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makerkenzie · 4 years

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A Song of Unavailable Consequences

Content note: More of my criticism of the Martells and Sand Snakes’ seeking justice and vengeance by fire and blood. As if that weren’t bad enough, I’m simultaneously saying nice things about the Lannisters.

One of the big questions of the Dornish plot---we might even argue it is THE central question---can be seen in Ellaria Sand’s last conversation with the Sand Snakes. The question is: what do you do when your preferred consequences are unavailable? Specifically: how do you proceed with justice when the people who’ve harmed you the most are already dead?

Ellaria says it in as many words: having Gregor Clegane’s skull should be enough. Tywin Lannister is dead. Robert Baratheon is dead. Amory Lorch, now Gregor Clegane: they’re all dead. Hell, even Joffrey, not even born at the time in question, suffered a horrible death. Who else needs to die?

Gonna re-post screenshots of the original text under the cut:

My “favorite” response here is the part where Nymeria says, yeah but what are we supposed to DO, Ellaria? You want us to lay down our spears and smile like we can just move on with our lives or something?

So that’s the part where I’m saying: YES, Nymeria, you bloodthirsty lemming, this is what we want you to do. Lay down your spear before all your little half-sisters follow you off that cliff.

In contrast. Let’s see how the Lannisters respond when they’re too late to punish the people who’ve hurt them.

Aunt Genna and Uncle Kevan each lost a son (Tion Frey and Willem Lannister, respectively) to Rickard Karstark seeking “justice” against the Lannisters since Jaime killed his sons in battle. Specifically, these boys were captive, unarmed squires and Lord Karstark murdered them because Jaime wasn’t available. That’s a case study in itself, BUT THE POINT HERE IS, Aunt Genna’s and Uncle Kevan’s young sons were not killed as soldiers in battle, they were murdered.

Lord Karstark also killed Cousin Daven’s father, Uncle Stafford, at the Oxcross ambush.

Aunt Genna’s adult son Cleos Frey was also killed, this time by unseen outlaws during Jaime’s escape from Riverrun.

Also, Jaime promised himself to get revenge on the Brave Companions for cutting off his sword hand. Especially Vargo Hoat, the one who gave the order.

Only, in his Riverlands arc in AFFC, Jaime finds the Mountain has already killed Vargo Hoat.

He sees Hoat’s rotting head, and...somehow revenge has lost its savor.

It’s a direct-opposite contrast with the Sand Snakes. Jaime sees Vargo Hoat’s head and he’s all like, ew, gross, I don’t need any more of this. The Sand Snakes get Gregor Clegane’s skull, and---even knowing he took their father down with him---they’re all like, okay, so let’s do more of this!

Let’s move on to Cousin Daven.

Yeah, first of all, it needs to be said: Daven’s idea of getting “vengeance” for his father’s death was misguided anyway. His father died as a soldier. Karstark was acting as another soldier, like Jaime was when he killed Karstark’s sons at Whispering Wood. Vengeance is not applicable in this scenario. If every family that lost someone in a war insisted on getting revenge against the people who killed that someone, the realm would never not be at war.

Fortunately...since Daven found out Robb Stark executed Lord Karstark, he’s all like, well, that’s that and I guess the beard keeps me warm. If he were like the Sand Snakes, he’d be saying, okay, I didn’t get to torture him, so now I’ve got no option but to march up to the Karhold and feed his entire family to the crows.

Let’s check in with Aunt Genna, asking after her son Cleos.

The truth is somewhat less glamorous, but Jaime knows what Aunt Genna and Uncle Emmon need: they need a story of their son as a brave man. They don’t need to punish the guys with the crossbows. (It’s basically impossible to find the guys with the crossbows, anyway.) So he gives them a story of Cleos dying as a hero, promises to send them his bones, and then they’re okay. Time to move on to conquering Riverrun.

At no point in the books do either Aunt Genna or Uncle Kevan remark on the injustice of their sons being murdered by Rickard Karstark. I’m quite sure it’s not because they don’t love their sons. Aunt Genna clearly loves her sons and grandsons, even as she looks down her nose at her husband. Uncle Kevan does his best to take care of Lancel following his Blackwater injury. More like, they know the boys’ killer has already been executed. He won’t be killing any more defenseless boys, and there’s no point in punishing a dead man. We might even speculate that they’d rather not wage any more war if they can help it because they don’t want any more of their sons getting killed. Just a thought.

This is what it looks like to do what the Sand Snakes believe is unthinkably weak: lay down your spears and choose life. It may not give you the best story to tell your grandchildren, but it’ll give you much better odds of living long enough to tell any stories to your grandchildren.

