitors.”

He didn't move with much intention, hesitant of his duty knowing it had to be done but something inside him said this was wrong. Something was not right more then what was being said. Eddard Stark had instantly urged to the Gold Cloaks who shifted towards him, “Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man do him no harm.”

Ser Barristan had looked to you, but you only saw behind him the boy on the Iron Throne with something red blazing behind the green in your eyes. Something not that of a stag, far more that like a she wolf you stood as. Neither you nor Eddard Stark were liars or thieves, he was a man bound by honour and you carried the weight of your fathers fist of justice. He had known you since you were a girl, but you did not stand there looking as unprepared for life as you had at three years old.

Swords were drawn behind him and still he had not moved. Joffery yelled, “Kill them, kill both of them, I command you.” You raised your head, something far more sure in your eyes as you met that of your cousins and Ser Barristan felt the tension rising to something unsustainable in this calm.

Eddard Stark raised his own voice with a command that this room so desperately needed to listen too. He stood as Kingsguard, but as a man, something was telling him the truth lay on the side he was being ordered to arrest. “Commander, take the Queen and her children into custody. Escort them back to their royal apartments and keep them there, under guard.” The watch had all shifted into position, and one last plead of reason came. “I want no bloodshed. Tell your men to lay down their swords, no one needs to die.”

But in the seconds that followed, Janos Slynt had commanded his men, and in an instant, the Stark guards were all attacked. Around he stood watching the chaos, you and Eddard had moved to the others side instantly protective of the other even through your mutual shocked confusion, and just as fast, it all finished for you both.

When you had turned to face the Stark, Janos Slynt moved and rather violently grabbed you before hauling you away from Eddard, aggressively holding you at bay with a knife to your throat. Only feet away, to many's surprise, Lord Petyr Baelish snatched a dagger which sat at the Starks side and held it to Eddards own throat as well.

The Gold Cloaks had hauled you away from Eddard Stark, dragging you separately to the Black Cells as chaos around continued to erupt. But it was not the voices within the throne room or the Red Keep which drew his attention next.

It was a voice which had been nowhere near that day, and without shifting to any sight of someone coming behind him, did Ser Barristan hide away the small letter which had sent him down such a memory in the first place. “I'm not sure I have ever seen you sleep, Ser Barristan.”

Glancing to his right, Tyrion Lannister had made his way to where in the dead of night, Ser Barristan had found himself contemplating far too much. Looking back out to the city of Meereen, the knight only commented in return, “Not much sleep to be found in my line of work. Too much to be on the lookout for.”

For a man of such short stature, Tyrion was not without the ability to make up for it in speaking more words in a day then some did in an entire year. “Can't imagine what could be on your mind. Let me guess, is it that our Queen has returned from her unprecedented journey. Or perhaps it is the sickness spreading through the city making her priorities seem rather misguided? No. The most likely answer I suspect of what is keeping you up, is the boy.”

He attempted to rationalize it to himself, “It was dangerous and foolish to be anywhere near them.”

But it seemed the Lannister was not quite as convinced as the others were of Ser Barristans conviction. “Ah, now you are sounding much like Daenerys. If I recall, Ser Barristan, on many occasions you implored him to leave the city for his own safety. Strange you would blame him now.”

Eyes slipping closed, he withheld a deep sigh of regret. It was a horrid sight, one which their Queen had not even gone to see herself when informed. Only commenting with irritation that now Rhaegal and Viserion were free from their chains in the catacombs they were being kept. It bothered many, her lack of reaction to such a horrible event, and not a single soul spoke up about it.

Until it slipped from his mouth in the safety of such silence. “It would have been mercy if Rhaegal had eaten him alive instead. No one deserves to lay suffering like that for days. An awful way to die.” If Ser Barristan allowed himself, he still might have been able to hear the screaming of Rickard and Brandon Stark.

Daenerys at least, had not laughed when hearing of Quentyn Martell's death, but part of him worried if no laughter was more dangerous. Her father had been called the Mad King for a reason, he was paranoid and utterly lost in his loss of sanity by the end. He did horrible things because putrid voices in his head whispered that traitors were all around him. But was no reaction out of sanity worse then too much from insanity?

Tyrion was blunt about it, “The Martells will not be happy.”

Once more, he found himself taking the path he's always known. Sticking to his duty. “The Martells are all the way in Dorne. Unless they plan on marching here anytime soon, we have more pressing matters to worry about.”

Once more, he only spoke a truth and it frustrated him that it seemed as if Tyrion knew the questions on the inside of his mind. “He was a the son of the Prince of Dorne, and he died trying to tame one out of, what? A love for Daenerys? Sounds like a pressing matter if you asked me.”

It was nothing that time but honesty, he knew Tyrion didn't believe what he himself had just spoken. “He didn't do it out of any love. The boy did what he thought was his duty for Dorne, and now he died for it.”

“I cannot imagine she will be given much welcome there once she sets her eyes west. Even less once the rest of the realm starts to hear things. Which in Westeros, they always do.”

Ser Barristan reminded him sternly, not sure though if it was Tyrion or himself he was speaking to personally. “We don't serve those in Westeros. We are here because we serve Queen Daenerys. If we think her support in the Seven Kingdoms is weak, then it is our duty to fix that.”

Tyrion had one question though. “And if we can't, what then? I don't imagine leaving everything behind for a losing cause would be the last years Ser Barristan Selmy wishes to spend his duty towards.”

The raven scroll hidden on his person weighed a thousand pounds. He was currently acting as the Queen's hand. It was his duty to inform her of this, so why did he read it alone and why was it still hidden on him long after Tyrion had left him for the night?

But as he looked back to the night he could still see you, much more specifically, the first time he had met you. A small girl for even one of three, the most carefree he had ever and would ever see you. When not with your father or uncle, you had quickly attached yourself to Ser Barristans side. He would in the privacy of the open cliff sides of Dragonstone, pick you up to give you a better view of the sea beyond as you would speak in quiet tones instead of the excited girl dragging him by the hand only hours previous.

You never returned back to that excited girl, but remained the quiet one who always did what you were told no matter what. You always did your duty and never with anything selfish behind it. Some days, he wished you would, just to show him there still was a girl capable of being happy underneath your burdens. But then you were gone before he'd ever have that chance to find out.

It was not news to any at the time which hurt but to him. You were the niece of Robert Baratheon, as far as Daenerys was concerned, you being dead was only good news for her cause. The lightness in her eyes matched that when he had told her of King Joffery's death too.

“Without her in my way, I have one less significant enemy today then I did yesterday.”

You were the enemy, it was as simple as that. Then and now, his Queen was a woman who gave forth no care for when her enemies were slaughtered. But, the letter from across the Narrow Sea? He kept it to himself.

He was as conflicted as he was heart wrenchingly relived. Someway, somehow, you were alive. Somehow you had survived being butchered by the Boltons and the Freys. You had helped Eddard Starks last remaining son reclaim Winterfell and the North, you and him were allied both with Stannis Baratheon and held some sort of peace treaty with Aegon Targaryean, and your Northern King had brought the wildlings south of the Wall in another peace treaty.

Eddard Starks last living child, his bastard son Jon Snow, was crowned King in the North and you married him as his Queen. It seemed, things were happening back in his homeland which spoke of far less confidence for Daenerys pride in her cause, then she seemed to understand.

You and this Jon Snow had reclaimed the North, and made nothing but alliances in peace with what should be adversaries. Daenerys was building a body count, and sending back a boy prince of Dorne with a body so burned only a sheet was what any saw of him as they put him on the ship. And still Ser Barristan wondered, had she forgotten that little girls name Drogon had burned to death, and if she did, was he ready to face the truth of what all of these signs were adding up to? If you were the enemy, why was he hesitant to tell the Queen he was sworn to, that you were alive?

What would the Queen he served now, think if she were to learn that he was the very one who helped you escape Kings Landing with your life in the first place?

Or worse, how would she react, if she were to find out Ser Barristan still never regretted it?

Selyse Baratheon rarely wished to think of that night.

The lost feelings swirling her mind and the Lady Melisandre whispering in her ear what needed to be done, almost as if she would do it one way or another. She had managed to pull and pull at just at the right strings that she said yes. Selyse had said yes in a moment of desperation, and chaos had erupted from that very moment from then right up until in the early hours of the morning when the gates of Castle Black opened from the south.

