#Very rarely do I get two gold servant in one ten-rolls

[monstersqueen]

... This sure was wild....

gold sparks!... Lancer I already have. Gold card, no sparks? Archer... I already have. Gold card again??? Saber???? Not him. Gold sparks... Saber???? Still not him what the fuck four 4stars, 2 sabers, what is going on - wait ANOTHER GOLD? SABER?

Yay it's him but also what did just happen????

#fgo #Very rarely do I get two gold servant in one ten-rolls #More? Never. How did I get five including one 5 stars????

[writeblrfantasy]

excerpt from acogs: agathon

been a while since yall have seen acogs content, hm? this has to be one of my favorite pieces of it, certainly one of my favorite backstory pieces. i'm so endlessly proud of this part and i just. ahhhh. please enjoy nikolai's innocent childhood bisexual love <3

wc 2100

When Nikolai was ten, he met a boy.

He had brown skin and golden eyes, and the wonder in them could’ve only been matched by Nikolai’s own. His hair never seemed to lie smooth, no matter how much he pushed it down, contrary to Nikolai’s, which always stuck flat to his head and forced his tickly bangs into his eyes. It still does.

He carried the sun around with him, captured pieces of it in his eyes, infused its warmth into everything he touched. Nikolai heard the sun in his laugh, saw it reflected in his smile. In his confused, cagey, ten year old heart, he understood he was around something special.

Agathon, that was his name. Agathon. So smoothly it rolled off the tongue.

He and his family, all seven of them, arrived in Nikolai’s town with their canvas covered wagon, their camels—this was when Windcarpets were less trusted than they are now—and right into Nikolai’s heart. They came from a remote village on the Urkon-Cairic border, a family who made their living from weaving rugs and clothes.

Nikolai was interested in them the day he saw them, but he always thought they paled in comparison to Agathon. His parents were kind to Nikolai, always offered him honey cakes and tea when he visited, and Agathon’s siblings shared their toys. Agathon’s eldest sister taught him to play the lute.

But Agathon…oh, Agathon.

Agathon took to Nikolai immediately. His first words to him were, “You have spots on your face!” which Nikolai later understood to be the light smattering of freckles that appear across his nose in the summertime, put there by the sun.

He and Agathon spent their days talking about everything and nothing, as ten year olds did, racing each other through the long grass to the west of their desert town. Where the Pelia ended on the north side, at the edge of the village, they would drink and dip their feet and shriek when the water was too cold.

In the winter, on the rare days when the cold rains came and they all had to go inside, Nikolai would beg his mother to let him stay at Agathon’s house until she gave in. The two of them slept side by side under layers of fur that only got used once a year, for occasions like this.

Agathon’s father would read them stories by the fire. Nikolai’s house didn’t have a fireplace, and he was always fascinated by this one. Those were the soundest nights of sleep he ever had, his head nearly buried under fur with Agathon’s hair in his face, his father’s soft voice lulling him to sleep. Nikolai took to calling him Father for a while.

Nikolai rapidly felt himself falling into something he was too young to know. All he understood was that his chest seemed to be expanding every day, a little more, filled with a little more sunlight and warmth every time Agathon laughed at one of his jokes.

Nikolai didn’t ever want to say goodbye to him at the end of the day, he wanted to stay for dinner and stay in Agathon’s room, sleeping on the floor by the fireplace if it was too hot for the furs. They would stay up all night talking and waiting restlessly for morning to come, where they could wander farther than their parents knew and would’ve never let them go had they known.

His mother never invited Agathon to their house, but that was okay. Nikolai didn’t want her sourness, her constant scolding bringing darkness to the light in his chest. One touch of Agathon’s hand and he swore he could fly into the very sun that beat down on them every day.

Nikolai once pressed his lips to Agathon’s cheek on impulse, no self-restraint so young, and he remembers the swoop in his stomach before Agathon turned his head and smiled at him with all the warmth in the world. Nikolai didn’t know what it meant, but he knew enough to sigh in relief and accept it when Agathon grabbed his hand. They ran through the grass field together that day, instead of a race.

And then, like most things in his life, his mother ruined everything.

That’s not something he realized until he was much older and she was dead. Hell, even recently, thanks to Katya, he’s been examining her ghost differently. Agathon was the first in many, many incidents she stripped away his privacy, his privileges, down to the way he thought about himself and his desires. Everything became about pleasing her just enough to keep her off his back.

Nikolai had been working up the nerve to tell Agathon how he felt for a few months, because even then he knew that sort of thing wasn’t always met kindly, when his mother broke the news. They were moving, going north to the capital city Thiria, leaving the town he’d lived in his whole life. Agathon wasn’t coming with them.

It would take a year, his mother said, but she would establish herself and her ideas enough to get her son elected by the community as queen. Nikolai had never had a day of sword training in his life, he couldn’t be a king, a fighter, but he had a silver tongue. He would be a queen.

The clever system of choosing queens and kings in every Actium country puts a pressure on the person to be worthy of the throne. If they are both a good diplomat and a good fighter, they choose whichever label they like best. If they are neither, they should not be on the throne. How simple.

After he’d be elected, his mother would buy herself all the fine clothes and indulge in all the food and get all the attention she’d lacked in her lonely life. Nikolai was merely an instrument. Which is exactly what happened.

It’s an accident that as he grew up in the throne, he started to care about Urkon and the people who brought their problems to him every day. When he learned about the ticking time bomb in his front yard, the one that wouldn’t ever explode but always had a small chance, he breathed through it and went on.

He grinned and bore the knowledge, at eleven, twelve, thirteen, that Urkon was so much more than his little western village and Agathon’s old home. He dealt with farmers who needed a land dispute settled, ambassadors from the west and east and north, he had servants waiting on him, silk and velvet, stuffy city air.

He goggled at just how much his mother didn’t care, but how much effort she put into pretending.

He has risen from nothing, as they all do, to luxury and power, bringing with him an unconscious air of the inexplicable magic that stems from the Staarenclock. From the cerulean diadem that drips from his hair while he sprawls on his throne, to the shining black paint on his fingernails, to the jewelry that rests on his neck, he attracts, he seduces, disappoints.

He’s never tried, and until he was queen, he never noticed. When he did, it became a tool to sate his momentary desires, a temporary fix for his long term ache, a way of fooling people. No one believes a pretty queen is capable of anything.

Good.

Nikolai doesn’t remember much from after his mother’s bombshell announcement, which is partly good. It’s a lot of gaps in numbness and anger he can never get back, and she’s not around to fill in the details. He remembers holding back tears so many times with Agathon, not wanting to ruin their last precious weeks together.

Nikolai went kicking and screaming. He doesn’t want to know how he looked to the villagers, to Agathon’s family. He remembers the tears running down Agathon’s face, the gold fading at long last from his sunshine eyes. Nikolai’s mother was dragging him away, he was no longer close enough to touch him and shudder through the warmth seeping into his skin. Just the knowledge that he no longer could made him ache for it all the more.

Agathon was screaming for him, too. The pair of them must’ve been the most dramatic thing the townsfolk had ever seen, acting like they were dying. Nikolai remembers the agony on Agathon’s mother’s face, the effort it was taking her to hold her son back from running to Nikolai again. He broke free anyway, sprinting toward Nikolai and tripping over himself.

They were locked in each other’s arms for one last time, ugly crying into each other’s shoulders. “I love you,” Nikolai said, as he had seen Agathon’s parents tell each other while they cooked side by side, laughed, shoved each other playfully when bickering. He knew it meant something. He knew it meant everything.

His mother picked him up and carried him on her shoulder the rest of the way, but he watched Agathon mouth it back.

He only had a year with Agathon, but being ripped away from him was like reaching into his chest and pulling out an artery. He had never known pain like that. He told his mother over and over that first year when she was working her way up in Thiria that his heart wouldn’t stop hurting, he missed home, he wanted to go back.

Of course, he didn’t miss the town that much. Thiria was intimidating, but there was so much to do, always something to occupy him. The one thing he missed more than anything in the world was Agathon and his sunshine smile.

As a child, his feelings were so much rawer. He didn’t bother repressing them because he didn’t know how yet, and his mother wasn’t deep enough yet in her madness to teach him to.

Two years later, when he was queen with his mother the real queen behind him, while he tried and failed every day to buck off her hold, he met Saige.

He had forgotten and moved on from Agathon somewhat, of course. He learned from both his mother and practicality that he couldn’t spend all day crying in bed and begging to go back, threatening to steal a camel or a Windcarpet when he got truly desperate. Agathon wasn’t in his head every moment of every day, but he took one look at Saige and it all came back.

The day he met her, he had heard nothing about her but the king who had been put through hell and needed no one but her war of vengeance, and she heard nothing about him but the queen whose mother always seemed to be there.

The day he met Saige, he got his mother to leave them alone for a while. Looking into her brown eyes, her little smirk, her friendly smile, a little piece of his chest ached, but in a different way than it did for Agathon. Hers was the ache after a dislocated joint snapped back into place. Hers was the stretch in the morning, an ebbing headache, the ache of waiting for a healing wound to finally close over. Something that punched the breath out of you, but in a way that was right. Like it was supposed to happen.

The day he met her, he heard Agathon’s parents in her voice, bickering, shoving each other, watched her move and saw them bumping hips as they did the dishes together. He saw Agathon mouthing his final words to him when she spoke.

He’s never told her this, but Saige healed him. It only got better after that day. After stumbling, falling, she guided his feet and helped him find his footing. She did not replace Agathon, because that would be a disservice to both of them. Nikolai found space easily in his heart for her. It was as though she had just been waiting to move in to the space he had prepared for years.

He loves her. He would burn down the world for her, as he hopes she would do for him.