Thus far I’ve focused on the Sand Snakes because their attitude is the most brazen, but this problem applies equally to Prince Doran and Oberyn’s plan for Targaryen restoration. We could ask Prince Doran the same thing Ellaria’s asking his nieces: when does it end? All the people involved in the murders of Princess Elia and her children are now gone. Who’s left to punish?

Indeed, it goes back to time years earlier, when Robert was newly crowned and Oberyn started trying to oust him in favor of Viserys. As I wrote earlier, the process of justice is FIRST narrative, and THEN consequences. You assign consequences based on narrative, not narrative based on consequences.

I’ve also written earlier in this project that the ultimate responsibility for the deaths of Elia and her children rests with Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen. Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister played their parts; the ones who really screwed the Martells were the Targaryens.

As they were already dead, the Martells couldn’t get revenge on them, so they refused to engage with the reality of how the Targaryens treated their family. They built the narrative to fit the consequences. Because they refused to engage with how the dragons threw the princess to the lions, they focused on the Baratheon-Lannister regime as the primary villains and designated the surviving Targaryens as their salvation.

It’s understandable that the Martells focused their rage on the people who were alive and in power. It’s understandable, because the real story isn’t nearly so satisfying. The truth is a Mobius strip of frustration: the circumstances of Elia’s death pulled vengeance out from under the Martells. She and the children were murdered because the Targaryens lost the war which they started. They started the war, they refused to protect the princess and the royal rugrats, and so there was no one to protect the princess and her children when her jackass husband and his trainwreck father lost the war.

So...yeah. The people with the highest level of responsibility for the murders were already dead. The Targaryens’ role in the injury done to their family was the part the Martells should have acknowledged, and still haven’t. Like the Sand Snakes are clamoring to do more of what got their father killed, so Doran is set on sacrificing his own children for the benefit of the same family that killed his sister.

No, this is not in their interest. They do not need to get into another war, and the Targaryens were never going to be their salvation. This is not a story in which the Martells will be vindicated.

Stop digging that hole. Lay down your spears and choose life.

#asoiaf meta #a song of mischief and shit-stirring #house martell #house targaryen #nobody screwed the martells harder than the targaryens #robert's rebellion #sand snakes #ellaria sand #oberyn martell #house lannister #robert baratheon #aerys ii targaryen #rhaegar targaryen #elia martell #doran martell #gregor clegane #jaime lannister #revenge is bullshit

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sanjuno · 5 years

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BloodRaven Actually Does Something

What if the resurgence of magic was more drastic?

(By which I mean I re-read The Great Northern Alliance on a03 and it’s hilarious and brilliant and I couldn’t stop imagining stuff about it)

Like, imagine that the children born after a certain point (perhaps BloodRaven saw all his remaining relatives go nuts/start getting kicked out and decided to tip the scales a bit) start manifesting magic traits and potential. The highborn have been selectively breeding themselves and accidentally keeping the magic blood strong, but there’s also a lot of small folk, either descended from bastards/demoted families or just genetic luck, who get “tricks”. Like a pair of twins who can share their senses with each other. Or a toddler who’s dolls move. Or a little boy is attacked by his drunken father and his bottle shatters against his glass-glimmer skin.

But the focus the instigator has is on the people he actually wants to have strong abilities-everyone else is just from a ripple effect- aka his relatives (Targaryens) and the Houses who will actually prepare for winter (Major Northern Houses). Starks actually fall into both categories, and so basically all the children from Roberts Rebellion onwards in Winterfell-shire can do something weird. (And in the free cities there are rumours of unnatural children being born, and a Dornish girl hisses to snakes in the shadow of the Tower of Joy).

Stark children “talents”. I’m thinking they can all warg, at least a little. It’s the baseline manifestation of magic. Not a lot, but as the talent ripples out it becomes a boon to sending messages.

Robb picked up his “template” from the far ancient intermarriage the First Men had with the Children of the Forest. Roots climb up his boots if he stands still too long, plants flourish under his gaze. The weirwood trees whisper to him, and let him give them new faces and children. It’s not particularly useful in a fight, but an army under Robb Stark will never go hungry. And if he has a slight green tinge to his skin, and eats a little less than he should, who will know?

Jon Snow may look like his mother, but his many times grand uncle made sure that it was his father’s blood that shaped the awakening magic. The Valerians had children with their siblings do you really think they wouldn’t try and weave the dragons in there somehow as well? Jon doesn’t burn, has never been hurt by heat, and when his rage builds so does the fire in his lungs. Scales sleep under his skin, ready to protect him. No blade seems to do more than well up a tiny amount of blood when Jon Snow wades into battle.