The begging of her young daughter turned to screaming pleads and Selyse had been in tears trying to not hear it, trying not to go out there and see it. It wasn't until those pleads turned to true terror did she realize that this is what she feared she would become. Ser Davos, despite his own twisting turmoil had enough in him left to turn and haul Selyse from jumping into the fire to cut her daughter free herself, as she begged for it to stop. It had been men of the Nights Watch and the wildings both who put a stop to it, but it was far too late for no damage to be done. Shireen was still alive, but for how long she had wondered.

It was then the very large white furred direwolf which came sprinting up to where the scene had settled. Arguments of why the Lord Commander was no where to be found to have stopped any of this interrupted by the startling aggression of the direwolf growling, barking with something feirce behind it's intention. By the time the men who followed the wolf to investigate returned, they all quickly understood why the bastard boy had not been there to stop this before it got to that point.

The next days were no better. Confronting the truth of what she had done. When you had approached the small little pyre meant only to burn the already dead, you had done Shireen the decency to wrap her in a sheet. You hadn't wanted your baby sister to be remembered that way.

It was a strange feeling, that she was not regretful for not arguing to let the Lady Melisandre stay. She did not miss her, not after seeing the truth of what she was. But that did not mean Selyse never thought about her. For years she was someone Selyse thanked the Lord for sending to them. Now she could ask him, was sending her a test of her strength, and had the events of those horrible days proven she succeeded for him or failed?

Losing Shireen felt like her punishment, but then again, Selyse couldn't stop but wonder why if he sent the Lady Melisandre to them as a force for good, why was Selyse's heart less heavy and troubled without her any longer? The worst part, was that it was not the first time Selyse had doubted her presence in their lives.

You were dead. Or, you had been dead and none yet knew you were once more alive. Further and further into faith did she let herself fall after the dust settled. She had spent years denouncing you as a traitor with a thief of a traitor husband, but then Stannis had came to her. He didn't say anything, he knew letting her read the words of the raven scroll said it all.

It was strange after you were gone, it was as if her and Stannis could only cope by falling further into such belief and yet the more they did, the less and less sense did the Lady Melisandre make. The more her insistence's and goals seemed to not align with what Selyse thought their Lord would want. They soon were to part on the waters to Eastwatch by the Sea, and it was that night which Selyse had not forgotten. The night she went to go see her.

Already, she was not comfortable with the manner in which the Lady Melisandre was content with not hiding any of her nude form in front of her as she bathed. But then Selyse kept seeing, and more and more did something return which she had long told herself was not a right she had anymore. She was to give up her jealousy and insecurities on the matter, their Lord had wanted Stannis to have Lady Melisandre in that way. A way in which he had not looked at Selyse in for many years, if ever. But as she stood there, it became harder and harder to not wonder would Stannis have wanted Selyse more if she looked like that.

But she wasn't here to talk about that, and try as she might, Selyse was pushing through such insecurities to eventually find the core of what she wanted to discuss. Eyes naturally drawing to the brazier, her attention was drawn back to the Lady Melisandre's voice cutting through the quiet. “When I looked into the flames this morning, the Lord spoke to me. He said, tonight, you will have your last good bath in a long while. Make it count." Not quite grasping the point she was getting at, Selyse hardly gave a false laugh to follow when she explained, “A joke. Not a very good one, I'm afraid.”

Dismissing as best she could without giving away the degree of uncertainty in her head, “It was. I- humour isn't my strength.”

“That's because most jokes are lies. And you are devoted to the truth.”

Once perhaps Selyse would agree, but in that moment she was not so sure. It would feel some days as it she could not recognize herself while the woman was there. Pressing a little bit however, it in fact exposed the vast difference between their approaches. Selyse saw no reason to lie about the Lord of Light or his power, and yet it was what followed which led to those cracks of doubt in her forming more and more.

Climbing out of the water she was bathing in, Lady Melisandre walked to her cache of potions and vials, explaining the truth of her deceptions. “Most of these powders and potions, lies. Deceptions to make men think they witnessed our Lord's power. Once they step into his light, they will see the lie for what it was. A trick that lead them to the truth.” Moving along a shelf, Selyse stood as some of them were explained to her, but it wasn't until one vial did the doubt become quite loud. “And a drop of this in any man's wine will drive him wild with lust.”

It would be so much easier, she wanted it to be such an easy answer. But when Selyse asked, “Did you use it with Stannis?” She knew the truth was as necessary as it was hurtful.

“No.”

Once more her eyes drew down to her figure, was this what her husband wanted, Selyse wondered. Was the key to filling their marriage with lust as never had really existed between them, to only be found in the body of another woman? Selyse in truth, did not appreciate the manner in which Lady Melisandre approached her.

The sympathy did not feel real. It felt much like her days when you were young and Selyse would coddle you when you would get upset about things you were too young to understand. Gently cupping the side of her face, she was told, “Don't be upset, men never crave what they already have. It's only flesh. It needs what it needs.”

One part of Selyse inside snapped. Demanding to know why was it her flesh which Selyse's husband needed, and what did she say to him to convince him that was left out in what was told to her afterwards. The other, tried to justify it.

Don't doubt her intentions, Selyse told herself. Trust the lord sent her for a reason. She whispered the words to herself, but this time they did not feel as if they were what Selyse believed in their entirety. “No act done in service of the Lord can ever be called a sin. I thank God every day for bringing you to us. And Stannis to you.”

Finally, she found the strength in her to say it. As unsure as she was about it, she found the point she came to discuss. “He wants to bring Shireen with us. I think that would be ill-advised.” It could be debated now and then if Selyse meant it, what she had said. “My daughter has heretical tendencies, as you're well aware. I don't know if her doubt is real or simply meant to spite me, but whichever the case, she should stay home.”

Did she really not wish for Shireen to come because of her tenancies, or in truth, did the idea of bringing her young, sheltered, only remaining daughter to a place such as the Wall, simply fill her with fear? What dangers would Shireen be forced to experience in such a place?

Grabbing both of her hands, she played well. “I understand how you feel. But that is impossible. You don't need powders and potions, my queen. You don't need lies. You are strong enough to look into the Lord's light and see his truth for yourself.”

Guiding Selyse to the brazier, it was those next words which Selyse now, thought of all too often. It was those, which were what made Selyse not argue, when you sent the woman away for good. “However harsh it is. However hard for us to understand. You don't need my help, but I will need yours soon. When we set sail, your daughter must be with us. The Lord needs her.”

Selyse looked into the fire that night, and did not, in fact, see her daughters death. She did not see her as being the one to allow it. She did not see the guilt she would bare the rest of her life for her failures as a mother. No, all Selyse had seen in the flames that night, was a memory. The image of the final time she had seen her daughters alive and together and happy.

The manner in which you had jumped down from your horse and knelt down to catch just as Shireen threw herself at you, both so excited to see one another and how you never looked brighter on Dragonstone then how you smiled then. Cupping Shireens cheeks and pulling her in to press a kiss at the top of her hair in another hug. Selyse only saw what she had lost in those flames.

She could recall so easily a day in Castle Black, coming down to where Shireen had been with the wildling girl. Sending her and Sam away, turning to her daughter the moment they were alone and sternly warning her, “You need to stay away from that girl.” Asking why, Selyse had been short, assuming it spoke for itself. “She's a wildling.”

Yet Shireen gave only an answer that of a child could come to with such ease. “Her name's Gilly. She's nice. I'm teaching her how to read.”

Perhaps once Selyse would have found it in her heart to have thought good of such a thing. She knew her young daughter had been teaching Ser Davos and it had a positive impact then, but she could not see passed what felt like so much darkness stacking up on each other. Selyse didn't mean when she could come off as dismissive, but in the many months since she had lost you, she knew it was becoming less and less common to find that softness left in her to give to Shireen.

Flipping through the books sitting out mindlessly as she explained to her, “She's a wildling. Your father defeated her people, he executed their King for treason.” Passing her by closely with a low tone, muttering to her, “They could strike at him, by striking at you.”

