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howlljenkins · 5 years

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What Was Promised (1/?)

Non-canon compliant. Arya and Gendry are married and have a daughter. They have made their peace with the past, but the past hasn't made its peace with them, and one stormy night it comes to collect its due. Read on Ao3

Rain swept sideways across the battlements of Storm’s End, and lightning split the sky above the castle’s single thrusting tower, but inside the Great Hall the Lord’s guests were far too deep in their cups to notice. Half the Stormlands, it seemed, had pressed into the Hall to celebrate the marriage of Bethany Mertyns to Allesor Musgrave, the young Lord of Broad Arch. Laughter and ale had flowed freely the night through, and, though it was now well into the wee hours of the morning, neither storm nor festivities showed signs of abating any time soon.

The only person not enjoying themselves was the Lord Paramount himself. He hid it well, and to most of his guests he seemed jolly enough, seated at the high table, smiling as he watched the dancers, and every now and then calling out a new song for the musicians to play. But those who knew Gendry Baratheon best picked up on the tension in his broad shoulders, and how his smiles never seemed to reach those famous blue eyes.

“I’m getting too old for these kinds of things,” Davos said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve as he sank into the seat beside Gendry.

Gendry looked at him askance. “You looked well enough when you were dancing Malora Gower across the room just now.”

“An act, lad, all an act. I was wheezing before she’d gotten me out of the chair. It’s you who should be down there, not me.”

“Don’t much feel like dancing." Gendry was only interested in dancing with one woman, and her version involved a lot more steel and the high possibility of bodily harm.

“You’re worried about the little lady,” Davos said. It wasn’t a question. But then, Davos had always been able to read Gendry with irritating accuracy.

Gendry didn’t bother denying it. Lifting his goblet, he drained its contents. “She should have been back by now." He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Three days to Sunspear. Three back. That’s how it’s always been.”

“You might not have noticed, but the weather hasn’t been fair for sailing.”

“Only the last day or two. She should have been back four days ago, at least.”

“Perhaps negotiations ran long.”

“Then why didn’t she send a raven?”

“Couldn’t tell you, lad. But I do know this: there’s not a single person the world over more capable of taking care of themselves than that wife of yours.”

Gendry knew it. He did. And yet…

“I just have this feeling.” It was the tiredness, Gendry told himself. He never slept well when Arya was away. On top of that, he’d been having strange dreams of late. In his dreams, shadowy figures crept down the halls of Storm’s End. Gendry chased after them, but as soon as he caught up they disappeared like smoke between his fingers. Just dreams. That’s all they are. Gendry shook his head, as though he could shake the thoughts from his mind the way a dog shook water from its fur. “You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

Standing abruptly, Gendry raised his goblet. “Stormlanders!” he called. As one, every face in the Great Hall turned toward the high table. In the five years since he had arrived at Storm’s End, Gendry had earned his people’s respect, and their love besides. He was a lord, well and truly, but he had also never forgotten where he came from. He spoke to farmers and masons the same way he spoke to lords and maesters, and the people loved him for it.

For a bastard who’d spent most of his life without a name, he now had more than most: The Blue-eyed Buck. The Bull of Storm’s End. The Lord of Steel. When they travelled abroad, Stormlanders boasted that their lord could swing a hammer better than the Smith himself. “We have gathered to celebrate the joining of two noble souls. To Bethany and Allesor. May yours be the happiest union in all the land.”

“Unfair, my lord,” Allesor called, grinning, from the middle of the floor, where he stood with his arm looped around his new wife’s waist. A stout, red haired young man with a broad face, Allesor was several inches shorter than his willowy Mertyns bride. “Everyone knows there is no happier union than that of you and your Lady Wolf.”

Gendry smile wryly. “The second happiest union, then.” He lifted his goblet. “To Allesor and Bethany!”

Echoes of Allesor and Bethany and The Lord and Lady of Broad Arch filled the room. As the shouts died down, the musicians took up their instruments once more, and soon the jaunty notes of The Maids that Bloom in Spring filled the hall, along with the clapping of hands and stomping of feet.

Gendry was reaching for the wine pitcher to refill his goblet when the doors to the Great Hall burst open and Steffon Penrose, the castellan’s son, stumbled inside. A slender, green-eyed youth, Steffon was breathing hard, his pale locks dark with rain. Rivers of water ran off the hem of his cloak onto the floor.

“What is it, lad?” Davos asked.

“A ship, m’lord,” Steffon gasped. “A ship has foundered in the bay. I was on the battlements with Hugh. We saw it run aground on the shoals.”

Fools, Gendry thought. Who would dare try the bay in weather such as this? Ships frequently ran aground below the castle—the sound wasn’t called Shipbreaker Bay for nothing. But even the most inexperienced crews knew better than to come so close to shore during a storm.