Theon Greyjoy was an accident. An accident that turned out for the best, but still an accident. He came into his abilities late, it taking a year or so exposed to Brynden Rivers’ best efforts before there were results, and even then it wasn’t noticed till Theon dived into a river to save a Bran that was too young to know how to swim. The first Greyjoy took a mermaid to wife, and her blood resurged in her descendent. Water is like air to Theon, and no matter the depth to which he dives, pressure will never be a problem. Less useful is understanding the creatures of the water. That doesn’t mean obey, and they cannot understand any human other than Theon. It does help his claim to heirship when he returns to the Iron Islands with a pod of kracken.

Sansa Stark is a … difficult case. The White Walkers are tied to the Starks, in ways that only they know. But Sansa can walk barefoot through the snow, and haarfrost forms on her fingertips when a presumptive Southron sees a pretty Northern maid travelling to meet her mother’s kin. When the Northern armies cannot win, they fall back into the deep forest, and Sansa Stark steps onto the field, ice woven like lace through her blood red hair, and her Tully eyes burn bright. The Heiress to the Night King smiles like her wolf as every dead man on the field stands up.

Arya Stark actually pulls from her mother’s line. The Tully’s are Andals, and have been devout every since their first crossed the sea with a seven pointed star on their sails. Now a way has been opened for the seven-who-are-one and this child has the potential for any of their faces. Arya Stark can pull on one of the faces of her patron(s), and gains almost impossible skill in that concept. If one did not know how old she was, it could be attributed to a lifetime of study and practice. Arya Stark dislikes stepping into her mother’s sept. The light and statues that turn to face her draw too much attention. The travelling Septon bows to her on the road, and he doesn’t know why he listens to her arguments.

Bran Stark has two Uncle Bryndens. One of them isn’t actually related to him, and he’s never met the other, but they are still his Uncles. Bran has been drifting from mind to mind since he was four, and has been the apprentice to the Three eyed Raven for almost as long. Every creature could have him hiding behind its eyes, listening. Everything ever spoken near a weirwood tree is ready for his perusal. When the North goes goes to war, Bran makes sure his Brothers know everything. And their enemies never think about the rat crouched under their chair. Listening.

Rickon Stark is still young, but his talent for learning languages is already catching attention. Things he writes in the surviving words of the Old Tongue seem strange somehow. Things become much clearer when he recreates a miniature of the Wall from snow, paper, and bloodied ink. His first project is a war table for his elder brother, with the everfrozen ice taking pride of place.

(I have more for other Northern Houses, “wild” talents for the small folk, and what’s happening with and around Viserys and Daenaerys. Also does anyone know where all the Sand Snakes were prior to Oberon picking them up and training them to kill?)

The first idea with much crazier powers could be a ton of fun, but at a glance I worry that it’s too skewed in the North’s favor. I get that it’s Brynden influencing the people he thinks will play the greatest role in the War for the Dawn, but it feels off to have so much of the powers concentrated among characters who already get so much in the fanfiction community. I really dig the Seven being at play with Arya, and I’d probably just take that further to other gods and faiths. Have some of the Rhoynish stuff in Dorne, maybe have Shireen with Rh'llor powers. If the Lannisters have any sort of magic blood, then naturally it would be strong as hell in Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, since they’re inbred beyond the norm.

Maybe have him focus on the Ruling families, the Strong families (plus his)? or have it as a ripple effect down from whatever cave he’s huddling in, spreading South? Admittedly I do like giving the North a little help, and in universe Brynden would Want the vanguard against the Others to be strong. And I’m focusing at the characters theatre common in stories because they are the ones I know well.

But you’re right that other post rebellion children should have “talents”. What if Shireen and all Roberts Bastards all have variations on weather magic, while Cercei’s children all take after the Lannister mind manipulation or stone singing?

Anyway. I’m thinking there are baseline abilities before the quirk that ancestry or environment gave them. These were set up last time magic spread across the world. Those of First Men blood can warg a little, to a single close animal at minimum. Those of Andal blood may use Septon blessed boundaries to slow or even stop those who are against them. Valerians are fireproof, or at least resistant. And the Royinar ( nowadays Dornish) heal faster, to a varying degree, when in water.

Magic in a person is another tool of survival, and though it may be shaped by ancestry, in manifestation and power, what the wielder needs to survive, to live, is what shapes it. A starving child becomes capable of eating rot without ever sickening, an abused one skin hardens to steel. A child who is fed to the point of vomiting learns to burn fat into bursts of incredible speed and strength and thought .

#not my bunny #but still super cool #I really like this bunny #the North remembers #BloodRaven actually does something #submission

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samanthabrielle · 5 years

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Arya after the Battle in Winterfell

sorry, I am no expert in writing, but I just wanna have a fanfic that portrays Arya the way I see her. blahblah, just nevermind.

Okay so this came longer than I thought at first. oops.