He doesn’t tell Kayani that, however. He skims over the depth of his feelings for Saige—he’s at peace with them, he has nothing to be ashamed of, and he’s pretty sure she knows, but it’s for them. Not Kayani, not anyone else. Not that.

When Nikolai’s done, Kayani is still watching with rapt attention, a bit of shock. He looks up at the moon and inhales. He didn’t realize he’d been rambling so long. Saige is still asleep, thankfully.

“Did you ever try to find him again?” Kayani asks.

“No. It was never the right time, even after her death.” He thinks of it, now. Trying. But the thought makes his chest ache, so he puts it away.

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog @chazzawrites @pen-of-roses @47crayons @wickerring @sleepy-night-child @florraisons @faithfire @croctears @inkovert @kait-writes

#writing #Lila’s wips: acogs #writeblr #fantasy #fantasy wip #my fantasy wip #my wip #bean's excerpts

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Good as Gold pt.20

[part nineteen] | [part twenty-one] [prostitute!jaskier masterpost]

He's not in town, not really. Technically, he is in Hagge, but he's only passing through on the way to Wyzima. There's an important contract there and Geralt is in a hurry to reach the city. These are the things he continues to tell himself, even as he walks up to the brothel doors. It's a little later than he would normally show up, but Jaskier had said he's always welcome and Geralt has learned that Jaskier rarely offers things unless he means it.

The madame is in the front room when Geralt enters which isn't ideal. She's never been shy about her dislike for him but Jaskier seems to have some sort of sway over her, so she doesn't say anything. It doesn't stop her from scowling at him now, but Geralt is feeling good tonight and he approaches her anyway, ignoring her irritability.

"Jaskier," he asks, "is he-"

"Julian isn't working tonight," she says abruptly, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

Geralt doesn't let it bother him. Neither her expression nor the fact that he won't be seeing Jaskier tonight. He really shouldn't delay anyway and he can stop by on his way back. He could use a drink though and he's already stabled Roach, so he heads to the tavern, offering a pointed thank you to the madame as he turns toward the door.

The tavern, unlike the brothel, is bustling and Geralt hears the music playing before he enters. He generally avoids rowdy places, but the longer he lingers in Hagge, the better chance there is of running into Jaskier. He wants to see Jaskier, so he stays. And the music is loud but it's familiar somehow and Geralt finds himself relaxed rather than on edge as he orders an ale and takes a seat in the corner of the room.

The crowd blocks his view of the makeshift stage, but Geralt shuts his eyes to listen to the music and when he focuses on it, he realizes why it sounds so familiar. He's heard it before. It's one of the songs Jaskier sang to him when he thought he was asleep. He smiles to himself, suddenly acutely aware that the performer is Jaskier. As Jaskier's voice fills his senses, he thinks back to that night and to Jaskier curled around him, fingers slipping through his hair.

When he opens his eyes again, a couple of men in front of him have moved and he has a full view of the stage where Jaskier is grinning broadly and prancing around. He looks entirely in his element, happy to have a captive audience, and Gerlt wonders if he didn't get into the wrong profession. Geralt finds himself transfixed, watching how Jaskier moves as he sings, so nimble and lithe.

It's the first time Geralt has seen him like this and Jaskier is stunning. He's dressed in pale blue that brings out his eyes and he looks damn good. It's hardly Geralt's fault if his mind wanders and he imagines stripping him out of those clothes.

Jaskier is four songs in when he catches sight of Geralt in the back and his smile brightens. As soon as he finishes the song, he swings his lute around to his back and slips into the crowd, picking his way toward Geralt's table. When he reaches him, he plants both hands on the table, leaning over it in Gerlt's direction.

"Here all alone?" he smirks. "Can I join you?"

His eyes flick down and back up, giving Geralt a very obvious once over and even if Geralt was planning on saying no, the gesture alone would be enough to change his mind. He gives a little sideways nod and Jaskier slips into the seat across from him, calling for a drink. He orders one for Geralt too, but at first, Geralt doesn't even notice. He's too preoccupied with... everything else.

Jaskier is bright and cheerful and he smells like sweat and glee and the low, ever-present scent of arousal. It's a heady combination and Geralt finds himself leaning across the table to be closer to him.

When the barmaid returns with their drinks, she leans further over their table than necessary and bats her eyelashes at Jaskier. If he notices, he doesn't react. He tips her generously and thanks her and turns back to Geralt, much to her apparent distress. Geralt is more than a little smug about it as she leaves.

"You're not working tonight," he comments, pulling the tankard toward him and raising it to his lips.

"Didn't know you were in town," Jaskiser grins, "would've made other arrangements."

A very large part of him wants to ask if that's still an option, but he occupies his mouth with his ale instead, not wanting to say the wrong thing. He doubts anything he suggests could offend Jaskier, but they've only seen each other outside the brothel once before and these are different circumstances.

"Just passing through."

"Shame," Jaskier mumbles into his drink, "but, you have time for a drink with a friend?"

"I'm sure a short delay won't make much of a difference."

"Good," Jaskier grins. "What did you think of the song?"

"I liked the slower version you sang to me," Geralt hums and Jaskier stares at him.

"You were awake," he realizes.

"I shouldn't have listened," Geralt says softly. "I didn't want to disturb you, you seemed so peaceful while you sang."

"No, it's fine, I just- didn't expect you to like it."

"Jaskier," Geralt says softly, "I understand love as a concept."

"Right." Jaskier looks up at him uncertainly, as though expecting him to say something more. When he doesn't, Jaskier speaks again. "I could use some fresh air," he says, "will you join me?" Geralt is standing before he can remind himself that he has to be in Wyzima soon and Jaskier smiles at him.

Geralt follows him out the door and down the street when Jaskier starts away from the tavern. He stops in the middle of the road and turns back to ensure Geralt is following.

"So," he asks, "where are you headed?"

"There's a lord in Wyzima, who thinks one of his servants is a werewolf and he wants me to look into it before the next full moon."

"That's only ten days from now, are you sure you'll make it?" Geralt nods, but Jaskier gives him a suspicious look. "If it's so important that you get there on time, what are you doing here at all?"

"I wanted to thank you for the last time I was here."

"You don't have to thank me for that, darling. You needed help and you should know I'm more than willing to assist where I can."

"Thank you anyway. I didn't know who else to turn to."

"You're most welcome. Did you go by the brothel then when you were looking for me?"

"Mm."

Jaskier is silent for a moment before leaning into Geralt's shoulder. "Were you disappointed when I wasn't there?"

"Yeah," Geralt admits, "I was hoping to see you before I left." Jaskier is quiet for a moment and Geralt thinks he's said the wrong thing. They continue onward in silence, but at the bend in the road, Jaskier stops and turns toward him.

"Can I show you something?" he asks and Geralt nods. Jaskier reaches out, taking his hand and he's so surprised that he doesn't pull away.

Jaskier leads him off the road to the fence at the edge of town. Only then does he release Geralt's hand and he misses the warmth of it, but then Jaskier hops the fence and Geralt watches after him.

"Are you coming?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt remembers himself with a start and follows him over the fence and into the bordering field. It's right on the edge of the forest, the field the only thing separating the town from the trees. Jaskier walks right into the middle of the field and plops himself down in the grass, looking up at Geralt expectantly. Geralt sits, setting his swords to the side and Jaskier lies down on his back and smiles up at him.

Geralt follows suit, looking up at the sky above them, bright and speckled with stars.

"I like to lie here sometimes," Jaskier hums, "to think. Or to wonder what you're doing, where you are. Whether you ever think of me when you're away."

"Mm," Geralt hums, "I do." Jaskier shuffles closer to him, pressing his head against Geralt's arm.

"Tell me what it's like out there when you're on your own."

"It's quiet," he sighs, "but not always peaceful. For a long time, I didn't think anything about it, but now it feels... lonely. Sometimes."

"Is that when you think of me?"

"Hm."

Geralt shuts his eyes and Jaskier presses up closer, sliding a hand up his chest. Without his armour or the familiarity of the brothel to shield him, Geralt feels the light touch all the way through him. And Jaskier keeps touching him, slipping a hand up to the side of Geralt's neck and pressing his fingertips into his hair.

Geralt's eyes flutter shut and he sighs softly as Jaskier's lips press against his neck. It's strange to feel him like this in an unfamiliar setting, but he thinks back to their night together at the inn and hums. He liked having Jaskier all to himself, away from the brothel and everyone else who knows what they're doing. Not that it's ever bothered him much, but he likes the thought of having Jaskier alone out here where it’s just the two of them.

Jaskier mumbles against his skin and when he presses closer, Geralt gets an arm around his waist, pulling him up against him. Jaskier grins against his skin, kissing him again as he rocks his hips forward. He's half-hard and Geralt just draws him closer as Jaskier presses his nose into his neck.

It devolves quickly when Jaskier's hand slips to Geralt's ass, squeezing firmly. He wraps himself around him and Geralt just groans as Jaskier mouths at his skin. Then abruptly, he's rolled onto his back and Jaskier sits up, straddling his hips. Like this, Geralt can see the jut of his cock where it presses against his trousers and he squirms, pressing his own cock against Jaskier's ass. It earns him a little gasp and then Jaskier bends low over him, bumping their noses together. Geralt can feel his breath against his lips and it takes all of his self-control not to just lean up and press them against Jaskier's.

"Come home with me tonight," Jaskier breathes, "it's already late, you can leave in the morning."

Geralt knows he should say no; he made arrangements, he's supposed to keep going until he reaches Wyzima, but Jaskier feels too good against him. He rolls his hips slowly, dragging his cock against Geralt's and it's too much.

"Yeah," Geralt whispers, "okay."

Jaskier is quick to his feet, leaning down to pull Geralt up behind him. He presses in close, nosing under his jaw and then takes a step back, wrapping one hand around Geralt's to lead him away.