A question for another time, Gendry told himself. For now, they would do what they could for the poor souls.

“Allard, Boros, Criston, with me,” he said grimly, jumping down the dais. “Bring torches. We’ll search the beach for survivors.”

A damp passageway led from the bowels of the Storm’s End to the beach below. Long before they came to the tunnel’s entrance, Gendry could heard the wind howling against the bars of the portcullis, and the crash of waves thrashing against the castle walls. Every few moments lightning flashed, filling the cavern with strange greenish light.

Boros raised the portcullis, the groan of rusted iron adding to the howling of the storm, and Gendry stepped out into the gale. He was soaked to the bone in seconds. The rain fell in great, droving sheets, frigid needles stabbing at Gendry’s exposed skin. With the storm surge, the slip of land between the waterline and the cliffs had all but disappeared; only a narrow strip of beach remained.

In the distance, Gendry could just make out the outline of the doomed ship not far off shore. Bloody fools, Gendry thought again. What could they have been thinking?

The men’s torches flickered in and out, buffeted first this way, then that by the wind.

They found the first body by accident, Steffon tripping over it in the dark. At first Gendry took it for a clump of seaweed, then Boros lowered his torch and they saw it was a man lying face down in the sand.

“He alive?” Criston said hesitantly. Gendry thought he knew the answer. Still, he knelt beside the body and rolled it gently onto its side.

What he saw made his heart turn to ice in his chest.

“Seven hells,” Boros swore. “It’s Ben.”

They all knew that face—that wide nose, those pale green eyes. They belonged to Ben Horpe, the cook aboard the Winter Wind.

Arya’s ship.

Not far from Ben, they found Alyn Harding, the ship’s boatswain. A few feet away lay Alyn’s twin brother, Aidyn.

The crew of the Winter Wind littered the beach like chaff tossed to the wind, and everyone of them was dead.

Gendry no longer felt the sting of the rain, no longer heard the wind howling in his ears. His entire being had been taken over by a single, all encompassing thought.

Arya.

“My lord!” Criston had to shout to make himself heard over the crashing of the waves. He’d ventured away from the water, up toward the cliff face. Gendry turned toward him just in time for lightning to crack overhead, turning Criston’s anguished face whiter than bone, and illuminating the small form that lay at his feet.

No.

Gendry’s feet carried him to the cliffs of their own volition, and he collapsed beside Arya's body. Her face was turned away from him, dark hair plastered across her features, still he knew it was her. Even faceless, deep in the the seventh level of hell, he would have known her.

His hands hovered over her body, yet Gendry couldn’t bring himself to touch her. If he touched her this would be real and it couldn’t be real, it was just another dream, just another nightmare. Soon he would wake and Arya would be snoring softly beside him. But deep down Gendry knew this wasn’t a dream. Knew there would be no waking from the nightmare, not this time.

Steffon fell to his knees by Arya’s shoulders and dropped his ear to her chest.

Gendry had never been a man of faith, yet he found himself praying. Mother, Father, Warrior, Crone. If I have ever done anything to offend you, I repent. Just don’t take her from me.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Steffon’s head jerked up. His eyes were wide. “She’s alive! She’s alive, my lord!”

Alive?

That was all Gendry needed to hear. Life snapped back into his body. He scooped Arya into his arms—even soaking wet, she weighed nothing, less than nothing, how could something so precious take up so little space?—and then he was running, back to the passageway, back to the castle, his wife clutched to his chest, and his heartbeat thrashing in his ears.

#gendrya #arya x gendry #arya stark #gendry waters #gendry baratheon #got fic #game of thrones #asoiaf #*

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my-arya-underfoot · 5 years

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Starklings post-war speculation (book based)

You’ve talked before about Westeros after the Long Night and war and also a bit about the Starks roles (Bran being King in the North rather than Arya or Sansa). How do you think the Starks will fit into whatever happens ‘after’?

Finally answering your question anon, sorry for the long wait :/

Going off the theory of the post-Long Night Westeros undergoing social reform and breaking up into separate kingdoms again (maybe held together by a central council or alliance of some sort) - how do the Starklings fit into it all?

Not to get too emotional, but our bb’s are going to change the world. GRRM has put Bran, Arya, Sansa and Jon on specific development arcs, each honing particular skills, and I think those skills will be instrumental in the roles they’ll take on in rebuilding Westeros.

Arya

Based on the books so far, I’d bet a lot of money on Arya ultimately taking on a leadership role championing the smallfolk. (Linking back to Westeros’ probable social upheaval).

Her arc is saturated with witnessing the abuse of commoners and the warping of justice; from Mycah to Harrenhal to the Brotherhood to opposing the Faceless Men’s philosophy.