Sorry if there are typos, English is not my first language, so..... anyway. <3

***

Her arm was numb and she fumbled to get a feel of her fingers. She felt the warm trickle of her own blood on her eyes. She couldn’t open her eyes yet but she smelled the charred bodies around her. It was no different from how it smelled before, when the Lannister Armies burned village after village. That was too long ago, a distant memory brought to life by the smell of whatever was burning beside her. She felt the warmth of the fire and the coldness of the snow on her face as she lay face down on the earth. She blinked her eyes, twice, thrice, and again and again until she can see the clump of bones and rotting flesh in front of her. She tried to get the feel of both her arms again, acknowledging the piercing pain on her left arm and the jab she felt on her right hip as she tried to lift her self. With her right knee pressed against her shoulder, she pulled herself up, swaying slightly as she tried to compose herself again.

The smoke was worse than the smell. Smoke and fog mixed as the sun rose and made everything look like ghosts, shadows all around her, the trees, broken in some places, corpses and weapons, covered in snow and blood and ash. If there were Seven Hells, she was sure she was in it.

The ringing in her ear didn’t help either. She looked ahead, squinting her eyes to see through the smoke. A soldier with his spear was going through the field, looking as forlorn as she felt. It slowly came to her how tired she felt, but just as she felt her strength dip, people flashed across her mind. Sansa. Bran. Jon. and...

She felt a croak rise from the lump of her throat. There was no use to cry and scream for their names. She felt helpless as she staggered from where she stood. She looked around again to try to figure out where she ended up. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to remember the last thing she saw. Bran, the dragons, the Dragon Queen, Jon on Viserys, the Hound as he came running from the crypts shielding her sister from the wight trying to grab her. Women screaming as they ran towards the wall. She opened her eyes wide. Searching for the towering stones of her home, charred and smoking, all the while, snow fell on her, just as ash and she felt the warm blood trickle down her finger tips. She held her bleeding arm and tried to stop the bleeding while she walked, pacing the field trying to find more men.

She paced from soldier to soldier, trying to see who are still alive, and helping them to their feet. The others did so as well, and they walked through the smoke, back to the castle. Surely the others would reassemble at the castle, where they can treat the wounded and feed the tired men and women from battle. She tried not to pay too much attention to the fallen, the ones she’s seen were being taken to be burned. She tried not to think how soldiers and knights as strong as them were dead but not her. She tried not to think who else was dead. She forced herself not to linger as she held Brienne and find no pulse, the big red bearded wildling along side her as they were dragged across the field to be burned with the other fallen soldiers.

She saw Sansa first, her fiery hair a tangled mess as her braid has come undone in some places, her cape slightly singed on one side and her face dirtied by ashes, but her eyes were red and her hands held together in front of her as if in prayer. When Sansa sees her, she breaks into a run, her left leg slightly dragged but reached her sister just the same. Arya buried her face on Sansa’s shoulder for the briefest second and pulled away to search her face. Arya opened her mouth to ask for Jon, for Bran, for the others. But the haunted look on her sister’s eyes was a desperate plea. Her sister muttered her name, her voice rasp and crooked, as if she had been screaming for hours. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Sansa shivered as she spoke.

“Jon? How about Bran” Arya asked, her voice trembling, her eyes searching her sister’s face, but Sansa only shook her head. “I have not seen them both. Ser Gregor has lead some soldiers to look for them already”

Arya paused and took a step back . “You should get those wounds treated” Sansa pointed to her arm. “I can get the Maester attend to you in your room - “ but Arya cuts her off, “The Maester can see me with the rest of the soldiers.”

Arya has a lot more on her mind. Did they win? The dead are no longer marching but it was as if they did not win. With the ringing still in her ears, she heard the muffled cries of the injured men as they were brought to the courtyard for the Maester to see them.

“My lady, more soldiers are needed to bring the others from the field.” A knight from the Vale stood behind Sansa as he swept the sweat off his brow. Sansa did not want to take her eyes off her sister again, but she reluctantly faces the knight, but held Arya’s hand still. “More soldiers should be in the hall, call all the men you need to treat the injured.” Sansa commanded, her voice steady.

But Arya’s eyes drifted as she followed the sight of a discarded hammer. Suddenly, Arya’s hand slipped away from Sansa’s, Sansa followed Arya with her gaze as Arya half walks, half runs across the courtyard, checking every cot, every man as they are carted in through the gates. She shook her head, she knows she’s seen him during the battle, but she can’t pick exactly where. He cannot be dead. She willed herself to think it. She ran through the steps and looked over the castle walls. Surely she can spot him from here, she thought. He must be outside, helping the others get to their feet. He must be.