They don't even make it to the edge of the field before Jaskier shoves him up against the side of a barn. Geralt's breath catches and it's a little uncomfortable with his swords pressing into his back, but when Jaskier cups him through his trousers, he rolls his head back with a groan. Jaskier's mouth finds his throat, humming against him.

"Gods," he whispers, "I'd like to have you right here, but if you have to leave in the morning, I'd rather have you in my bed." Geralt finds he’s partial to either option. Jaskier lingers a little longer before pulling away with a laugh and tugging Geralt with him.

By the time they arrive at the large house on the edge of town, Geralt is too riled up to realize just how extravagant it is. They stumble through the front door and Jaskier fists a hand in his shirt, hauling him up the stairs. It's a display only; Geralt could easily overpower him if he wanted, but he likes when Jaskier takes control and he likes the pretense of being manhandled.

When they make it upstairs, Jaskier walks him backward, reaching around him to open the bedroom door and push him through it. Geralt hums but then his back hits the wall and Jaskier's hands are on him instantly, tugging his trousers open and sliding a hand inside to wrap around him. Geralt's hips push forward almost instinctively, seeking the heat of Jaskier's hand.

Even his rings are warm and Geralt likes the way they slide against his cock, satiny smooth in contrast to the friction of his skin. Geralt’s eyelids flutter shut and as Jaskier's thumb presses against his bottom lip, he groans.

"You're beautiful," Jaskier huffs, already breathless. Geralt leans back against the wall, spreading his legs so Jaskier can step between them, gripping around the base of his cock.

When he presses up against him, his breath is hot and damp against Geralt's skin, tauntingly so, and Geralt drops his head to Jaskier's shoulder to keep from throwing caution to the wind and kissing him. Jaskier works him over quickly, pressing in so his cock digs into Geralt's thigh and he rocks against him in time with his hand. His mouth works over the small patch of skin where Geralt’s shirt has slipped down.

He mumbles against him, but Geralt can't focus on his words when Jaskier's hand is around his cock. Then Jaskier drops to his knees in front of him and Geralt's breath stutters as Jaskier's mouth closes around the head. He rocks his hips forward and Jaskier pushes onto him, taking him all the way to the hilt and sliding one hand up under his shirt.

His fingers slip against Geralt's skin and he slides his hand around his side, rubbing his thumb against his skin. Geralt loses himself in the sensation, thrusting lightly between Jaskier's lips. Jaskier pulls forward, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock and he does something obscene with his tongue that is equal parts exhilarating and maddening. Geralt's legs shake under him and he rocks his hips forward, but Jaskier doesn't let him. He holds him steady, the hand on his side slipping to press flat against his stomach, effectively keeping him still.

Gods, Geralt thinks, it's a good thing no one can see him like this, completely under Jaskier's control like this. And the worst part is that he likes it. He likes letting Jaskier hold him down, even if it's a sham and he likes when Jaskier gets overeager and pushes him to bed. He doesn't realize he has his hand over Jaskier's until their fingers twine together. He squeezes as Jaskier's tongue drags along the underside of his cock and his hips snap forward hard.

He'd been so wrapped up in thinking about Jaskier he hadn't realized how close he was. Jaskier, on the other hand, is apparently fully aware and he pulls off Geralt's cock with a final flick of his tongue that has Geralt's thighs trembling.

He groans and drops his chin to look at Jaskier and his cock throbs at the sight of him. Jaskier's got his knees spread wide, trousers undone, and his cock is thick and dark where it juts out from between his fingers. He slips his fingers up over the head as if he knows Geralt is watching, pressing his thumb hard against the head. And Geralt squirms.

He knows what it's like to have those fingers on his cock, knows exactly how Jaskier is feeling right now. And it drives him crazy. Jaskier reaches up, cupping his jaw and smiles at him.

"I wanna see you," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nearly whimpers as he stokes up to the head of his cock, rings sliding against the sensitive head. "Alright then, love," Jaskier rises to his feet, stroking Geralt's cock a couple more times before dropping it. "Let's get you to bed."

Jaskier takes his hands and pulls him away from the wall, slipping up close to lift Geralt's shirt over his head. He gets his own off as well before reaching for Geralt's trousers. He wraps his fingers around the waistband, tugging him close as he walks him back toward the bed. And when Geralt's knees hit the mattress, Jaskier pulls his trousers down and presses him back onto the bed.

Geralt lets Jaskier undress him, watching his every movement with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He'd like nothing more than to get his mouth around him, but as Jaskier comes closer he shoves Geralt playfully against the mattress and Geralt obeys. He moves further up and lies back, watching with delight as Jaskier strips out of his own clothes and climbs up over him.

Jaskier settles on his thighs, lightly running his fingers up the length of Geralt's cock as he takes himself in hand again, stroking slowly.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" he asks and gods, yes, but Geralt seems to have lost control of his mouth.

The only thing that comes out is a tiny whine and he fists his hands in the sheets to keep from touching. He knows Jaskier wouldn't deny him anything, not at this point, but he wants to watch him this time. He wants to see the way Jaskier pleasures himself, to take note of each little movement so he can recreate it.

Jaskier works himself slowly and Geralt knows he has his eyes on him, but he can't keep his own off Jaskier's cock. There's something beautifully obscene about the way Jaskier's delicate fingers curl around himself, picking up speed as he settles into it. He's well-practiced, even the briefest touch drawing little groans from his lips and Geralt knows better now than to assume it's an act; this isn't the brothel where Jaskier's enthusiasm is his livelihood.

His cockhead slips between his fingers and Geralt whines with the urge to touch him. He wonders if this is how he looks when he takes care of himself after a client, if when he's left wanting he takes his time and enjoys it. Or if he's quick and precise just to get it over with.

When he gets his hips into it, Jaskier's eyes drop shut and he leans forward, bracing himself on Geralt's hip. Jaskier's fingertips press into his skin and Geralt tenses beneath him, trying as hard as he can not to wrap a hand around his own cock. He wouldn't last long, not like this, not with Jaskier above him, panting and moaning. Normally, Geralt prides himself on his control, but Jaskier has a way of getting under his skin that makes him weak to resist and already arousal sears through his veins.

Jaskier's thighs twitch around him and Geralt's eyes snap up to his face, groaning at the sight of him. Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as Geralt's hands rise to his hips, thumbs pressing into the meat of his thighs. He rubs the sensitive skin there and Jaskier releases his cock, leaning low over him.

Geralt whines at the first brush of fingertips against his nipple and he squeezes harder than he means to around Jaskier's thighs. It does nothing to prepare him for when he does it again and then Jaskier's shifting, his cock sliding up against Geralt's as he pinches both nipples between his fingertips. Geralt groans, his cock throbs, he feels like he could come undone just like this, but Jaskier persists.

He rubs and squeezes and little groans spill from Geralt's lips without him meaning them to. He works his hips slowly, pressing his cock up against Jaskier's and Jaskier presses down hard against him, trapping his cock between their bodies as his mouth wraps around a nipple.

He licks and sucks and Geralt arches into the touch, rolling his head back. Jaskier's fingers slip against his skin, fitting between them to slip around the head of Geralt's cock. When Geralt whimpers, Jaskier releases him which is almost worse and then Jaskier is pulling away and sitting back on his heels. He takes in Geralt before him, running his hands up his thighs.

"Fuck, you're beautiful."

A warmth spreads throughout Geralt's chest and he wants to hide away because he's not beautiful and he can't figure out why Jaskier thinks he is.

"Roll over, love," he whispers and Geralt complies.

It's not uncomfortable; the bed is soft and the sheets slip enticingly against his overheated cock, but it's still trapped under him, still achingly hard. But Jaskier's lips are soft against the back of his neck, his shoulders, down his spine. He settles himself again on the back of Geralt's legs, rubbing his thighs as he continues pressing kisses into his skin.

Geralt shuts his eyes as Jaskier's mouth moves lower, pressing into the cleft of his ass and he shudders. Jaskier chuckles against him, pressing one final, comforting kiss to his lower back, before pressing in.

His tongue is warm where it slides against his hole and Geralt inhales sharply. He forgets to breathe entirely as Jaskier licks over him, pressing the tip of his tongue against him. One hand slides over his hip and Geralt pushes his hips back encouragingly, finally releasing a breath as Jaskier soothes him.

"Is that okay?" he asks, spreading Geralt's cheeks and dipping to kiss his skin.

"Yeah," Geralt breathes, "yeah. Feels good."

"Good," Jaskier purrs and with that, he returns to his task, licking a stripe up his ass and nipping at the soft skin.

When he presses back in, Geralt whines. He doesn't mean to, but the sensation is unfamiliar and so surprisingly good that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Jaskier's tongue presses against his hole and he squirms, his cock already dripping onto the smooth sheets. He's already worked up, already aching for release, the only thing keeping him from rutting against the sheets and taking it is Jaskier's hands holding his hips above the bed. It's easier access for him, but it drives Geralt up the wall.

Eventually, Jaskier takes pity on him or grows impatient himself. The first press of his fingers is overwhelming and Geralt pushes back against it hard. Jaskier presses one spit-slick finger into him and Geralt pushes his face into the bed, moaning loudly as Jaskier pushes deeper.

It's a little rough, but Geralt has had worse and it still feels good. He catches Jaskier's wrist as he tries to pull away, holding him still.

"Jask," he whispers, "please."

Behind him, Jaskier hums and presses close again, pressing back into him. He doesn't hesitate this time, burying his finger inside and rubbing into him. It still burns a little, but Geralt's so overwhelmed with arousal that he can't even care. He needs it and he'd rather withstand a little discomfort than wait any longer. When Jaskier finds that spot in him, Geralt is oblivious to anything but all-encompassing lust.