Shireen's answer was soft, innocent, and naive. “Gilly wouldn't do that.”

They all knew she didn't know. Ser Davos had told her of you when the raven came, but he had not said how or the details of why. Stannis had not said, and neither had Selyse. Shireen was a girl, telling her such details would give her nightmares beyond what she'd ever had, it gave Selyse them for a long time.

But it hadn't made it easier, it hadn't made it any less difficult to handle. For every boy Selyse had lost, it was natural. It had been the fault of her own body's ill. Shireen knew you had been killed that night, and that you had been pregnant. She had not a clue that you had been butchered like cattle, and your unborn son with it. She had not a clue the whispers of a body so soaked in blood it was said the grey's and blacks of the dress on you, had been so stained it looked a deep red.

She had not a clue that it was whispered you had been so cut open from your womb that the stories spoke that you died within seconds. Shireen had no idea that they would never be able to bring your remains to your families proper home in Storm's End, because the Freys left not a single scrap of your body left behind to find.

So she turned to Shireen that afternoon. Short and stern, something dark in her eyes which told stories that dismissed the manner her daughter so easily trusted people. You couldn't even trust the men at your side, after all. “You have no idea what people will do.”

She not looked further into those days. Because Shireen did find out, and it was a fruitless hope and prayer that Shireen had enough left in her to have known her mother had begged and pleaded to take it all back. Shireen found out, and then you had come riding in through the gates with the Greyjoy that very next morning.

You had come back, but now it was Shireen who was gone for good. Though, now it felt difficult to recall that. While you were not dead again, you weren't here. Selyse understood why you and Jon had to do this, but she hoped it would not make her an outcast within her new home.

So far though, it seemed as if as strange as it was, as quiet and stand offish Selyse could be, those of the North who knew you well, were well used to such mannerisms. None pushed her out of things because of her quiet, more stern nature and some like Maege Mormont, had laughed with ease saying things such as, “Suppose now we know where she got it from.”

Jons sister Arya, loud and eccentric as she was, reminded Selyse a bit of Shireen. Some of her happier days, Shireen too was mischievous, clever and quick on the draw. Arya seemed much more abrasive then her own daughter ever was, but not something Selyse did not know how to work around. She clearly felt a void here now that her brother had gone, as Selyse did you.

Selyse was quiet but stern, and it worked rather well with Arya's loud brashness when things needed to be done. Selyse had for many years been the Lady of Dragonstone and with the help of her brother, ruled her husbands castle and small island villages as he worked in Kings Landing. Winterfell was far larger, but they found some form of synergy as time passed.

Arya would seem surprised Selyse was not put off by her nature, but she had commented to the girl one evening, “I raised two sullen and stubborn daughters. At least you listen.”

In return, Arya had looked away awkwardly before muttering in between bites, your name. “Did you ever get mad at her for not growing up to be a proper lady like the other girls?”

Selyse had to think for a good moment, but in truth she knew what that answer was. “Once earlier in my years raising her perhaps. But not terribly. Her attitude was one problem, but quickly I learned she did not have many interests in the things her septa wished for her to do. But if she did not wish to do those things, Stannis didn't force her. He preferred she spent her time learning under his wing then forcing her into things she hated, if they would not benefit her education.”

She hadn't said anything of it, but she could see cogs behind Arya's eyes turning all the same.

But still she would think. Did the Lady Melisandre know what was to come for Shireen? Was what she saw in the flames the ones which she would ignite around her daughter? What could she have done or said to convince Stannis not to have brought her?

More then once she had suggested sending her to Storms End, stay with to Alester. He was Shireens uncle and would have been thrilled to keep his niece safe in his company. But now she wondered, was the Lord testing her and she failed? The woman knew Shireen would be needed, what had she seen in the flames which she had not told a soul? Had she seen her daughter up on that pyre? She seemed shocked at the idea Stannis was defeated in battle to his end, but confident to bring him back with this.

Selyse knew she could not rid herself of her own blame, but part of her also felt used. As if Lady Melisandre never truly respected in Selyse's belief, and manipulated her into buying what she said without question.

Now, left with her only daughter and you had gone beyond the Wall unknown when you would return, and Selyse feared she would be alone once more should the worse come to pass. She knew what sacrifices needed to be made to ones own happiness or well being for this fight, but it was a hard ask to be left without either of her daughters for the remainder of her days.

It was all rather loud, the thoughts in her head. All Selyse could do, was hope as the months ticked by, you and Jon both would return home soon.

Until that was, the day Arya came to her chambers and suddenly both of them knew they had something far more pressing to do in their days to come then merely wait for you both to return.

Ser Davos Seaworth was once more reminded of his King's stern nature as he spoke of the Targaryean King down south.

“They would be fool to underestimate him.”

Walking at the side of King Stannis, Ser Davos felt both rather used to it and yet unfamiliar to a once normal place. Serving you and Jon was a very different experience, there was more charm amongst the Northerners, and the rowdiness was not a determinant to their cause, but somehow added to their unity.

But now, his place was once more at the side of the King he was sworn too. Winterfell was not his home, nor did he have any reason to stay despite finding companionship amongst the men there. It helped perhaps, that now Stannis had a firm cause without the back and forth flipping between kings and kingdoms to fight against. Here, he had one purpose. Prepare the Wall, and his men for what was to come.

Currently though instead of where his command was garrisoned at the Nightfort, the King once more found himself in the ranks of Castle Black. Working through plans and decisions specific to the Nights Watch and coming to agreements between him and the new Lord Commander in Edd. They were not leaving anything up to chance anymore, but that did not mean his Kings attention was not drawn away many times with news from the South.

Having received a raven discussing the movements of Lannister forces, it seemed all attention now was converging towards Aegon. For a good while, the remainder of the Kingdoms were in a mess. Riverrun had been stomped out in their final fights as forced led by Ser Jaime Lannister ended their remaining sieges, forcing the far inferior number of the River Lords to finally renounce their sworn loyalty to their late King and instead to the Iron Throne.

Now, the Lannisters were forced to turn their eyes to Aegon.

He had taken Storm's End which swiftly was being followed by him taking the Stormlands, no doubt due in part to Stannis ordering the remainder of his army North, giving the Targaryean ample opportunity to conquer without the early defeat of loss. It seemed the Lannisters considered his claim to be a lie, and the bravado of nothing more then a green boy of summer. Stannis, seemed to disagree. “My opinions of him aside, underestimating him at this point is unproductive to their fight.”

Ser Davos could tell that such an opinion did not seem to be very favourable, but he suspected it was more then the sort of ire held for those in the war previous. “What makes you think that?”

The answer from Stannis however, was simple. “They underestimated Robb Stark at every turn, and he spent three years humiliating them with defeat after defeat. They have less then half the forces they begun that war with this time, and to the realm, the fight for the Iron Throne appears to be a two sided one now. Lannister or Targaryean.” Shaking his head a bit, Ser Davos could almost sympathize with those back South.

Voicing as such, “Not sure how happy everyone is going to be trying to pick a side for that one. Not as if either family has a record which speaks highly of them.”

Glancing around, if he could say one thing, Davos would note that much of the organization put in place previously by Jon was standing strong. Knowing too well, had it been still under the likes of Ser Alliser Thorne, it surely wouldn't be in the same state. It appeared, the Nights Watch had to murder a second Lord Commander to finally learn that lesson.

It was admirable though, that even now faith in him had not wavered.

Thoughts drawn back to Stannis as he spoke. “If the realm still stands once winter is over, we can turn our attention then to putting my Kingdom back together properly. I will deal with Aegon then.”

He had let Stannis's forces leave, but that did not mean it was beacuse of peace. After all, the negotiation was made between Aegon and Jon. The King which he had an actual peace treaty already established. He was simply doing Stannis a kindness on behalf of Jon. But clearly, Stannis was sure to keep the boy in his attention. Letting the ball drop now, would only mean taking on Aegon then would be much harder.

Ser Davos, like most of them, knew not of the dragons flying in the east.

“I can station a thousand men at each castle, though I do wonder why it is you seem to be so confident resources can be shared between your men and my own.” Once Jons place of work now Edd's, the three men all looked at the layouts made of the Wall and areas surrounding it.