Her eyes search the snow, she squinted to try to see through the smoke. She could see the Hound with dozen men behind him walking the field, searching. She scanned the courtyard again, and she turned around to search the field again, she walked briskly along the wall to see the other side of the Castle. The battlements were half a waste now. And through the burning corpses, she sees him lift his hammer from the ground, and another on his left hand, a sword so thin it almost looks like a stick. Needle. She felt her tears coming as she released the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. She smiles in relief. She shook her head once, twice, as the tears came right back up. She came down the steps and she let herself be ushered by a Wildling girl who held her arm up to examine her wound. “Sam! Another here!” The Wildling carried her babe at her back as she worked to attend to those who were still alive. “Its too deep a wound, you need to lie down.”

The man beside her was moaning in pain, Arya can see half of the man’s face was burned a stump from where his left arm should be. The pain in her body seemed to double as she sat down, and she felt her body crumble as the Wildling girl tried to lay her down. A man in black coats wobbled over to where she was as the Wildling girl went off to another soldier, and offered her to drink. She felt her eyes droop after a while, she wanted to stay awake, but her body betrays her. The last thing she heard was her name as something heavy dropped on the ground beside her.

She was floating in the halls of her home. The stone walls played tricks on her eyes as the flame cast shadows big and small across them. But she wasn’t floating anymore, she felt the arms before she saw them. It was Robb, her brother finally came home. Catelyn followed them as Robb laid her down her bed. She touched Robb’s face. His beard soft on her callused hands, and she can’t help the tears fall as she thought of her sweet brother and of Mother’s voice as she said her name. She held his hand “What took you so long to come?” He held her hand with both of his. He cried as if in prayer, and knelt on her bedside. “I thought I lost you.” He buried his head in their entangled hands as he spoke. But when he lifts his face, he was no longer Robb. It was Gendry, his blue eyes swimming as they search her face. She looked over her Mother but saw Sansa as she stood at the end of her bed. She tried to sit up but Gendry quickly steadied her shoulders. “You’re not strong enough.” He muttered weakly, but his words were like knife for her. She felt her whole body sore and she let herself be enveloped in the furs of her warm bed. “You should rest for the day, I will have the Maester check you before the sun sets again.” Sansa had a different coat now, he hands bare but dirtied, blood stains were still on her cuffs. “Jon? and Bran?” Arya saw her sister glance quickly and nervously from her to Gendry, and back to her. Sansa opened her lips to speak but her voice failed her.

“We’re still looking for them.” It was Gendry who answered her. She knew there was something wrong. She knew something happened, she knew Sansa was holding back. Sansa paced the room and looked out the lone open window of the room. “There’s still many things to see through. The Dragon Queen is still not found, and neither are her dragons. We have to find a way to feed the soldiers and aid the injured before the Lannisters come, whether they are fighting for Cersie or the Night King. Almost everything burned inside and outside the castles. Lucky the Godswood still stands.” Sansa was frustrated and nervous, Arya can tell by her voice. Sansa walked swiftly to the door without facing her sister again. “I will see that the Maester comes by.” She repeated with her hand on the door. “Please rest Arya, the battle may be done but the war is far from over.” Sansa was gone before Arya can argue with her.

Arya then turned to Gendry, his face buried in her hand once more. “Tell me the truth.” but Gendry merely shrugged before putting his forehead on hers. His eyes were closed but she can feel his warm breath, She wanted to close the space between her lips and his, but even moving her neck was impossible. She breathed him in, her chest rising, and she was afraid he would hear the loud drumming of her heartbeat. Gendry still had his eyes closed and they stayed like that for a long while. She can smell his sweat, only then that she noticed the gashes on his cheek, ears and neck, cleaned but still fresh, red and spotted. He slowly lowered himself and rested his head on her neck, his lips brushing her eye and cheek lightly. He brought himself under the layers of her bed and pulled her close to him. She could feel his arms around her as she drifted to sleep again. And Arya let herself be enveloped in him.

Tomorrow, she said. She’ll send him off tomorrow. She’ll be a warrior again tomorrow. But for now, she’ll be his, as Gendry is hers.

#arya stark #gendry waters #arya x gendry #jon x arya #gendry #arya stark x gendry waters #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #after the battle

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mmazzeroo · 5 years

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Chapter 11: NED III - Why Didn’t You Want Me?

@helloimnotawesome - Finally chapter 11. It was really hard for me to write this and I’m sorry if it’s hard for you to read. Chapter 12 will be up in a few mins.

NED III - Why Didn’t You Want Me?

"I'm ready when you are...I think. If I could just get this out of my eyes."

He was watching his eldest son trying to fix that unruly mop on top of his head that they called hair.

With a frustrated groan Jon threw his hands up in the air. "Stupid hair! It has a life of its own. Let's just forget about it. It's fine."

"Here, let me help you." He stepped up behind Jon and tied his hair up in the back just like his own was. "There! All neat and tidy like you wanted it." He leaned around and smiled.