Vaguely, he's aware of Jaskier speaking to him, but he can only hear his voice, not his words over the pounding of his heart. Jaskier presses in again, licking around his finger to ease the way as he thrusts into him and Geralt is helpless to do anything but let him. He comes with a well-aimed thrust, shouting into the mattress as Jaskier releases him and climbs up over him.

"Fuck," Jaskier breathes, "gods, Geralt that was so hot." Geralt just hums weakly, smiling as Jaskier brushes his hair out of his face.

Geralt just mumbles and hums. He's too tired to say anything more and when Jaskier's lips press against his skin again, he sinks into the mattress, folding his arms under his head.

Jaskier slips up over him, running his hands up his back and pressing his nose into his neck. Geralt can feel his cock against the back of his thigh

"Gonna fuck me?"

"Want me to?" Jaskier asks, rocking his hips against him. Geralt doesn't need the encouragement. His cock has barely softened beneath him and already it's swelling again.

“Yeah.”

"Oh, Geralt, what did I do to deserve you?" Jaskier presses his nose between Geralt's shoulder blades, moving back down his body.

When Jaskier's fingers slide against his hole, he groans. He can feel Jaskier's desire, smell the overpowering scent of his lust and it's a lot to have all of that turned on him. To know that Jaskier wants him, chose to bring him here to his own home- something cold drips against his skin and Geralt turns to look over his shoulder.

Jaskier grins, slipping his fingers through the oil with purpose and he leans up, pressing his forehead against Geralt's. Like this, Geralt can feel the damp heat of his breath on his skin and it makes the ever-present urge to kiss him all the stronger.

"You like this, don't you?" As Jaskier speaks, he circles Geralt's rim with one finger, slowly pushing in again as Geralt breathes out an affirmative. Jaskier pushes deeper and Geralt's breath catches. He's not sure how after so long Jaskier still has him completely at his mercy with only a touch, but a part of him - one that seems to be growing within him - likes it.

He squirms as Jaskier pushes deeper, pressing a second finger in alongside the first. Geralt's eyes flutter shut and Jaskier hums happily.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods weakly, pushing his hips back into the touch. "Gods, Geralt, look at you. Fuck, I want you." He shifts and his cock presses into Geralt's thigh, hot and slick and hard. "You see what you do to me?" Jaskier hums, "see how badly I want you?"

"Mmph," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier chuckles softly.

"Can you take more?" Jaskier asks. He pushes his fingers deep as he speaks, brushing that spot inside him and Geralt digs his fingers into the sheets with a brief nod. "Good," Jaskier breathes, pressing their noses together, "I don't know how much longer I can wait."

He withdraws his fingers completely, rubbing over Geralt's hole before pushing three into him. He meets Geralt's eyes as he presses deep, and for a moment, Geralt forgets how to breathe. Jaskier's eyes are so bright, even through lust-blown pupils and heat swells in Geralt's chest. He ducks his head, unable to bear the intensity with Jaskier's fingers buried inside him.

“Still good?" he asks and Geralt breathes out a Shaky yes as Jaskier's fingers press impossibly deeper into him.

“You don't have to be so gentle with me," he says, "I want you and you know I can take it."

“I do know that my darling, but why would I risk it?”

Jaskier turns and his nose presses into Geralt's cheek. His lips are parted, his breath damp against Geralt's own lips and he can't do much but lie there and measure his breaths. If he tipped his head up he could feel Jaskier's lips against his own. And he wants to.

Gods, he's been thinking about it for weeks now. Months, maybe. Having those soft lips against his own, that wicked tongue slipping between them and exploring his mouth. Fuck, he's never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. He bites his lip to stave off the urge and rocks back onto Jaskier's fingers.

"Any time," Geralt groans.

Jaskier pulls away with a huff of a laugh and Geralt immediately misses the closeness, but Jaskier readjusts himself to straddle Geralt's thighs. His cock presses between Geralt's cheeks, already slick and thick with desire. For Jaskier, it almost seems an afterthought as it presses between Geralt's cheeks. He's otherwise occupied, mouthing at the back of Geralt's neck.

"Mmm," Jaskier hums, "you're certainly eager for someone who's already come tonight." His hand slips down Geralt's side, appearing from nowhere, and works its way beneath his hips, curving around his cock. "Oh, you are eager," Jaskier purs, "hard again for me already love? How could I ever deny you?"

Jaskier presses his hips down, slipping his cock against Geralt's hole and it's intentional this time, followed up by a short, sharp thrust against him. Geralt spreads his legs, accommodating for Jaskier. It earns him a pleased groan and a quick squeeze of his cock as Jaskier resists himself between his thighs.

Jaskier withdraws his hand, using it to press Geralt's hips down and Geralt does his best to keep calm but then Jaskier's planting his other hand next to him on the bed and slowly sliding his cock against him.

The friction is delicious torment, only a fraction of what he wants but simultaneously too good to let him stop. His cockhead catches and Geralt is already slick and loose enough that it presses in and Geralt's eyes roll back in his head. His fingers grip the sheets as he and Jaskier groan in tandem and then Jaskier pushes forward just a little.

"Okay?" he asks and Geralt pushes his hips back with a grunt.

"Yes, fuck Jask, please-" he sounds needy and impatient, but Jaskier's cock is a tease, barely pressing into him. He needs more. And Jaskier gives it to him.

He sinks in slowly, moaning as Geralt squeezes around him. When he's fully sheathed, he pauses, shifting his hips and rutting forward to ensure Geralt is still okay.

"Jaskier," he whispers and apparently that's all the persuasion Jaskier needs.

He pulls out and thrust back in again, working up to a steady pace. Geralt moves with him, rocking back to meet every thrust and grinding forward against the bed with every forward motion. He moans and groans and Jaskier is relentless, pressing his hips into the bed and fucking him hard.

With his cock trapped beneath him, Geralt can hardly help the way arousal swells and curls in his gut. He won't last long if Jaskier doesn't let up because his cock drags against the soft sheets and Jaskier fucks him like he's dying for it.

The pleasure builds and Geralt's cock smears pre-come against the sheets. It's too hard to try to hold back and he groans as he folds his arms under his head.

"Jask," he whines, "Jask you gotta stop- I'm gonna come if you keep doing that."

"Fuck, already?"

"Jaskier," Geralt grits and he gets a soft nose pressed into his back.

"I'm not teasing," Jaskier breathes, kissing the skin beneath his mouth. "I think it's incredibly hot." Geralt just groans weakly and Jaskier pulls out, running his hands down his thighs.

He gets a hand under him, guiding his hips up and Geralt complies, shifting so his ass is in the air. He should feel exposed or embarrassed, but Jaskier's hands on him only make him feel appreciated, wanted. Soft fingers press into the flesh of his ass and Jaskier kisses the base of his spine, pressing lower until his tongue slides against his hole again.

He thrusts into him without hesitation and it's all Geralt can do not to collapse under him. His knees slip, thighs spreading so his cockhead bumps against the sheets. It's damp from coming earlier and the friction sends a shiver up his spine. He shifts his hips, gasping when he presses too hard against the sheet; his cock is still a little sensitive, but it feels too good to stop.

Geralt rocks forward again and Jaskier's hand comes down, curling around the base of him and stroking him as he continues fucking him with his tongue. When Geralt whines, Jaskier withdraws, turning to huff a soft laugh into his skin.

"Oh, Geralt, my sweet," he hums, "you are so fucking beautiful." He licks a stripe over Gerlt's hole, prodding at the ring of muscle before straightening up and sliding his cock between his cheeks. "Gods, and you feel so good."

Jaskier leans over him, one hand still wrapped around his cock as he thrusts against him. Geralt tries to shift so Jaskier's cock will press into him, but to no avail and he whines as Jaskier makes no attempt to help him.

When he does eventually slide in again, the angle is different and Jaskier's cockhead slides right against his prostate, nudging at it as he adjusts himself.

"Fuck, you feel good," he breathes, bending over him to kiss his spine.

"'S good," Geralt mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow. He groans as Jaskier's hands slip to his waist and he thrusts harder, setting a quick pace that has Geralt panting in no time.

He wraps his hands around the blanket, tugging it closer as he presses his face into the sheets. Jaskier groans above him, muttering as his fingers brush over Geralt's skin. Beautiful, he calls him and Geralt wants to be for him.

When Jaskier's hips snap forward, slamming against his prostate, Geralt goes limp, held up only by his knees and Jaskier's hands on him. Heat sears through him and he bites down on the sheets to keep from moaning too loudly, but Jaskier reaches down, brushing his fingers against the side of his neck and kissing his shoulders.

"There's no one here to hide from, love. You don't have to be quiet."

Geralt nods, but Jaskier doesn't let up and he can barely think straight with Jaskier's cock in him. He moans around the sheets and pushes his hips back, relieved when Jaskier lets out a stuttered groan. It means he's close too.

Jaskier drapes himself over Geralt's back, whispering against the back of Geralt's neck and kissing his shoulders. He keeps his hips working hard until Geralt is shaking beneath him, so fucking close but still just unable to reach the end.

"What do you need?" Jaskier asks. Geralt groans.

"Touch me."

Jaskier hums as he reaches back, wrapping his fingers around Geralt's cock and stroking quickly.

It's good, too good, and when Geralt comes, he arches against the bed. It's overwhelming and Jaskier just continues fucking into him, stroking his softening cock. Jaskier flops against him, hot and sweaty, just barely rutting into him.

"Fuck," he breathes, "gods Geralt, you're incredible, my darling." He huffs a soft laugh as Geralt flops onto the bed and drops onto him, pressing lazy kisses into his skin.

"Hmm."