Edd had an answer to Stannis's question, saying it almost in passing. “Can thank Jon for that if he ever comes back.” Davos could see a slight raise in Stannis's eyebrow in a silent ask but the Lord Commander either did not notice or barrelled passed it anyways. “Was his deal he made with the Iron Bank, almost hoping we don't make it so I don't have to spend every day until I die paying it off.”

Davos counted himself grateful that of everything to come easy to him learning to read, numbers was as simple as any of it. There were only ten of them in different combinations and he didn't have to sound them out to figure out what the whole of their printed version meant. Looking over some of the papers, Davos too knew he was well acquainted with how the Iron Bank works. “You won't pay it off in your lifetime, or the Lord Commander after you or the next. The Iron Bank doesn't care how long it takes for you to pay them back, only that you do. The longer it takes in fact the better, build more interest up that way.”

“Know a lot about it?”

Edd and Davos both looked at one another with almost a degree of amusement as he titled his head. The hint of an exaggerated grimace forming on the elder mans face. “They run on predictability, what they know will be stable for the long run. They knew making a contract with Jon he wouldn't be paying it back any time soon, they were counting on how much interest they would build up in the long run.”

Stannis cut through, changing directory right back to the original discussion. “Resources won't be as much an issue. The more men guarding the Wall, the more it tells them the likelihood you will have the capability of holding up your end of the bargain.”

It seemed however, Edd held the same curiosity which had started the discussion about the dragon earlier that day, but from Davos. “So how do you know they won't just change their minds and start funding the Targaryean now that you're up here?”

The answer wasn't one Stannis answered, but one he and Davos both knew was written in blood.

Jon Connington could tell the frustration was mounting in Aegons shoulders, it was obvious.

Less and less as this went on did he look a boy anymore, but a man, a King struggling for his own cause. Lord Varys had not been kidding when he had informed them at the start of this journey back east, that Westeros will not be easy to take in the state it is in.

When confronted about his promises to have prevented making this any harder, the clever tongued eunuch had a simple defence and a detectable jest in his tone. “And when should we have struck, my Lord? When Robert Baratheon lived and would have seen our dear King and his army of sellswords thrown into the sea for his name alone? Or when Robb Stark was dominating the South in years of war as Balon Greyjoy invaded the North tearing the country into pieces?”

What was more frustrating, was that Jon Connington knew he had no argument against it. He had trusted the spider this far, there was no reason to doubt that now. But he let the best of his irritation take out on him anyways. Leaning in with more of a gruff mutter, “At least if we had done it when originally talked about, we wouldn't have already lost two whole Kingdoms.”

A huff left him as if with knowledge being explained to that of a child. “There isn't a family in all of Westeros which would side with Euron Greyjoy. If being Ironborn wasn't enough, his reputation speaks ill for itself. When our King sits on the Iron Throne do you think it will be a difficult choice for the people on whom to overpower?”

Gods be good, Westeros has changed too much since this was a place Jon Connington last had called it a home. The sheer fact of the Iron Islands engaging now in two rebellions was news all in and of itself, they were hardly better then those wildling savages. Enjoyed bloodshed and violence to an unseemly degree and had no organization beyond their ships. Not great warriors they were.

Balon took the North because it was empty and open as the Lannisters hid away from the Stark boy's army. What had Euron done since then? Nothing of importance, nothing which would truly effect Aegons fight. He did not care for Lord Varys' paranoid whispers of magic and whatnot though. He heard far too much of that from the King in the North. Asking him to believe such nonsense, a ridiculous and superstitious people.

Aegon though, Jon Connington was beginning to wonder if such words were beginning to weigh on his mind. They had been standing on the beach in Storms End when it happened. It was light and hardly stuck, but gently in the grey sky it had begun to snow. The distance in his eyes as he did so, and the hesitant look when asked what was on his mind only to have him talk around the real answer.

He had to take the Iron Throne, Aegon did not have time to think about scary bed side stories Jon Snow had told him about. Every now and again he would spot him looking at the North on their maps, or looking in the distance trying to see what was too far away. He never spoke of it, but it was on his mind, Connington knew it.

And it frustrated him as much as this war was weighing down on Aegon. Both were tense, but only one of them had to keep it together to keep the other standing. He still had time after all, he still had years to be that for him.

Aegon hadn't even said a word throughout the entire meeting. Hovering over his maps and not moving an inch as his mind and jaw were as set on something as could be. Connington was surprised at the choice in words Aegon made to speak, interrupting the back and forth between the two men. “If the choice is that easy Lord Varys, why is it we could not secure the Iron Bank for our campaign? As far as I am aware we approached far before they reached out to Stannis Baratheon.”

Choosing his words tentatively, Varys looked to Connington before directing full attention back to Aegon with clarity. “You must remember where your family comes from, your grace. What your true name stands for. The Bravvosi are a very sensitive and wary people towards Valyrians.” Aegon did not shift whatsoever, and Connington could not tell what that meant. For over a month now, any mention of family had been in discussion of the Martells. It had been even longer then that since the boy at all made any mention of his father. “They are descendants of slaves of the Valyrian Freehold. Their homes were destroyed by dragons, and were treated and used rather cruelly by their Valyrian masters. They would not trust you anymore then they do not trust in your aunt.”

Once more Aegon did not move, and Connington found it increasingly strange he was struggling to read the emotions of a boy he helped raise his whole life. He knew Aegon better then this. Interrupting whatever thought may come first, he spoke with a shortness. “When Daenerys sits with him on the Iron Throne, Lord Varys, I imagine such power will change their minds rather swiftly as to who they would be wise to support.”

Only raising his expression in an almost mocking, he seemed to disagree and once more Aegon allowed the ensuing argument to start as Lord Varys found a knowing tone. “In my humble opinion, I would say your estimation may be bordering on unrealistically ambitious. Having her sit by our Kings side may prove to be the quickest way to draw away support to those who would rather see him thrown back to the sea. They do not answer your requests for an audience when it was only him, and but with a woman such as her?” A slow shake of his head dropped his tone. “I dare not think the money they would be willing to offer to our enemies then.”

Leaning forward across the table, Conningtons voice dropped. “I would watch yourself, Lord Varys. Get used to spouting such opinions and you may find yourself in rather hot water once they marry.”

It was as if Varys knew something he didn't. The manner in which he didn't seem to find himself phased by such words. “Is that set in stone? Declared somewhere I do not know of?”

“We have been planning this since-”

Loud and commanding, Aegon cut through both of them with a heavy sigh to follow. “My Lords, this is not about who I am to marry. If my aunt wished to be part of this, she would be here supporting my claim. But she is not.”

Looking with a pleading, Connington urged him once more to be more cautious then this. This was the best plan, with both of them together the people would so obviously rally around the return of their proper rulers. “Aegon, it is best-”

“Leave us.” His eyes though, were only on Connington. Only he was being asked to leave the room.

Aegon did not blink nor repeat himself, as Lord Varys stood with a collected confidence in his place in this meeting, but yet he was being asked to leave? What whispers was the spider putting in their Kings ears about this? But it was not his place to argue with him.

Swallowing roughly with a twitch in his jaw, Connington gave but a small bow and a low, “Your Grace.” Before parting ways, the guards closing the doors behind him and leaving the two of them to discuss whatever it was they were plotting without him.

When had this started he thought, when had Aegon not sought his council first? When did that begin to change when their whole lives together he was the one there for the boy. He knew the bloody answer though, it was the same time in which Aegon also had begun letting part of his mind become preoccupied with that of the North.

Door slamming shut to his chambers, and the first thing reached for was not to remove the armour across him but to pour whatever wine sat on his cupboard. A grimace as Connington let it all slide down his throat in one go, until shaking it out and letting the bottom of the goblet thud against the wood once more. Some days he wondered how easy it would have been to die the manner in which he had told the world to convince of his death. Certainly he was frustrated enough to see the benefit in drinking ones self into a stupor.

If he could throttle that bastard King he would have. He and Aegon did not get along terribly well, but enough that they found kinship in their words to debate time and time again. That first meeting, Connington already did not like him. He had the audacity to stand there and yell at the true King of Westeros as if he were a child in need of lecture. Blaming him for things which he had barley been born during.