"Thanks, dad."

"No worries." He padded Jon on the shoulder. "You're ready?"

Getting a curt nod from Jon he turned to Barristan.

"Camera ready, Commander Selmy?"

"Ready as can be, Dr. Stark."

Today Jon was having his picture taken for his first official identification papers carrying his real name of 'Jonathan Dayne'. That would make him, and his children, the last of the Daynes - a lineage thought to have ended with the deaths of Ashara and Arthur and the disappearance of Jon. Well, once they got the legal thing sorted out that is. Once again something he dreaded telling his newly returned son. Why does getting your child back have to be such a mess?! DA Martell had offered to come join for this particular matter, but he'd told the lawyer that it might be better to just be him and Jon for now. He wasn't entirely sure how Jon would take the news.

Jon sat on a chair propped up against the wall by the door. Still just wearing hospital scrub-pants and a shirt, tie and jacket borrowed from Robb. Looking very formal and handsome from the waist up. We need to get him some clothes of his own. We need to get him a place upstairs with the rest of the family. We need to get him home! With just a few quick snaps and a signature, Commander Selmy was out the door again, promising to be back later in the day with all the documents.

"So how many people know I'm back?"

"Besides the family?"

Jon nodded as he removed the jacket and hung it on the back of the chair.

"Only Commander Selmy and your Dr. Tarly."

"Oh well, that would explain the Dothrakhi guards still by my door," Jon laughed lightly.

"In part," he laughed nervously. Crap!

"...and in part..?" His son looked at him expectantly. More crap! Remember, no beating around the bush. Just say it!

"Well, I couldn't quite figure out the legal ramifications of bringing you back from the dead."

Jon laughed. "I'm sorry I thought you said 'back from the dead'."

"You've been missing for 20 years..."

"You had me declared dead?" Jon had a disbelieving look in his eyes that grew darker with every second - as did his voice. "Dead! DEAD?!?" Stay calm, Ned, stick to the facts.

"Well, actually it was the Martells. With Arthur and your mother's tragic deaths and no known whereabouts for you they became the legal guardians of your ancestral home, Starfall. The law stipulates that, in such a case, if no heir has come forward after 10 years then the guardians automatically become the default owners of the property or properties in question as the case may be. In this case the Martells chose to extend the waiting period till your 21st birthday, but..." He looked warily to his son who stared back at him with such a look of betrayal he found it hard to keep the eye contact. "Currently Starfall is owned by the Martells, but out of respect they've left it untouched."

"Respect?!" Jon snorted. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"I'm sure they'd give it back to you—"

"I don't give a shit about some stupid old keep that I can't even remember ever having set foot in! Didn't even know it was mine until now. Why the fuck would I care?" He was at the receiving end of one of the harshest looks he'd ever seen. I've woken the wolf in him. Sneering Jon added, "it's the principle!"

Jon was highly agitated as he paced back and forth along the length of the bed, clenching and unclenching his fists and jaws.

"So you just agreed? Just like that?"

"No, I...it isn't like that, Jon. Listen to me, son..." He held his hands up so show he meant no harm, but Jon wasn't having it.

"Son? Oh yeah right, now that I by dumb fucking luck managed to land myself in your hospital, I'm suddenly your son again? Huh?" He snorted and shook his head in disbelief. "Was I your son while I was rotting away at Pyke Island and Craster's Keep?" More sneering. Wait. Craster?! Thought it was bad enough when he'd mentioned Pyke Island a few days ago.

"Jon...please calm down."

"Calm down?! Why?? I'm dead aren't I? Can't get much more calmer that that!!" This is going worse than I imagined.

"Jon, just listen. Please..."

"Listen to what? You explain how no one bothered to look for me all those years? How no one cared to try to find me at all? Listen to that you mean? Yeah can't wait to hear your excuses for that, 'father'!" The last word clearly said to mock him.

"That's enough, Captain!!" Raising his voice had made Jon stop in his tracks. He slowly turned around to face his father. Glaring. Good, get it out son. Now talk calmly and evenly. He's a wounded animal, Ned.

"I know I deserve your anger." Jon snorted. "And I'm sorry. Truly I am. There's nothing I can do to change what's happened, if I could I would've years ago." Jon continued glaring at him. "I understand your anger—

"—no you don't!" His son was practically growling at him now. Good thing Ghost isn't here he would've ripped my throat out by now.

"Fine. I don't understand, but I do know the kind of anger you must be feeling. That impossible anger strangling the grief, until the memory of your loved one is just...poison in your veins. And one day, you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed, so you would be spared your pain."

"Oh wow! You didn't just have me declared dead you actually wished me dead? Did you wish my mom dead too? Aunt Lya? Uncle Arthur? Huh?? Just so you could've been spared the pain you felt? Not selfish and self-pitying at all, Doctor!"