"Oh, but you are, love." He runs a hand across Geralt's shoulder, brushing his fingertips against his skin. "We have to get up though."

"Not yet," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier laughs softly.

"You're going to be upset if you fall asleep sticky and if you don't get up now, you're going to fall asleep."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geralt knows he's right, but his body feels heavy and Jaskier is a comforting weight against him. He decides he'd rather go to sleep and deal with the stickiness in the morning, but then Jaskier rolls off of him, pulling out carefully, and rolls Geralt onto his back.

He slides off the bed and reaches out. Geralt begrudgingly takes his hands and lets Jaskier guide him to his feet and across the room toward the washbasin. He cleans himself up and despite Jasker's assurances that he is perfectly capable, wipes down his chest and abdomen as well. Jaskier shudders when Geralt wraps the cloth around his cock, but he leans into his body, whispering a soft thank you when they're both sufficiently clean.

As Geralt lies back down, Jaskier curls up behind him, kissing his shoulders. Geralt huffs a soft laugh as Jaskier's arm winds around his hip.

"I'm not gonna be able to ride for a couple of days after that," he mumbles and Jaskier hums smugly against him.

"You could stay here with me. I have space."

And oh, how tempting that prospect is. Geralt shuts his eyes, imagines waking up next to Jaskier in the morning and not having to leave. But the pleasant warmth of the fantasy is quickly dashed by a reminder of reality. He has to get to Wyzima. People's lives depend on it.

"You know I can't," he whispers, hoping Jaskier understands how badly he would rather stay.

"At least stay for the night?" Jaskier asks and Geralt agrees. Even if he didn't want to stay, it's too late to travel now so he may as well stay and indulge himself for once. "Wish you were around more," Jaskier whispers, "we've got monsters in Hagge, too."

"I can't work for free, Jaskier, and no one's putting out contracts in Hagge. If they were, I'd be the first to claim them." Jaskier huffs petulantly against his back and Geralt smiles softly. "Do you fuck people who don't pay you for it?

"Only if I really like the guy."

Geralt shuts his eyes. He knows what Jaskier's saying, knew what he was getting into the moment the question left his lips, but he wasn't expecting this. And he does want to stay, but how could he?

He doesn't know what to say, so he falls silent, reaching back to trace the lines of Jaskier's fingers with his own. For now, this will have to be good enough.

For once, Jaskier falls asleep first. Geralt waits until he hears the soft, steady rhythm of his heart and gently extracts himself from Jaskier's arms, turning over so he can face him. His expression is soft in sleep and Gerlt reaches out, brushing his hair back off of his face. Gently, he traces the shape of Jaskier's face and his stomach turns at the thought of leaving him in the morning. But it's what he has to do.

He's always known this wouldn't last forever, that Jaskier would eventually find someone to love and they would make a life together here. Or maybe he would leave like he always talks about. Geralt's stomach drops and he realizes with something not unlike terror that he doesn't want that. He doesn't want Jaskier to be unhappy, but he doesn't want him to find someone else. He wants him to be with him.

Oh. Fuck.

He loves him.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #rex writes #good as gold #prostitute!jaskier

[theupstartsparty]

Chapter 1: Mark

Most travelers from Illan Dorai were known to be snobbish, pretentious bastards. Normally, this was expressed quietly as they wrinkled their noses at clothing with unsatisfactory cuts and visibly clutched handbags on the rare occasion they passed through the residential neighborhoods. However, the Doraien ambassador to Everspring took the cake when, during the Bilarose Troupe’s audition for the Midsummer Arts Festival, the elven man stood up from his seat in the front row and pronounced the troupe’s routine to be “boorish and contrived” in front of the adjudicating Arts Council, adding that he had better things to be doing that day before whipping his emerald colored robes out of the room. 

The ambassador’s ill temperament was well known by the Everspring council, and had only succeeded in embarrassing the Bilarose troupe before they were told that they were welcome to play the Upper Exis Theater for the festival. However, the incident had led Rinwald to suggest that perhaps the troupe soon pay a visit to Illan Dorai. The ambassador had a taste for the finer things in life; surely it would pay well to take a look inside his house. So that evening the bardic troupe packed their black-crusted pocket mirrors and tarnished lockpick sets along with the rest of their travelling supplies and hitched up their wagon to begin their trip to Illan Dorei. 

The trip there followed the Feshun River inland for about a week through the Verdant Expanse. It was as uneventful as they could have hoped, having only a brief skirmish with a school of carnivorous mudskippers along the way. Each night, the two young Marquesian halflings Ashe and Sashem worked on their acro dance routine, playing off each other in a manner that was expected of siblings. Mark, Kim, and Mordecai, two half elves and a dwarf respectively, challenged each other to some friendly musical duels (magic allowed, but only between each other). The tabaxi strongwoman Coil showed off her prowess and nearly managed to lift the wagon itself, to the delight of some and the panic of others, and the graying human Rinwald regaled them with tales of his days as a delinquent as the impish acrobats diligently took notes. 

The plan for Illan Dorai was the typical one. They would pose as the traveling performance troupe that they were and offer to play a few taverns a week for a place to stay. Ashe, Sashem, and Mordecai would stake out the ambassador’s house to determine security and potential targets. Rinwald would formulate a plan of entry and escape with Kim and Coil. Meanwhile, Mark would visit the more ramshackle areas of town. Usually, he would find an older woman, a tavern owner, or a band of laborers that were well known in the community, and charm them into dinner and conversation. The half elf’s quiet but earnest demeanor endeared him to many, and it tended to be nearly effortless to work out how the slum community’s underlying economy worked. More importantly, he could learn how to effectively and efficiently redistribute any large sum of gold before local authorities worked out a connection to a high profile robbery elsewhere in the city.

Illan Dorai, the elvish capital of the region, was a city nigh obsessed with appearances, and having the appearance of a half elf made the process a bit more difficult for Mark than he was used to. However, after a few days of searching, he found a woman in her forties who used her home as a recovery haven for blue-lipped Sannish addicts. Her insight on the community proved profound and invaluable, and he thanked her for her time with a silver piece in her hand and gold piece under her couch. He then returned to the tavern just in time to bring out his lute for their evening performance.

 The ambassador’s mansion was standard of Illan Dorai, built of a material somewhere between stone and lumber, with an elegant facade of pillars growing skyward until they formed a canopy of a rooftop. Large windows were set in gaps between the frame of the house, allowing for a panoramic view of the Doraien Falls to the left and the city below. In the Bilarose troupe’s case, it allowed for an extensive view inside the house. The only obvious entrance was the front door, which was guarded by a vigilant rotating watch. 

Mordecai had spied a trapdoor on the rooftop during the stakeout, which (he’d signed excitedly) would give him the opportunity to use the grappling hook they had found at the gnomish establishment in Athelwick. Ashe and Sashem had noted a kitchen well-stocked with silverware, and there appeared to be plenty of valuables used as decoration throughout the house. A room on the second floor was shut with an enticing lock, which tempted Mark and Sashem in particular. Rinwald believed that time was of the essence, to their disappointment, and opted to just take the dinnerware and the luxurious ornamentation. 

The acrobatic siblings and Mordecai were to scale the house unseen, entering from the trapdoor on the roof. A few servants had been spotted on the grounds after hours, so Mark and Kim were to keep a lookout from the trees on either side of the house to keep in contact with those inside the house. Rinwald and Coil would be at the stables a few blocks down, ready to hitch up the horses at a moment’s notice should it all turn sideways.

So that was how Mark found himself the next evening, uncomfortably scrunched up against an overgrown oak which gripped tight to the mansion. It was a rare cool summer evening in Illan Dorai, though his Odessloi clothing kept him warmer than some of his more fair-weathered compatriots. 

Kim’s Message tickled his inner ear. “Hey, they got the trapdoor open. I see Ashe heading downstairs to the ground floor, no one else. How about you?” 

His eyes swept the mansion. There were six guards on the veranda, two of them near the door, who were seemingly unaware of the situation inside. His position from the tree allowed him to see into the parlor and the foyer on the first floor and the east wing hallway and bedroom on the second floor. And there. A flicker of movement from the dwarven man, moving down the stairwell in the middle.

He Messaged back, “Mordecai’s heading down. I haven’t seen Sashem, which means she’s either getting very good at this or she’s breaking into that room.”

“Let’s hope it’s the former, shall we?”

Five minutes passed in silence as the troupe put their faith in each other to pull off the caper. Then eight minutes. Then ten.

“What is taking them so long?” came a sudden spell from Kim. “In and out. My spell’s not hitting anyone. Can you try?”

Mark put his thumb and forefinger together underneath his chin and straightened out the rest of his hand in the familiar motion of the spell, forming a string of deep purple light.

“Ashe, how-”

Kim’s Message cut across. “Hey, is that a yes or a no?” 

Mark rolled his eyes. “It’s a yes. I was just doing it,”

“You’re supposed to say ‘copy’ or something,”

“I can’t talk to both of you at the same time, you know,” The dark-haired half elf could practically hear his friend huff in irritation, but no other Message came through. He began the spell again,

“Ashe, how are you doing in there?” 

The older sibling’s reply came back almost instantaneously in a light Marquesian accent. “So, yes, we have a small issue. We did not see a child earlier. The child currently sees us. Sashem is trying bribery.”

The Message cut out just as an ear-piercing shriek rang throughout the area. The guards on the veranda, now alert, turned inward towards the sound and drew their weapons.

“They ran into a kid. Time to leave,” he sent Kim. She cursed, then sent back, “Will you do the distraction or shall I?”

A few magically amplified notes of a dwarvish lullaby played on a fiddle, and a group of guards that had been on the east staircase of the foyer fell to the floor. Probably about half, Mark guessed, letting out a low whistle.

“I can manage. I wonder how much these windows cost?”