Nothing King Aerys did was Aegons fault, and nothing Prince Rhaegar-

Hands splayed out along the surface still, Connington stood up straighter, head tilting slightly as he put pieces together. The bastard too had yelled at Aegon for faults of Rhaegar, but that was just it wasn't it? Using something which looked on the surface raw and painful only to turn it into something to manipulate Aegon with.

Pushing off, his feet carried him into pacing about his chambers. Guilt was a powerful motivator, and there were many ways to manifest it. Dawning on him that if Jon Snow were to set the stones of doubt of Rhaegar to him, it would begin to falter his ability to stay focused. Then fill his head with lies and tales of monsters to distract from what he was doing.

Some said bastards were born from sin, of course this one couldn't be trusted. How though he thought, was he supposed to convince Aegon of this now? He would dismiss discussions of the North in their meetings, shut down speculations around intentions of the King in the North and his wife.

His insufferable, Baratheon bitch of a wife, he thought callously.

Jon Connington was a fool, wasn't he? This was not only about vengeance for thirty years past, this was the vindictive remains of Robert Baratheons blood to rid the Seven Kingdoms once more of House Targaryean. If Jon Snow was the manipulator, you were the one plotting it. Of course you would wish to wear Aegon down, weaken him so his enemies could take care of him for you.

Leaving the only good, benevolent rulers the ones in the North. And oh what a surprise, you also just so happened to be the heir of Stannis Baratheon. The only other man here with a true claim to the Iron Throne. It was all a ploy, use Aegons kindness against him to sneak your way into power once more by sicking your bastard husband on Aegon to fill his head with falsehoods.

Jon Connington was sure of it, he only had to figure out a way to convince Aegon of it too.

By the time he had sat carefully on his bed, he had the windows covered and checked the door was locked and bolted thrice now. He would live in his armour until he was sure he was alone. Before peeling off the final covering over his arm.

It wasn't so much bigger, but it was indeed, not as small as a patch of grey. Sooner or later, it would begin travelling down to his hand and then up his arm. He had to convince Aegon and soon, Jon Connington did not have time to let his King figure out this deception on his own. Before the greyscale took his mind first.

He had given Jon Snow the benefit of the doubt because of you, because you had come down to manipulate him into guilt about Rhaegar's actions against his family. A perfect couple you both were, willing to lie and manipulate just to swindle your father onto the throne which one day would be yours. He would not be surprised at this point either if Stannis too was to find himself manipulated out of your way.

Pretending you were dead, and now pretending your husband had been dead to spook the Northerners into worshipping you both. Aegon had allowed Stannis to pull his forces out of the Stormlands because of his peace agreement with Jon Snow. He couldn't imagine what you and the bastard were preparing for up there.

But as Jon Connington knelt to the ground, he pulled out the cache stored away full of the anythings hoping for a miracle. Not much was written to cure this, but he would try everything until he lost either his life or the remainder of his mind. He had to try for Aegon.

He couldn't let the vengeful pursuits of the Starks and Baratheons to get in his way, he had to finish what he started. But Aegon had pushed him out of the meeting that day, so what else was he being tricked into believing without Conningtons knowledge? He did not know.

He used to not think of what fate became of the girl Lyanna Stark, because she was just that. A girl who died with the paintings of Rhaegar as a monster. He once thought she was of little blame, but now he doubted it.

Perhaps Lyanna Stark was as much a lying snake as her nephew and his deplorable wife are.

Arianne Martell knew that the sun shined bright down on the lands of Sunspear and yet not a shred of that light was found in any hearts of the people that day.

The bells tolled and echoed across the halls as silence was given with a bow each time she had passed someone. Not often she found reason to adorn herself in black, but it it sat heavy on her person even in the striking heat. It had the last time too, but this time, somehow her dress made her feel as if it was sinking her feet into the ground to be swallowed by the earth.

Long had she lost track of the time she had spent standing there, but her eyes had not blinked despite seeing nothing but the same image. Most others had come and gone by the time she found the courage to go see him, and those whom came after did not stay by her silent side. She did not blame them, it was a pain to all, but only three of them felt it so deeply.

Trystane was still young, hardly even old enough to begin growing facial hair but he looked as old as she felt when he stood beside her that day. He hadn't known what to say, and by the time the tears wished to fall on him, he had left. Unwilling to cry in front of the sister who was still holding that all in. She hadn't blamed him for it, she would have too were she his age.

Others had come and gone, Ellaria Sand and her daughters, Arianne's young cousins included. Elia was Trystane's age but she had suffered a great loss too, as it was only years ago. In those days, it was Arianne who stood where she had. Beside a daughter unsure how to feel that she too, was not permitted to see the final visage of her loved one before his funeral proper. When Oberyn Martell's body had been brought home to Sunspear, the only ones who had seen the truth were his brother Doran and his paramour Ellaria, the later having witnessed the horror firsthand.

This time, Arianne spent the entire time standing there wondering if she should defy tradition and peel back the coverings to see the truth her father had told her was not for any eyes of his loved ones. She knew then when he had told her against it, it was worse then she had imagined. The truth of his wounds.

Returning home from the Stormlands for this news was devastating. Gone to seek the truth of one claiming to be family, and returning to find the death of another. Quentyn Martell had travelled across the Narrow Sea to seek the Targaryean girl, and if once she was unsure what to think of it, now she felt another. She felt something she suspected, was not unlike the red rage which seeped into the blood of many Martells when their loved ones were wronged.

Some will blame one thing, others will blame elsewhere but there was only one truth.

It wasn't until the sounds of feet echoing across the way and the distinct sound of something being rolled along with it did she know her silence had to find a voice this time. They had spent too much of their lives not speaking, and it had to end now.

Prince Doran Martell, Arianne's father was brought to be placed beside his daughter and only when the retreating footsteps echoed away did she speak. Her voice distant and faint but solid and sure. “I used to wish I could hate him.” Doran said nothing but to let his daughter speak. “I would look up to the star of Nymeria at night and hope he could see the same, and tell him however far away we were, that he will not rob me of my birthright. Over and over again I would tell him that, no matter how much he could not hear me. Even when you told me the truth, I was still angry.”

Her fathers voice was always calm. It was smooth as a knife slicing through warm butter sitting in the morning sun, and it had hardly ever been comforting. Perhaps there was still shreds of but a girl in her heart, but it felt as such now. “We are a stubborn people in our blood, and it took me a long time to learn it was me who held that problem, not your mother. She had not forgiven me for it, and now never will. If I won't blame her for it, I will not blame you for the same.”

As even toned as he, Arianne's voice hardly picked up to echo within the empty halls against the distance of bells. “You made wrong choices and paid for it, as did my Uncle, as did I. Blaming you won't take any of it back, nor will it change that you did not do this to him. She did.”

“Arianne-”

Not picking up her tone, but the sternness in it was all to similar to that of Oberyn she knew. “We can blame each other all we like, but there is only one truth father. I had a little brother until the days he set off to find her. And when he did, he returned to us under a sheet. Had he not gone to her, Quentyn would still be with us. I could still stand here and accuse him of robbing my birthright, and wishing you could have been honest with me earlier, but we can't. And I will not blame us for it, we have done enough of that.”

Doran's voice vibrated in a confidence through her chest, finding it's way to her heart. If for only moments, it helped ease them temptation to uncover the sheet to see for herself. “Every year since Elia was taken from us, I have spent my time with guilt. What more or different should I have done to protect her, but it was Oberyn who reminded me of the truth. We could stand here and argue amongst ourselves, or we could turn our eyes to the ones who did it to her, to her children.”

A sorrowful look crossed her face, one which even only from the side did her father catch. “He didn't look much like her.”

Doran however, felt not shaken by that thought it seemed. “He never had. Rhaenys did, though. Eyes, skin, hair all looked exactly like Elia had when I held her as a babe. She would write me, saying that Aegon had their purple eyes and silver hair, and it upset her to think that they would love him more then her daughter. The truth is not so different now is it?”

He had not looked how she expected. Her claimed cousin. Skin pale as the rest of them, eyes which turned from blue to purple depending on the sun and light shining around them, and a hair dyed a striking blue to hide the once secret. Arianne had not questioned why he kept it, but when asked why such a colour, it was his answer that felt like family.