Jon was back to his pacing but there was a more aggressive edge to his walk now. A fury looming underneath, bobbling like lava in a volcano just waiting to erupt. I'm going to need Vis for this. Why didn't I think that could be a possibility? Crap on crap! He slowly went to the door, slightly cracking it open and in a low voice told Aggo to go get Viserys asap. As he turned back to face the room, Jon was standing over by the window hands resting on the frame. Amazing how anger and adrenalin can make his body forget how much pain it's actually in still.

"I didn't feel that anger you speak of, Dr. Stark. I had used up all my anger being dragged across the Dothrakhi Sea. Burned skin and blistered feet. They loved taunting me by calling me names like 'Ahesso' because I was white as snow, or 'Verro' because I growled like a wolf whenever they touched me. Every night at camp they'd take turns to pick one of us 'slaves' for target practice. For the first many months they didn't bother with me because I was so small." Dothrakhi Sea? Did we even look there? Did we ever consider him a victim of human trafficking? Oh gods!

"One day one of the Khal's sons picked me to fight against him for 'the evening entertainment'. He was maybe a year of two older than me. I was seven I think. Everyone laughing. Clearly expecting an easy fight with him just toying with me. Of course they didn't know that both Uncle Arthur and Aunt Lya had been teaching me old fashion sword-fighting. Of course neither of them had noticed me watching them every night from my spot in the shadows. So I held my own. He still won but it was a tough win for him. After that they only referred to me as 'Hrakkar' - their infamous and illusive white lion. Because I had hid like a predator in the grass they said and because I was fighting like it was a matter of life and death. Something they found endlessly amusing."

Jon finally turned to face him again. Those beautiful grey eyes had turned almost black with pain, anger, and betrayal. His mouth still holding a sneer.

"I learned something that night. I learned I could survive if I wanted to and if I was smart enough. I learned that befriending pain and violence can be a means of survival. A lesson that carried me through the hells that were the orphanage on Pyke Island and the so-called 'military boarding school' of Craster's Keep. Ever since that night in the Dothrakhi Sea whenever I've learned a lesson it comes with another painful memory. I've watched family and friends die, I've had to kill to survive."

"Jon, please, you don't have to do this to yourself anymore."

"No, I don't, but you need to hear it." Jon again sent him a hard look. No room for debate or negotiation.

"As a small child I was told there was nothing out there to fear. But the day I saw my parents brutally murdered I caught a glimpse of something. And, wherever I was taken next I went looking for it, searched in all the shadows. Until one day I discovered that that 'something' that was out there lurking in the darkness, that 'something' terrifying, that 'something' that wouldn't stop until it got its revenge...that was me."

"...you speak of your parents murdered, but I'm right here—"

"—because I thought you were dead, dad!! What I saw, what I heard didn't give little Jon any indication that you could've possibly survived. So when I talk about thinking someone would be out looking for me I don't mean you. For all I knew my parents were dead, so of course didn't expect you to come find me anywhere, but I kept hoping that someone, anyone would come. But...no one did. No one ever did! I might as well have been dead all this time!"

The pain was dripping from his son's tongue like drops of blood - and it might as well have been. His own or his son's he couldn't say, but it felt like blood being spilled like it had been 20 years ago in Meereen. He couldn't stop Jon's stream of words flowing like a strong river through the canyons. He's seizing his moment. He's never had the opportunity to lash out at me like this before!

"Do you know what it feels like to be abandoned like that? To know that no one cares? That you were not worth looking for, not worthy of being found? To know that the love and care and light and laughter you'd known were never meant to be yours?" Jon was beginning to sob no longer able to hold back the tears he'd fought so bravely all this time. "In fact maybe it was never real in the first place. It was just a figment of your stupid childish imagination! Because you're just a worthless piece of shit, a pathetic excuse for a human being who is not worthy of any form of love or kindness whatsoever!!!"

His son was back at yelling now. Angry tears streaming down his face. Glancing back over his shoulder he saw Viserys' face looking like he'd caught a big chunk of Jon's speech. Jon himself had given no indication that he'd noticed or even seen Viserys standing there in the door.

Suddenly Jon swung his head around as if something hit him.

"Why didn't you look for me then? Why didn't you do something? Anything? ANSWER ME!! Were you just up here in your ivory tower hoping, wishing, praying I was dead like all the others?!?"

With tears running down his own face he tried to find the words to answer his son, but there was nothing that could be said. I'm so sorry, son, so sorry for all the pain you lived through, all the hells you've survived. My heart is breaking for you, not for your angry words at me, but for you, my sweet boy. Thinking so little of yourself to be able to survive. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!