The half elf swung himself around the trunk of the oak and flipped onto a branch below with youthful agility, putting the tree between himself and the mansion. He brought his lute forward from his back, dusted his fingers in fine mica from a pouch at his hip, and aimed a Shatter spell at the massive windows. The lute emitted a visible discordant shock wave, directly colliding with its target, and the window burst outward into a mosaic of shrapnel, daggers of glass impaling themselves on the tree and the lawn below. Startled yells came from inside the mansion, and Mark allowed himself a small satisfied smile.

He flung the lute back behind him and leapt down the tree, from branch to oversized branch until his feet hit the soft, firm ground. He glanced quickly at the mansion for any sign of his compatriots. There was scuffling inside, then some groaning as the guards who had been knocked out began to come to. As that happened, three small figures carrying full sacks barreled out from the trapdoor on the top of the mansion and jumped off from the rooftop, their fall slowing gradually as they drew closer to the ground. Kim’s Message came in, hurried but controlled.“Mark, do you see them? I’m down the street ahead of you. I sent a message to Rinwald-- they’re getting ready to blow this place.” 

“Yeah, they just hit the ground. We’re going to start running. See you in a minute.” The three other troupe members reached the base of the tree, and Mark stepped out from behind the tree to run alongside them. A hint of steel reflected the beams of the moon as Ashe jumped and instinctively drew a dagger from his hip.

“Nine Hells, you startled me!” Ashe hissed, resheathing the blade.

“What happened in there? What was with the kid?” Mark asked, then winced as a crossbow bolt nicked a pointed ear. Ah fuck, they’d been seen.

Sashem’s animated voice piped up from his left. “So listen, before you cast any judgements here, I have to say that I did wait until we finished our job,”

Her older brother’s irritated reply came from his right. “She went to that locked room we saw earlier,”

“After getting the kitchen! We went down to the kitchen and raided it and we were ahead of schedule and ready to leave. And so I went back up to that second floor and decided to see if I could quickly break into that room.”

Hooves clattered on the stone behind them, and the group turned to see a group of the ambassador’s guards, faintly illuminated by the moonlight, making their way towards the troupe on horseback. Mordecai grabbed Ashe’s hand and led him down an alley to the right, and Mark led Sashem to the left. She did not take a breath as she continued,

“I was in front of the door and had just picked the lock and I turned around and suddenly there was this kid standing right behind me! I don’t know how elves age but he looked like a toddler, at least. Maybe he was my age, though,”

The guards seemed to have split up as well, and shouts came from behind, gaining on them. He saw a house up ahead, covered in a wall of ivy and creeping vines, and gestured towards it. The pair scrambled up the vines and immediately flattened themselves on the roof as a volley of arrows shot upwards at them, none of them hitting their mark.

“Shit!” various people chorused. Mark held up a finger to Sashem, putting her story on hold as he Messaged Kim.

“We’re being chased, are trying to lose them. I have Sashem. The others split off.”

A moment passed before she replied, “Be safe. Let’s try not to have them chase us out of the city.” 

Mark nodded to Sashem to continue, and they began running down the roof ridge.

“So anyway, I see this kid and I freeze up. Then I remembered that I still have that chocolate croissant from the other day. And I figured it would buy us some time as we left. So I give the kid the croissant and guess what?”

They jumped between rooftops with practiced ease, the night air cooling them down as sweat beads formed on their foreheads. They were outpacing the guards at this rate, forcing them into dead ends and blocked roads. 

“Guess fucking what? It turned out that he was allergic to it. As soon as I gave it to him, his entire hand started swelling up! So he started making a big deal out of it, and next thing I know Ashe is pulling me by the collar. Dropped my croissant too, by the way,”

“How sad,” Mark said, scanning the area to make sure the coast was clear before hopping down a pile of crates and startling a family of rats surrounding an indistinguishable blob; what they had been eating, he did not want to think about. 

“It was!” she squeaked indignantly, nimbly landing next to him. The crates provided enough cover for the two of them to duck down behind, and they did so without giving Mark time to register the puddle that he knelt in, prompting a soft sound of disgust from the back of his throat. They caught their breath and waited for a few tense minutes behind the crates until the bard felt confident that the immediate danger had passed.

Sashem broke the silence.  “Are we still meeting them at the stables?” 

Mark shrugged. “Probably. I think I’m out of range to contact Rinwald, but I can give it a shot.” His fingers touched as his hand formed the familiar motion of the spell, but even as he sent the Message he could tell that it could not find its recipient.

“No response, but now that we have those guys off our backs we should be able to make our way back there without being seen. I don’t know if the guards will be out looking for us near the fucker’s place, but we should assume that they are and try not to draw attention to ourselves as we go.”

His dark-skinned companion nodded in agreement, and so the two stepped gingerly out of the alleyway back onto the street, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the patrolling Verdant Guard. Perhaps it was the chill of the summer night, or the scent of linden on the breeze, or the stiff-necked guards on every corner, or a combination of the three that struck him as familiar. Images of Odessloe with its sharp needle towers came to mind, along with echoes of his former classmates’ laughter and the sharp, self-assured look of his old compatriot. Better memories than he was used to from his time in the city. Before it all went to shit. 

Sashem was tapping his forearm urgently, saying something. He had to push the thought away, stay in the moment. He shook his head to clear it.

“Sorry, what?”

“Don’t you hear that?” Sashem asked, pointing down the thoroughfare ahead. The clattering of wagon wheels on stone was growing louder with every second. As he listened for a few seconds more Mark swore that he heard the rumbling of a stampede behind it. A number of Verdant Guards had turned their attention towards the sound as well, and were jogging forward to investigate. Shouts began to be heard down the street.

“How much do you want to bet that that’s our ride?” the half elf grinned, looking down at his younger friend. 

Sashem giggled in response. “You’re not getting any of my money today, you dick,”

Kim’s voice suddenly broadcasted itself in Mark’s ear, “Can you hear me now?”

“Subtlety’s out, then. I’m up ahead,”

“Get ready to jump on the wagon. We’re not stopping,”

Mark got into position as the wagon came in sight. Various curses, notes, and bolts were thrown with reckless abandon by the Bilarose troupe and a very large group of armored guards and residential security alike chasing after them on horseback. 

“We’re jumping on. Get ready,” The pair of them braced themselves, Sashem adjusting the brown sack on her back. The wagon came closer, and Mark saw Rinwald and Coil hanging off the side of the frame, arms outstretched towards the street. Mordecai had the reins and, as soon as the cart closed the distance of the two on the street, slowed the wagon down slightly. The two sprinted towards the carts and leapt, each grasping a hand on the side of the cart. The wagon wheels rattled beneath Mark. For an instant he saw himself fall off the side of the vehicle and visions of mangled limbs flashed in his mind. And then Coil’s muscular, leopard-spotted arm yanked him into the wagon, and the moment passed. 

The wagon rocked precariously as Mordecai turned sharply down to the main avenue, and the inhabitants of the vehicle struggled to maintain their footing as bags and boxes slid across the floor.

“Hey, watch your driving!” Ashe yelled toward the front. Without turning around the dwarf raised his right arm with his middle finger extended. Mark steadied himself on a wooden side, then turned to Rinwald, who was helping Sashem to her feet.

“We’re having a bit of an issue shaking the guards, I see,” the black-haired youth noted. Three more crossbow bolts tore through the fabric of the wagon covering, and in response, Kim, who stood at the back of the wagon, clapped her hands together, and a wave of thunder sounded from behind them, throwing a few guards from their horses and cracking and uplifting the street directly behind the wagon. Ashe took out a blue stone and whispered a few words, then brushed the stone over the tears in the fabric to Mend them.

“They’re a resilient group. It turns out elves don’t fall asleep too easily,” Rinwald replied, eyebrows betraying the worry his otherwise calm demeanor hid.

“I could have told you that,” Kim yelled over her shoulder, narrowly avoiding a bolt to the chest in the process. She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her slightly pointed ear, then began preparing another spell.

Rinwald continued, “There’s only been a few that have been able to be charmed, and they weren’t the important ones, I’m afraid. This chase may lead outside the city. I should be able to buy us a minute at the front gates with a Hypnotic Pattern, but I think our best course of action is splitting up and confusing our friends back there and lightening the load on the horses. One or two people take the wagon, and the rest split off into two other directions”

“Wait, what if someone gets hurt?” Ashe asked, turning away from the canvas to voice his concern.

“Or caught?” Sashem added, “I’m too young to go to jail,”

Mark thought a moment, evaluating their options. The plan was not a bad one, but it wasn’t necessarily good. But no other plan was coming to mind that would keep everyone out of trouble. If only his Invisibility spell could extend to everyone else. “I can take the wagon. I can heal myself, and if something happens, I can let you know with a Sending. We should have someone who can communicate long-distance in every group in case we need to talk to each other,”

Kim ducked down behind the back hatch, clutching her arm which had a bolt sticking through it. Rinwald and Mark both knelt down in front of her, working together to remove the bolt and weave magic around the area to stop the bleeding. Blood trickled from where she bit her lip as the bolt was pulled through her bicep, and she said, “I can go with Mordecai and Coil, and Rinwald can go with the kids. Mark, are you sure you’re okay alone?”

“As long as you’re okay transporting stolen goods. I’ll go south to throw them off your trails and take the long way back to Everspring,” He finished his Healing Word, and she nodded her thanks.

Rinwald put a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Be safe,” the older man said, and Mark felt a surge of confidence flow through him. Rinwald was trusting him to make it back, and he was not about to betray that trust. They stood up as the main gate came into view. Mark made his way to the driver’s seat, sliding next to Mordecai.