“The Tyroshi have such drastic colours in their hair. That was where I would tell people my mother was from, and it was to honour her.” Arianne had wondered if that meant the one he still held onto was her, she had desperately hoped so. She did not remember what Rhaegar Targaryean looked like, but not once did his name ever come out of Aegon's mouth.

Only Elia, only Rhaenys. In a moment of quiet before she had left, he looked more of a boy then a man fighting to be King when he had said it. Looking at her with a sad smile, “I never knew what she looked like, my sister. I never met any of my mothers family, never knew what they looked like either. If I imagine my sister could have grown up to look as you do..” He had hesitated, brows narrowing not in nerves but in something painful she now understood. “Perhaps it would be of some comfort.”

Comfort was not found here though. Comfort was not what Arianne would ever use to describe anything of her home in such hours. Comfort was for those who had not been taken from their families with such cruelty and horror. Comfort was for those who wished for their lives to be comfortable, and that was not the life of those looking for justice.

Her father it seemed, could read her more then she expected. Cutting through the quiet once more. “I have kept you in the dark, as you have I. We cannot do that anymore. I have spent too many years letting you think I wished to push you away, and I will not waste the rest of mine doing it anymore. You are my daughter, I need you by my side. As equals.”

That was all she ever wanted. Her whole life she wished to be seen as such by her father, and as much as she wished she could be a child upset it took to this to let it get there, she wouldn't waste that time on such childishness. Her voice was low, something hinting at an anger. “They said the beast had snuck up behind him. As if hunting him down like prey. One of them flies free in her skies too. Who else has burned like my little brother?”

Her father had the right answer. “What did he say of her?”

Her answer was truthful, and as unsure as he was. “He didn't need to say anything. He's afraid of her, and that tells me as much as the complete truth.”

A choice was going to have to be made. One plan to the next, they all had to be on the same understanding, one united front. Arianne's plan to crown Myrcella was one she had believed in before it was stopped in its tracks, but she was no fool to the other side presented. None could prove or disprove that Aegon was Elia Martell's son, but he believed it, and if a scrap of possibility said he was right, that was enough.

Myrcella was a good kid, smart and bright and better then the mother she was said to look so similar to in every way, but if the realm were to be asked? There was only one side to pick. In due time Myrcella had every right to be Arianne's sister by law, but Aegon was her cousin by birth and blood.

Elia was her aunt by birth and blood. And it was her memory the Martell's fought to avenge. It was her which Oberyn had died to avenge. And even moreso, there was another fact to consider.

The realm would choose Aegon over Myrcella, but the realm too, would choose Aegon over Daenerys.

The Lannisters who killed her aunt and uncle on one end, and the Targaryean girl who killed her brother on the other. Who would the Martells side with? Arianne would say neither, Arianne would say blood protects blood. And her father had agreed.

So father and daughter stood there, looking over the sheet covering Quentyn Martell's body, burned so horrible by dragonfire that she could not even look upon his grown face one last time. Once she had refused to allow him to rob her of her birthright, but Daenerys Targaryean's dragon had robbed her little brother not only of his life, but the mercy of a quick death.

Targaryeans were dragons, but Arianne was a Martell. There was no light or burn brighter then that of a sun, and as winter would one day enclose on the lands, it was her responsibility to ensure the sun shined bright and protective over her people. It was a dragons nature, to burn it all away to cinder and ash.

She had never wanted Quentyn dead when she thought he wanted to take her place as heir to Dorne, but Daenerys Targaryean would come to Westeros and burn the lands with dragonfire and invade their people with blood to take what she thought was her birthright. They soon would hold the final funeral for Quentyn, but the sun would soon illuminate brighter then ever before. After all, Aegon was not cruel and he was the blood of her family.

The Targaryean girl was a dragon, and the Dornish had never been defeated by dragons before. They would not start now.

Ser Yohn Royce did not mean to sit there with such ire, but it was all he had left.

His patience had worn thin, and there was little he could do to stop what was coming any further, he had done all he could without compromising all he held dear and he had to hope he did enough. Now, all he had left was the hope he was a good actor, or liar. Depending on which they would see him as should it be discovered too early.

The day was surprisingly bright for how cool the morning air begun. The three of them sat there and the sight had yet to stop being so utterly pitiful. His Master at Arms could only work with so much, and this was next to nothing compared to where his own sons had been far before this age. Yet there he sat watching meek Robin Arryn get beat every which way by the boy sparring with him. At the rate he had been going, he was shocked the boy had enough in him to pick up the bloody thing.

“Sword up. Attack my lord, attack- don't cross your feet.”

Ser Royce looked at the sight, and dared not to peek to his side. He knew he was at odds with the man, and it was easier to play dumb and begrudging then contemptuous and suspicious. A huff left him as Robin once more tripped over his own feet at another parry. “My sons have had swords in their hands since the time they could walk. This one..”

If there ever was an understatement, Petyr Baelish had won it's greatest feat. “Lord Arryn will never be a great warrior,”

Interrupting with ingidnance, Ser Royce almost rolled his eyes at the pomp in such a claim. “Great warrior? He swings a sword like a girl with palsy.” Just as he finished speaking did a squire approach the benches where they sat, handing Lord Baelish a note.

Don't look he told himself. The man had eyes on the back of his head, and even if he didn't, there was no doubt the pair of blue eyes attached to dark hair would seek him out should he glance out of place. He was no fool, he knew even something as simple as a seating place was strategy to the slimy man next to him, and it was not out of the possibilities that Alyane Stone was here to watch what Lord Baelish could not.

After all, he was the only one who had not come around to trusting Petyr Baelish. He had been the only one of Lords of the Vale to protest against giving Littlefinger another chance to serve as Protector of the Vale in Robins name. He still protested it, but he at the time, was a fool.

He was as much a fool then as they thought he was now. It was why they watched him, they did not trust fools. Well as it turns out, he learned from his mistake and did not trust either of them back. Had one asked Ser Royce over a year ago if he would look at Alyane with such suspicion he would have taken offence.

The man did not believe the story she told, but he did fall prey to her name and her tears. Now realizing, it had always been an act. She no doubt had lied for him, and if Littlefinger hadn't told her what lie to tell, then she was always just as manipulative to come up with the very same he had separately. Neither option made Ser Royce comfortable.

He did not like Lady Lysa, but she was the widow to Lord Jon Arryn, and he had to respect her to respect the memory of the man he did greatly respect. Flung herself from the moondoor was the story father and daughter told. He thought it was no better then hogwash then, and he still thought it now. But then Alyane had told him who she was with utter tears and he fell for such acts.

Were he to brave a look at her now, nothing close to tears sat in her eyes. She was well postured, and prim and proper, a true lady and as watching of a hawk as ever. He'd known many a bastards in his time, and none he met were quite as formal as Alyane Stone.

What had the years in the Vale done to the crying girl he met that day? Did that crying girl ever exist?

Ser Royce dared not think of Eddard Stark would say. In a horrid way, he was glad he was gone. No one should see it end up this way, none wanted Petyr Baelish to be the one any grows up to follow in the footsteps of.

So he sat there, ever the disapproving brute watching the boy fail once more as Petyr glanced at her as he tucked the raven scroll away. Returning to the conversation before. “Some boys develop more slowly. He's still young.”

Arguing back right away he commented, “He's thirteen. Boys have been known to go to war at thirteen.”

Petyr Baelish insisted however. “He has other gifts.” When Ser Royce asked what those would be, the answer was all the more work to not act as if it meant anything suspicious to him, “The gift of a great name. Sometimes that's all one needs.”

Offering his hand out to Alyane, the two begun to step down onto the grass as he led her away from the fight. Ser Royce followed in toe, knowing once more, if he did not play as he needed, either one of them would sniff his intentions out.

They were leaving young Robin at the Runestones to be ward under House Royce, but the man was not mistaken. They were dumping a problem at his doorstep hoping to clear up their obstacles, and clog his time and effort up away from poking around them too much. So he agreed to take the boy in, but that did not mean much.

Petyr Baelish and Alyane Stone were not the only ones with plans none else knew. She played her part though, respectful and kind as she turned to him. “Goodbye, Ser Royce and thank you for all you've done for me.”