Standing in the middle of the room Jon stared at him with murder in his eyes. Wolf written all over his face - sneer on his lips, jaws clenched, fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white. Out of nowhere he started screaming.

"ARGHHHH!!!! I HATE YOU!!!! I HATE YOU. SO. MUCH!!!!"

Frozen in place all he could do was listen to the sound of his son's already broken heart being smashed again and again.

"Never a hint that you were searching for me. Never a sign. Not. One. Sign. Ever. And now," Jon's laugher was bitter with a manic edge to it, "now you want me to believe that I'm just to step back into this family like nothing happened? 'Here's your family castle, son', 'here's you're inheritance, my boy', 'here's where you'll be showered with love'. I can't take it. It's too much. It's. Too. Fucking. Much. I CAN'T TAKE IT!!!"

Jon grabbed the nearest chair and threw it against the wall smashing it to pieces. In the background Viserys' calm voice could be heard in the hallway.

"Nothing to worry about. He's just passionately redecorating the room. Move along people. Nothing to see here."

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up with a start there was a pair of lilac eyes looking at him with nothing but sympathy.

Jon had collapsed on Ghost's mattress now covered in splinters from what used to be a chair. Curled up in a fetal position he was sobbing uncontrollably.

In a quiet voice Vis said, "I think it's time for me to take over, Dr. Stark. If you can, please go find Davos and tell him to bring Max, ok?"

All he could do was nod as he helplessly watched his son fall apart before his eyes. As he quietly closed the door behind him his mind kept repeating Jon's heart-wrenching words: "Why didn't you want me?"

#joneryssecretsanta2018 #jonerys secret santa #helloimnotawesome #jonerys modern au

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samwpmarleau · 7 years

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If you are still doing requests- Rhaegar tries to make Lyanna his second queen, Elia & Lyanna successfully kill him off (Lyanna hates him since he murdered her family). Elia gets to be queen, Lyanna takes Jon to Braavos. Think two black Cadillacs.

Another anon asked: Your Elia is to die for and she is nice to Lyanna (moontea). If it is not to late can I get an antidote to stupid Lyanna as second queen trope where Elia & Lyanna conspire & successfully murder Rhaegar & Elia is queen while Lyanna takes Jon to live in Essos.

“He was a good man, a great man, and could have been the noblest king the realm has ever known…”

Elia’s glad custom dictates she wear a black veil, for it means no one can see her rolling her eyes at the High Septon’s speech. Has the civil war her widower began vanished from everyone’s memories already? If only they’d known what Rhaegar had planned, mayhaps they would not be so gracious. But then again, they hate her very existence, so mayhaps they would pay it no mind.

Elia places a white rose on Rhaegar’s body and leans down as though to give him a final kiss. “You’ll rot in the seven hells for what you’ve done,” she whispers. “The world is well rid of you, my dearest husband.”

The queen is next with a rose, her newborn daughter in her arms, and though her good-mother looks sad as she gazes upon her eldest son, there is grim acceptance there, too. Rhaegar had once been Rhaella’s salvation, and then had turned into her nightmare. After Viserys and Rhaenys both place their own roses, the High Septon says some more decorative words and lights the pyre on which Rhaegar’s bier rests. Rhaella turns away from the fire—she can’t blame her, after Aerys’s proclivities—but Elia watches his corpse go up in flames and feels the final burden lift from her chest.

At the funeral feast afterwards, Elia is the perfect hostess as she fields innumerable condolences from courtiers who never knew him. They’re kinder than they ever were, and she sees through it in a trice; she’s the Queen Regent now, and it is she they must appeal to to earn any favor at all. When finally she gets a reprieve, she locates the woman in the gray veil she’d seen at the funeral. She’d never met her before today, not in person, but she knows exactly who it is.

She stands at her side, but neither of them looks at the other, knowing there can never be a connection drawn. “I appreciate your assistance, Lady Lyanna,” says Elia.

“Thank you for allowing me to assist,” replies the wolf girl. “No one suspects?”

“No, not even the maester,” she answers. “A burst vessel in the brain, he said, an unfortunate death but a natural one.”

“I underestimated your skill.”

“My brother is not the only one who can brew poison.” She smiles to herself. “But it is you who delivered it, and quite well.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“The ship is ready to take you. The Queen’s Gambit, it’s called. You’ll find provisions on board. Braavos, you said?”

“Yes, I’d like a new start,” says Lyanna. “Jon will know nothing of his father, I can promise you that.”

“Then I wish you both the best. Do be sure to write if you need anything.”

“I will.” Elia doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s grinning. “To King Aegon, long may he reign.”

“And to Rhaegar,” adds Elia, “the King Who Never Was.”

#elia martell #lyanna stark #asoiaf #gotfic #my fic #compliance: canon au #anonymous

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