“Did you catch all of that?” The dwarf nodded in confirmation, and offered Mark the reins. The half-elf took them, and Mordecai gave him a quick squeeze before heading towards the back. The wagon was fast approaching the gate.

“Ready when you are!” Mark called.

The guards at the front gate were beginning to close the portcullis. With a flick of the reins Mark urged the horses to speed up. They would make it easily, probably with about half of their pursuers as well. The wagon wheels clattered as they hit the bridge leading up to the gate. A few guards made a desperate attempt to stop the cart by stepping out in front of it, but with a quick Suggestion which, thank the gods, worked on these guards, Mark was able to clear the way for the troupe’s vehicle to exit the city. 

“Now!” Rinwald yelled as soon as they reached the end of the bridge. Mark slowed the cart down so that the rest of his troupe could disembark. He spared a moment to look back as the last person on board, Kim, began to dismount. She gave him a dramatic salute with a half-cocked smile as the kaleidoscope of a Hypnotic Pattern flashed behind her, and he returned the gesture. She hopped off, and Mark immediately snapped the reins, starting the wagon forward once more. 

To his satisfaction, the plan went off as well as he could have hoped. The group of twenty or so guards followed the wagon south into the Verdant Expanse, where he was able to lose the crowd within the hour. Eventually, he was able to slow the horses down to a comfortable trot, and make his way down the Viburnum Trail. The path through the Viburnum Waters added a day to the trip, a fuzzy memory told him, so he opted to go right at the fork and pass through the town of Phandolin. There, he could restock on food and get some proper rest in two to three days time. And so he settled into the drivers seat for the long journey ahead. 

#the upstarts #the upstarts story #dnd #dungeons and dragons #writing #taldorei campaign

[geekprincess26]

The Pact: A Modern Royals Jonsa Story - Prologue

This fic is dedicated to @king-queeninthenorth, with many thanks for encouraging me to take my latest Jonsa inspiration and run with it.  (The inspiration itself came from @janebrkin’s lovely gifset here.)

Also, I would be remiss as a writer not to acknowledge the following works that have influenced the atmosphere and world-building of my story:

E!’s show “The Royals”

Lori Wick’s novel The Princess

Netflix’s excellent show “The Crown”

The 1995 film adaptation of Shakespeare’s Richard III, starring Ian McKellen

The novel Taliesin, by Stephen Lawhead 

Without further ado:

Two sudden occurrences ruined the golden rose the girl had so patiently been sewing into the hem of her green skirt.  The first was the sound of her bedroom door slamming against the gray stone wall. The second was the piercing utterance of her name by the person who had opened it.

“Sansa!”

The girl, startled, pulled her hand up so suddenly that the golden thread snapped.  She immediately rounded on the owner of the voice, who at the moment resembled one of Wintertown’s street urchins more than she did a princess.  At least three stains marred her blue jeans, and half her hair had fallen out of the braids her maid had so painstakingly arranged just that morning.

“What, Arya?” the older girl snapped.  “You made me break my thread!”

“Oh.  Sorry.”  Her younger sister gave her an uncharacteristically apologetic look.  “I can help you fix it later.”  Sansa rolled her eyes, but her sister took no notice. “But you should come with me now. I found something beautiful and sparkling– ” her gray eyes widened – “on the second bottom floor.  You have to come and see it.  It’s lovely, Sansa!”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. At the tender age of seven, Princess Arya Stark had firmly established her reputation for getting into more mischief than her three royal siblings combined.  Therefore, Sansa, who at ten years old had already earned the nickname “Princess Proper” from the same siblings, immediately became suspicious, despite her sister’s use of the words “beautiful” and “lovely.”  She loved pretty dresses and sparkling jewels and stained glass windows as much as Arya loved rolling in the mud and snow and playing at knights with their brothers, Crown Prince Robb and Prince Bran, which made Arya’s sudden love of anything sparkling quite unusual.  More likely than not, Sansa thought, Arya had somehow managed to get into their mother’s wardrobe, or perhaps even one of her jewelry boxes.  She fixed her sister with a determined glare.

“Arya Stark,” she said sternly, “if you’ve gotten into Mother’s things again – ”

The younger girl rolled her eyes.  “No, Princess Proper,” she replied.  Sansa, who was used to hearing the moniker from all three of her siblings, glared even more fiercely.

“I haven’t gotten into anything bad, I swear,” Arya went on.  Before Sansa could reply with a curt, “Don’t say ‘I swear,’ Arya,” the younger girl cut her off.

“They don’t belong to Mother, or to Father, or Robb, or Bran, or anybody else,” she said firmly. “They’re in one of the old rooms downstairs.  The servants are cleaning all of the rooms tomorrow, so they set up their boards, and nobody is down there.”

“That’s because nobody’s supposed to be down there, Arya,” Sansa reminded her.  “The servants are doing this year’s cleaning of the wing, and nobody is allowed to interrupt them.”

Arya rolled her eyes again. “But they’re doing it tomorrow, not now,” she protested.  “Nobody’s there, so we won’t be bothering anybody.”  Seeing the frown on her sister’s face lighten, she pressed her advantage.  “And they’re so beautiful, Sansa.  You should just see them.  You don’t even have to touch them – just look at them.”

Sansa pursed her lips against her left cheek, forming one of the few less than proper facial expressions of which Ms. Mazin, her deportment mistress, had been trying to break her.  A look at the miniature clock perched upon her desk confirmed that her sewing hour had long since passed, and she had already finished all of her homework for the day, so she was free to do as she pleased until dinner.  Besides, neither of their parents, King Eddard Stark and Queen Catelyn Tully, nor anybody else for that matter, had expressly forbidden her or her siblings from exploring the castle’s unoccupied rooms as long as they were not getting in the way of the servants or anybody else.  And perhaps Arya had in fact discovered something beautiful whose image Sansa might want to stitch into one of her scarves or even replicate with the glass beads in the jewelry building kit her brother Robb had just given her for her tenth birthday.

Sansa carefully set down her fabric, tied off the broken thread, and pushed her needle into her direwolf-shaped pincushion.  Finally, she rose to join Arya, who was bouncing on her toes.

“All right,” she said, “show me.  But if the servants come in early, we have to leave.  Promise.”  She gave Arya her severest proper look as she said the last word.

“Fine,” replied the younger girl.  “I promise.”

She turned on her heels abruptly and skipped out of Sansa’s quarters.  Sansa carefully shut the door and held up the skirt of her favorite blue denim dress so she could run to catch up with her sister.

Hall by staircase, Arya led her to Winterfell Castle’s southeast wing, whose bottom two floors were largely used for storage and other utilitarian purposes.  Sansa had rarely been there, but Arya, who had discovered more than half the castle’s ancient hidden passageways by the age of five, navigated the hallways effortlessly.  Finally, she slipped past a partially open door and beckoned Sansa to follow her.  Sansa, who had to maneuver herself carefully in order to squeeze between the wall and the very heavy oak door, gasped when she looked up to see her sister perched on top of an enormous chest of drawers in the middle of an enormous rectangular room. The front and sides of the chest were covered with dancing flickers of light in every hue known to humankind, which drew Sansa’s eyes upward to find their source.  She found it in the form of the enormous copper chandelier that hung almost directly above the chest.  Crystals dripped off each of the fixture’s elegantly curved arms, and although its candleholders were empty, the enormous windows on two sides of the room admitted enough sunlight to turn the crystals into dazzling prisms that reflected the light into dancing rainbows that covered every surface within their reach.

Sansa gasped again when she saw that the copper chandelier was only one of ten covering the ceiling of what she imagined must once have been a dazzling and magnificent ballroom. A burnished silver chandelier with direwolf heads carved into its top and arms hung in the center of the room; an elegantly curved golden chandelier with rose-shaped candleholders sat to its side. Each fixture’s beads were carved into slightly different shapes than those of its neighbors: the direwolf chandelier’s crystals were carved into neat squares, the rose chandelier was adorned with teardrop-shaped crystals, and the beads on each of the other eight chandeliers reflected the streaming sunlight in their own unique patterns onto the various dressers and wardrobes crowded into the room.  Sansa’s hand reached upward in spite of itself; the chandeliers were far too high up for her to touch, but she could not help wishing her mother would order her ten new dresses at once and have the tailors sew a pattern matching one or another of the chandeliers onto each of them.  She would have to get her sketchbook and spend a good hour or two in the room with it, and preferably leave Arya behind so that she would not have to listen to her sister calling her a wet blanket the entire time, but even one chandelier dress would be worth all the complaints Arya could possibly produce, especially if she could watch the tailors work and practice replicating the patterns until she could sew them onto her own dresses in the future.

Sansa’s reverie was interrupted by a loud tinkling sound and an accompanying shriek of delight from Arya. She snapped her head in the direction of the noises to see that somehow or another, Arya had found a way to climb onto one of the dressers until her hands were grasping a branch of the lowest-hanging chandelier.  As Sansa watched in horror, she swung her body up to sit on it, and then flipped downward until she was hanging from it upside down by her knees

“Arya!” screamed Sansa. “You can’t touch that!  Come down!”  She stamped her foot much harder than was ladylike in her dismay, but Arya just laughed and made faces at her.

“Mother and Father never told us not to touch these,” she replied, swinging herself upward and using her hands to propel herself onto the top of a dark wooden cabinet with glass doors. “Besides, they look prettier from up close.”  She leaped off of the cabinet and propelled herself onto one arm of a burnished gold chandelier with antler-shaped candleholders and stag heads carved into its sides.

“You know they wouldn’t want us touching these, Arya,” snapped Sansa, but without quite as much bluster as she had intended.  Certainly the cabinets and dressers looked solid and safe to climb on, and the prospect of standing on top of one just to get a look at the crystals hanging from the rose chandelier became more appealing the longer she looked at them. After all, nobody was using either the furniture or the chandeliers, and her parents had in fact not expressly forbidden her or Arya from touching them, so as long as she was careful not to damage them, she was not actually breaking any rules.  Besides, she had to get Arya off the chandeliers somehow, and it seemed more likely that she could do that from the top of one of the dressers than from the floor.  