A small nod back, “I've done nothing more than my duty, my lady.” And that was it. Duty to be a fool and a host and once they were gone from his home his duty was to once more do the honourable thing. The right thing, even if it too, had proven to be the deceptive one.

Lord Baelish played his part well too, they both did. He taught her to play as well as he. “I have no doubt that upon my return, Robin's skills will have improved immeasurably.”

Glancing back to the boy, Ser Royce was almost sure he somehow, had gotten even worse in the minutes they spent looking away from the scene. “He'll be safe here. As for his skills, I make no promises.”

The carriage leading them away was said to be taking them to the Fingers. He doubted that. He knew more then doubt, he was sure of it. For everything Petyr Baelish did to keep his plans close to his chest, all it took was one little slip to unravel the workings of a webbing of lies. One single raven scroll put into the wrong hands by accident and a mystery had unveiled.

Afterall, he had wondered that day, what on earth did Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton have any sort of business sharing correspondence with Petyr Baelish. In the privacy of night, was the only time he read it. He trusted no eyes but his own in that moment and for good reason. News travelled, but why on earth was this news coming from her to him?

Why was Barbrey Dustin the one to inform Petyr Baelish, that you had married Eddard Starks last living child, his bastard son, and King in the North? And why he wondered as he read it, did it entail the name of a girl. Daisy. Who was she, and why was Lady Barbrey telling Littlefinger that Daisy could not get any of her girls anywhere near Jon Snow before the wedding. It had taken place the eve of their return from Dragonstone, Daisy had not the time to try.

What in seven hells did any of that mean?

Well, looking into things when he had as many names on one raven scroll as he did, was not something that was going to be terribly difficult. Maester Coleman had copies of many raven scrolls coming in and out of the main rookery, and when asked if any had come from Winterfell he had only a fair few. Those fair few, were the words of a girl named Daisy.

He had asked the man if anything seemed out of the ordinary from such letters, and he said no. But not before one thing, saying that Lord Baelish and Alyane both kept requesting that Lord Robin be given sweetmilk to handle his outbursts instead of essence of nightshade. It was odd the Maester commented, that small does of the later left the body after some hours in small does, whereas adding drops of sweetwine to milk would build up in the bloodstream. But that the requests had stopped just as plans to send him to the Runestones had been made.

How strange it was that such an oddity had ceased, around the same time Littlefinger seemed to find interest in learning that Jon Snow had married. Even more strange it was, the raven had said the girl Daisy could not get any of her girls near him before, so imagine Ser Royce's surprise when he learned the profession this Daisy worked, was running the Winter Town brothel.

It was easy then, figuring out at least part of it. The most standard reaction was what Littlefingers plan had hoped. Get a whore into Jon Snows bed before he marries you, and what likelihood was there that a wedding at all would occur in such an aftermath.

Ser Royce had never spoken to Eddard's bastard son before, but he had been beginning to suspect, this was not a mystery for one man. By the time the raven came for him, the sigil of a direwolf on the seal, Ser Royce knew that he had to be more careful then ever.

Two men never having met one another before, thousands of miles apart, had to piece together a mystery which was playing out right in within both of their homes. But that was months ago. Petyr and Alyane were leaving right now, and the Fingers was not where they were going.

It felt an insult to Eddard Starks memory to say it, but was certain, she was heading North with as ill intentions as the day she pretended to cry a sob story to garner his sympathy into hiding her in the Vale in the first place. She had lied to him from day one and she only got better and more clever about it, but Petyr's kind of clever was not to be admired. Any learning from the likes of him, was to be considered just as dangerous.

He could only hope his raven found Jon Snow with enough time to prepare. Ser Royce hated how much he did not trust Alyane, but it had to be said. Were Alyane Stone accompanying her father on a journey to the Fingers, he would not care.

But, it was Sansa Stark who was travelling with Petyr Baelish to Winterfell.

Theon Greyjoy could define himself as a man motivated by regret.

Each day he spent in Winterfell should have felt more and more like home but it didn't, in fact it fell far too much as if it grew emptier each passing one. He did his duties, sat in on council meetings, but there was nothing which truly put away that feeling deep inside that he had made a mistake.

He was angry, of course he was. Twice now you had left him behind, when a little over three moons past, did it mark a year since he and you ran from these very halls together. Grabbing you to jump from the battlements and run into the wolfswood below as the sounds of yelling and barking increased to gain on you. You and him knew then, you wouldn't leave the other behind. Not now, not after every horror you both were forced to endure with agony.

Theon had seen and known things which were utter nightmares and you had as well, and such knowledge of that did not make leaving that bond behind easy. If he could pin point the worst of it he had ever known Ramsay to force you to endure, it would be an easy mark on such a map of horrors. It felt just as surreal now as it did then. That such a threat used only to scare you to comply had come to pass. Theon hadn't dared think what happened between you and Ramsay to push him to force that threat into fruition.

As he stood walked down the steps now, the silence in here was calm and serene. Nothing like the heavy one in Maester Wolkan's study.

If any knew what to say, none dared break the rooms silence. It was deathly quiet in the most horrific of manners, and even worse so, you were the one between the three of them which looked the most dispondant over it. You had from the moment Theon was dragged into the room.

It was no mistake what he walked in on to some degree. In a morose manner he was almost getting used to that being the normal procedure. After the worst of it, Ramsay would send him your way to ensure you always looked clean and proper despite what was done. He'd only ever send Theon right after such events, knowing there was no hiding what occurred in the immediate aftermath. He was smart enough at the least, to know when to keep you away from the watchful eyes of the Northerners around at your worst.

A threat was one thing, even knocking you around in front of them was the other, but sometimes Theon would walk in on things he dared not imagine. Whatever occurred when he walked in that afternoon was long since done, but still you had not even been allowed to dress. Yet Ramsay was already keen on making his way. Telling him to bring you to Maester Wolkan before you caught something. He hadn't known right away what he meant, but he figured it out. As did Wolkan.

You didn't have to even answer his questions for them to put it together. Asking if a bite wound he was tending to on your calf was from a hound, your silence spoke that answer, and the subsequent wounds Wolkan tended to afterwards said all that was needed to be said.

Once more, Reek stood in a shaking quiet barley having the courage to look. But on the inside, Theon had the stunning realization that you weren't going to last much longer. Ramsay hadn't even yet married you and he had- he couldn't even think such words. There were many unspeakable things done to him, done to you by Ramsay and yet Theon finally found the worst of it.

Neither of you said a word as Wolkan prompted you to a number of ailments, and Theon dared not try and question what each one was for. He didn't want to know. You had no life in your eyes, you looked at neither of them and any words spoken were cracked in a painful sounding strain of a whisper as it that was all that was left of your will.

He did know however, you begged for death in your eyes. He should've gotten it over with sooner, he should've done it when you both first arrived at Winterfell. It wouldn't even matter now he supposed, there was little which was worse then this.

“If there's some part of you that still wants to atone for what you've done, you'll just slit my throat in my sleep before that day comes.”

Theon didn't, and part of him that afternoon stood there worrying his lack of action had made your life more of a nightmare then it previously was. You said no more in Wolkan's study, no more as you left into the halls, and once you had found a cold spot up on the battlements, hardly dressed for the snow falling around, you continued to say nothing. Not as the sun was up, not at the supper the Boltons forced you to play pretend at, and not as you were finally graced with the privilege of going to sleep. Knowing as you walked there, you could hear the judging giggles of Myranda who no doubt knew all about what happened by then.

Theon didn't see you until the evening the next day, when you were walking silently arm in arm with Lady Walda. The younger woman carrying the conversation with little input from you. There was more emotion of you that day, but a pain in your eyes that was drawing closer and closer to killing yourself. You had more strength then Theon, if he was forced to do what Ramsay had made you do the day before, he would've done it already.

It was that same evening did Theon see her. He had on more then one occasion during his time in the Dreadfort, but not often since their move to Winterfell. She was once more dressed in black and a thin lipped frown that likely lived on her every waking hour. Lady Barbrey Dustin was meeting with both Boltons by the time he came upon them. Forced to Ramsay's side when you were spending time with Lady Walda. Roose Boltons insistence no doubt he thought. Getting you to play nice with his young wife would make the lie sell easier when the time came.

Roose and Barbrey seemed close, cordial but friendly in a manner Theon knew was not the norm for the man. They spoke of things that didn't matter to Theon, but they at one point as his back was turned, spoke of you. To them of course, he was only Reek. And back turned or facing their way, Reek was a creature, not a person.

“It's foolish if you ask me. You risk those hearing of her by allowing such freedom.”

Roose Bolton was sat back in his seat, as usual the only one without a drink in hand and was a calm as ever despite the silent but agitated Ramsay next to him. “She has never attempted to run, she does not speak to any she is not permitted to. What else would you have us do with her?”

Barbrey answered without hesitation. “Lock her in her chambers. She shouldn't be allowed to roam even the castle grounds. All is needed is one to hear about her and the people will rally to her side.” It was still strange to think that the realm all thought you dead. Theon was forced to see you tortured every day as you wished you were dead.

Not blinking, Roose raised but one eyebrow. “The North will rally to her side, when we present her to them with an heir. She is not to be hidden away forever, eventually people will find out. We are simply waiting until the right moment to do so when we already have more allied to us then against. Anything they hear before then is rumours and hearsay.”

Little emotion was found in Barbreys tone or expression but at the very least something vaguely associated to compassion might have been a trace found in her words. Her glare found towards that of Ramsay. “Rumours are one thing, but if in the time I have been here even I have heard about whispers of those hounds of yours, then others might be inclined to hear and spread it as well-”

“I'm sure you'll make your point eventually.”

Not receptive to Ramsay interrupting her, she let a pause sit in the air before more of a hiss spat out towards him. “You wish to defile the girl before wedding her, fine. But have even a shred of decency and keep such acts to a whore in a brothel. She is still our Queen.”

Theon did nothing because Reek wasn't supposed to react in anyway.

Roose let his gaze flicker towards his rattled son, the later gripping the goblet in his hand so tightly were it made of glass it would shatter. Normally, no one said a word about the things Ramsay was doing. His voice was tight but fooled none in the anger being held back. “My hounds are girls, my lady.”

Barbrey was as quick on the draw as Roose was to let it happen. “If I am not mistaken you need at least one or two males in order to produce a new litter of bitches, do you not? I'm sure such a beast was fully equipped for the task in your mind.”

The air was tense, Barbrey wasn't even defending against what was done to you, just that it would look bad should people know about it. You were as much an object to be abused as Theon was. No one here cared about the inhumanity of it all. Of course some of the Lords knew you were alive. The ones who sided with the Boltons or were doing so not of their own volition, but they couldn't do anything about it as much as the common people could.

Theon wasn't even sure if Harald Karstark, who seemed to have have a grudge against you for unknown reasons to him, would think this was even remotely acceptable behaviour. But all the three in the room were doing, was sitting in a study bickering about it as if it was an inconvenience.

Air thick only as long as it took Ramsay to huff a fake laugh. “Now now, my lady, the poor girl is my bride, how could you say I'd ever allow such things to happen to her. Or do you need her word on it?” Only glaring his way, Ramsay continued with ever growing confidence. “Shall I bring my lovely bride in here, drag her from her sleep and have her ensure you not a soul, man or otherwise has touched her since coming into our care?”

It was all a ruse no one bought here. They all knew you would never confirm what he had done in any capacity, not here, not to people who wouldn't help regardless. You would say he was your betrothed, that you loved him and were happy Ramsay took such careful protection of your well being in these trying times. You would play along because admitting the truth would mean accepting it was indeed, happening to you.

And after this, Theon wasn't sure you would ever admit a thing Ramsay had done to you.

“Ramsay.” Roose's tone cut through the thick tension in the air. “I'm sure the Lady Barbrey only means to ensure your bride's reputation is not sullied due to false reports. Some whose ears it may reach might not take well to such allegations more then others. Regardless of their own position.”

Both Boltons knew too well who they were talking about, but Theon at the time had not put it together. But the elder Bolton was all too aware the risk it posed should a certain bastard hear even a shred of such rumours.

Though, much time later Theon would admit, even when both Boltons were dead and gone, neither you nor Theon had brought up that event for sometime. Not to yourselves, not to each other, and certainly not to Jon. For how much he knew of what happened to you, the truth was, Jon had only been told perhaps a third of it, and none of which were close to the worst.

But even now, Theon couldn't stop seeing it. He should've gotten you out of there so much sooner. He should've gotten you out of there the day Yara tried coming for him.

Had he not been in such a terror, Theon would've gone with Yara, and make her and her men rescue you before they left. Get you out of there before Ramsay had ever touched you.

Instead as the sun hidden by winter grey skies tried peeking through the middle of Winterfell, Theon thought of much but tried further not to think about the hounds. He could only think that being angry you had left for what was right, made him in such a drastic field of wrong.

Theon knew what was coming and he still got mad at you for leaving to fight it anyways. The sheer fact that you had found enough in you to do such a thing, after such horrors beat any spark out of your soul made Theon feel guilty for the way he said goodbye. Or didn't.

He knew what was coming, and the moment you came to speak with him about it, he was short, dismissive, angry, and overly formal to end the conversation. He knew you were leaving so he wanted you to simply leave. You didn't bring him the first time you took off, why would he expect any better that time?

It wasn't about him, he knew that. And Theon felt more and more unwell as the months passed. The North was closing in on six months since you and Jon and gone beyond the Wall and Arya had done a significant amount of work to ensure the people that you both were still alive.

She'd stand up from where she took her place in Jons seat, short as any but with that loud voice she could deafen a room with and remind them that they thought her dead for five years. She had crossed the Narrow Sea and back and she was still alive, so they had to have faith in Jon and in you that six months was nothing.

“Jon said it could take them three months to get to the Frost Fangs, meaning it will take another three to come back. They'll be home soon, and they will bring Bran home with them. They'll bring back your children, Lord Howland, Meera and Jojen. They promised, and has Jon ever broken a promise to you before?”

Arya was good at defending her brothers honour, as Theon was terrible at having faith in you.

For everything said between he and Yara, everything that happened, you were the only sister he cared about. You were the sister he wanted to see come home. Yara had told Theon not to die so far from the sea, well Theon wanted to tell you not to die so far from the only home that matters.

But, as it turned out, Theon only had one place he wanted to express that guilt within. He hadn't been down here yet, in all his time back he hadn't been down there. Each step echoed within the vast halls, and by the time each statue passed of faces he did not know, Theon felt himself growing nervous. The moment he passed the statue of Brandon Stark, Theon knew the one to come was the brother he was buried next too.

It looked so much like him. The statue of Eddard Stark. The sword carved for his hands looked like that of Ice, the sword he long thought would take his head before Winterfell felt like a home. Stern and serious as he always was, and Theon knew Jon was right. Ned Stark was a better father to Theon then Balon ever was.

Balon died, and Theon never went home. Never wanted to come back for him. But he did stand in the crypts looking at Ned and felt that pull. Hoping he understood all he shamed his memory with, was not forever a stain between them. But his head was a mess and he just wanted to apologize for it all.

Take back how much he wronged the family who took him in like he belonged, how much he wronged you for letting you leave thinking Theon did not care you may not come back. He was still just as much a fool as Balon thought of him the first days back on Pyke.

You were the one thing Theon truly had left, as much as everyone else around him tried to make make amends between each other, you were the only one who never questioned Theons place back in your life. He was there and you never wanted him to feel he deserved otherwise. And he was stupid enough to let you go beyond the Wall thinking Theon was actually angry at you for it.

You weren't abandoning him the way Yara did. But the night was quiet and he knew there was plenty of time to sulk. Only, Theon could leave it to Arya to come barrelling down the halls of the crypts of her family shouting his name.

Pushing where he made a home for himself sitting against a wall, Theon shot his arms out to snatch her by her forearms as she panted for breath. An urgency in her eyes and wide as her tone was short and serious. The words should have been ones of good news, but yet they came out in sound of fear and the face of a girl who knew what was coming to her doorstep. But this time, Theon knew why.

And he couldn't sit there feeling sorry for himself anymore.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine

14 notes · View notes