Finally, Sansa took a deep breath, hitched her skirt, and thanked the Maiden that she had worn a pair of shorts underneath her dress.  She forced herself to clamber onto a desk and from there to the top of a tall wardrobe glimmering with diamond-shaped sparkles of light from the rose chandelier.

“Arya,” she tried again. “You’ve been up there long enough.”

The younger girl, now sitting on top of the direwolf chandelier with her legs hanging between opposite arms, merely laughed and pulled herself down to swing onto a branch of the rose chandelier, just a few feet from Sansa.  The fixture, which was wider and more unwieldy than the other chandeliers, lurched wildly.  Sansa screamed and launched herself at once onto the branch across from Arya’s.  The chandelier rocked and spun for several moments before regaining its balance.

“Arya Stark!” Sansa yelled, but Arya giggled and then suddenly swung whooping through the air to the chandelier’s blackened iron neighbor.  Sansa swung from arm to arm of her golden perch before she finally managed to grasp one of the roses carved into the center and somehow swing her legs to grip the arms to either side, as Arya had done on the direwolf chandelier. Once she had secured her hold, she forced herself to look downward.

Arya had been right: the crystals, which had looked from the floor so like jewels from one of the fairy tales of which Sansa was so fond, now mesmerized her completely.  Despite herself, she reached downward and gently touched one of them.  The bead swung and spun, and so did the light it reflected.  Sansa giggled, as much out of sheer joy as out of fright, and touched the crystal’s neighbor.  This produced several spinning diamond rainbows, and Sansa laughed again, this time from pure delight.

“I told you they’d look prettier from up here!” Arya’s voice sounded from a bronze chandelier in the corner, where she had perched next to a falcon’s head.  Sansa barely heard her, but she did notice the triangular crystals hanging from the fixture’s branches.  That design, she thought, would look lovely sewn in dark gold thread onto the green Valentino dress Mother had just ordered for her to wear at Robb’s upcoming thirteenth birthday celebration.  She took a few deep breaths, then swung downward.  She felt a peculiar rush of excitement as she did so, and felt a dizzy whoop escape her lungs as she propelled her legs to the top of a nearby dresser.  Several locks of her long red hair, which had escaped her braid, fell in front of her face as she moved, and she swept them aside before taking another deep breath and launching herself through the air to grab onto an arm of the sturdy stag chandelier.  

“Sansa!”  Arya’s voice sounded from across the room, where she was now swinging upside-down from a golden chandelier adorned with lions and sharp, dagger-like crystals.  “Catch me!”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Catch me,” she shot back, and swung herself upward to sit on top of her own chandelier and inspect the crystals.  Only a few minutes later, she felt a jolt, and the chandelier began to spin with the force of Arya’s arrival.  Sansa’s body was jarred downward, and all she could do other than scream was to catch her fall with her knees, swing perilously upside-down, and grab onto the next arm for dear life as the chandelier stabilized.

Once the spinning stopped, the breath Sansa had been holding onto as tightly as she had grasped the chandelier came out in gasps, which turned into giggles as she saw the faces Arya was making at her.

“Arya,” she said, but the scolding had gone out of her voice.

“See how much fun it is?” The younger girl, still hanging like a Dornish orangutan directly across from Sansa, began giggling herself. “Let’s make it spin again!”

She swung herself forward, and this time Sansa, much more prepared and now accustomed to the feeling of swinging through the air, replicated her sister’s action.  Soon both girls’ shrieks of joy echoed across the room.  For over an hour they swung from chandelier to chandelier, giggling until the chains rattled and the crystals shook and the room turned into a dizzying blur of rippling lights.  

Finally, even Arya grew exhausted, and she and Sansa swung off the chandeliers and clambered back onto the glimmering gray stone floor.  They squeezed back through the doorway and into the hall, which was as empty as Arya had said it would be.

“How did you find it?” Sansa finally asked her sister as they made their way back toward their bedrooms. “Did Robb show you?”

Arya shook her head. “No, silly, I found it myself.  I haven’t told Robb about it.  Or Bran,” she added hastily.

At the thought of their three-year-old younger brother trying to climb the furniture in the chandelier room, Sansa shot her sister the sternest look she could muster.  “Arya Stark, if you show Bran that room before he reaches your age, I’ll ask the Mother herself to – ”

“Of course I won’t,” replied Arya.  “I won’t even tell Robb.  Although it would be really fun to tell him he swings like a girl.  Too bad he’s got to go to the boarding school next term and act like a fine, proper prince.  He’s not as proper as you.”

Sansa pursed her lips, but only for a moment.  “Robb is already a fine prince,” she replied.  “Besides, he doesn’t have to be completely proper until he finishes his university years and Father and Mother find him a bride with the Marriage Pact. And even after that, he won’t be king for a very long time.”

Arya made a face.  “I wouldn’t ever follow the Marriage Pact,” she said firmly.  “You and Robb can follow it all you like, but when I’m done with university I’m going to become a pilot and fly to – ”

“Essos, and make movies of the desert for International Explorer,” Sansa finished with her.  It had become the new profession of Arya’s choice ever since their uncle, Prince Benjen Stark, had given her a set of DVD documentaries about Essos produced by the most famous science publication in the known world.  

Both sisters grinned. It was nice, thought Sansa, not to be fighting with Arya for a change.  And it was very nice that Arya had shared something with Sansa that she had not first talked about with Robb or one of her friends.

Arya’s grin widened. “We should do this again tomorrow,” she said.

“The servants will be cleaning it tomorrow, Arya,” Sansa reminded her, “and after that they’ll open it back up until next year’s cleaning.”

“Fine.”  Arya sighed.  “Next year, then.”

Another smile crept onto Sansa’s face.  “Maybe,” she said, then, “All right, then, yes.  But you can’t tell Robb, and you can’t tell Bran.”

Arya grinned.  “I promise,” she said, and Sansa’s smile widened to match hers.

“All right,” she said, and turned to the door leading to her quarters.  “Now I have to sketch all of the chandeliers before I forget how they look. And,” she added after a moment, “once Robb follows the Marriage Pact and his wife has babies, I won’t have to follow the Marriage Pact either, and I will design all of my own dresses and marry whichever of the princes I like.”

Arya rolled her eyes, but only a little.  “You can get married, then,” she replied, “but I’d rather be like Uncle Benjen and never get married and be a pilot wherever I like.”

The faint sound of Sansa’s vintage turquoise alarm clock streamed into the hallway from her bedroom.

“Dinnertime!”  Arya’s eyes lit up.

“Almost dinnertime,” Sansa corrected her, smiling patiently.  “We still have fifteen minutes.”

Arya moaned. “Ugh.  I’ll starve.”

Sansa’s smile expanded into a grin, although she could feel her own stomach growling.  “You shouldn’t have swung on the chandeliers and made yourself so hungry, then,” she teased.

“Girls!”  Queen Catelyn Tully’s voice drifted toward them from around the corner at the end of the hall, and seconds later the queen herself appeared, white shirt sleeves rolled up and a tan suit coat matching her elegant pencil skirt slung over her elbow.

“You’re early,” Arya said, grinning, once the queen had kissed both of her daughters.

Queen Catelyn smiled back. “I finished my last meeting early,” she replied.  “I told the Mayor of Wintertown that your father and I wanted a full evening with our children.  Besides, the maesters say that the Northern Lights are coming out tonight, so we are going to take you to the top of the North Tower to see them after dark.”

Both girls’ jaws dropped. The Northern Lights appeared in the sky over Winterfell perhaps once every ten years, and had last appeared when Sansa had been a baby and Robb but three years old.  They were said to be a marvelous sight, and on occasion the three oldest Stark siblings would look up pictures and video clips of them on the Internet to stoke their imaginations about how the sky might look during the lights’ actual appearance.

“Really? Tonight?”  Arya’s eager voice interrupted Sansa’s reverie once again.

“Yes, tonight,” her mother replied, beaming at her younger daughter.  “How would you like having some Volantine hot chocolate while you watch?”

Sansa’s eyes opened until they were almost as big as the round crystals hanging from the big copper chandelier.  Mother and Father only allowed them to drink the special hot chocolate from Volantis on their birthdays and on Founding Day at the start of each year.  She and Arya, who was speechless for once, could only nod.

“All right,” said the queen, and turned to give her younger daughter a half-exasperated look.  “Arya Stark, your hair needs to be re-braided. And no pouting,” she added, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder.  “You needn’t ask Miss Jeyne.  I’ll do it myself.”  She turned to Sansa.  “And then yours, Sansa, if you like.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, please,” she agreed. Usually her own maid brushed and braided her hair every morning, and then before dinner if she needed it; and of late, she had tried to arrange it herself on occasion.  It was a rare treat to have Mother brush her hair any more other than a few evenings a week, right before bed.

Sansa skipped into her chamber, forgetting that that was not how a proper lady traveled about a castle, and changed as fast as she could into a brown sweater dress for dinner. She pulled out her sketchbook and had drawn two of the ten chandeliers before her mother entered the room.

“How was your day, my Sansa?” she asked as two of Sansa’s maids pushed a cushioned chair to sit directly behind Sansa’s favorite easy chair in front of the fireplace.

Sansa beamed.  “It was lovely,” she said, handing her hairbrush to her mother.  “Very lovely.”

#jonxsansaff #jon x sansa #modern royals au #for @king-queeninthenorth #my writing #jonsa fanfiction #jon snow #sansa stark #starklings #the pact