They'd let the queen kill Lady, that was horrible enough, but then the Hound found Mycah....And no one had raised a voice or drawn a blade or anything, not Harwin who always talked so bold, or Alyn who was going to be a knight, or Jory who was captain of the guard. Not even her father.

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. Most were women and children.

She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

Arya drew back from him. "He killed the slave?" That did not sound right.

GRRM seems to be setting her up a a representative of the smallfolk, pushing for a more just, egalitarian society and reforming oppressive laws. If a united council/leadership of sorts exists, then it’s entirely viable that Arya will be the one voicing the needs of the common people.

Imo, the role brings together all of Arya’s many strengths: a) being able to connect with and befriend anyone b) caring fiercely about justice and trying to take it into her own hands c) protecting the underdogs d) being a go-between/liaison between the highborn world she was born in and the commoners she became part of, e) travelling over a lot of Westeros and beyond.

(Maybe she’ll even take over the Brotherhood without Banners from her mother?? A group that was about helping the helpless but got warped by vengeance along the way – exactly what Arya is grappling with right now).

Also, worth mentioning Arya has lived outside of Westeros in Braavos, which has a different type of governing structure, giving her a broader perspective on ruling and society than most characters.

While she may be based in the North, given how much time Arya spent in the Riverlands – where the worst abuses of smallfolk and injustice took place – she may end up becoming a key figure there.

(…+ Gendry)

Moving more from speculation to wishful thinking – though not so wishful nowadays – it’s entirely conceivable Gendry would be involved in Arya’s endgame.

Gendry is one of the most prominent smallfolk characters, is vocal about his disdain of highborns and attracted to the early Brotherhood without Banners. Him being someone who helps Arya with her work and reforms would fit.

"Gendry, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children.” - Arya, ASoS

(Plus, with a side of forge sex and gowns of golden leaves).

Book-wise, I don’t think Arya will become Lady of Storms End: Ruler of one kingdom and lady of a castle seems very limiting for Arya, she’s had no connections to the Stormlands thus far and it would be weird for her resolution to suddenly become subservient to Gendry’s inheritance. I still think it’s more likely that Edric Storm will get Storms End.

(The show is a different matter and D&D have devalued Arya so much it’s anyone’s guess where she’ll end up).

So that’s my call for Arya.

Sansa

With Sansa, as a recurring foil to Arya it would make sense if her role in Westeros as the flipside of her sisters’ – while Arya is reforming the underbelly of Westeros, Sansa has been built to work amongst high lords.

Over the series, we’ve seen her hone her skills in court, among nobles and in politics; and apprentice to Littlefinger’s in the art of manipulation:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord." - ACoK

Tyrion led Sansa around the yard, to perform the necessary courtesies.She is good at this, he thought, as he watched her tell Lord Gyles that his cough was sounding better, compliment Elinor Tyrell on her gown, and question Jalabhar Xho about wedding customs in the Summer Isles. - Tyrion, ASoS

Sansa was asleep on her feet by then, wanting only to crawl off to her bed, but Petyr caught her by the wrist. "You see the wonders that can be worked with lies and Arbor gold?" - Sansa, AFFC

". . . Lord Nestor's claim to the Gates will suddenly be called into question. I promise you, that is not lost on him. It was clever of you to see it. Though no more than I'd expect of mine own daughter.""Thank you." She felt absurdly proud for puzzling it out...” - Sansa, AFFC

GRRM has indicated that Sansa is ideally suited for post-Long-Night politics, particularly in whatever network or council that’s put in place between kingdoms: Managing relationships between nations, negotiating treaties and agreements, smoothing over conflicts, brokering peace between parties; winning leaders over; image-management; the nitty-gritting politicking.

It would be satisfying if Sansa – who the world originally saw as nothing more than a pretty, airheaded wife-to-be – ends up doing the hard, complex, political brainwork.

In connection to all that, I honestly love the idea of Sansa as a Northern ambassador: She loves Winterfell but knows how to play the game in the South – so let her represent her kingdom and Northern interests to the rest of Westeros.

(Sansa seems to be heading towards becoming a politician akin to Tyrion or Littlefinger; while Bran, Dany and Jon have trained more for leadership and that is an important distinction and separate skillset).

(Again, this is book not show based, as the show is hammering us over the head with Sansa becoming ruler in the North/Lady of Winterfell, which…ok. I’ve talked before how unfortunately the writers have trampled over the other Starks siblings’ connections to their home to justify Sansa’s position).

Bran

All hail, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell, Bran the Rebuilder.

There are a lot of reasons why it makes sense for Bran to be the Stark rebuilding Winterfell and doing the day-to-day governing of its people:

He’s the one who’s spent the most time in the North; he’s the one we’ve actually seen being taught to rule as Lord of Winterfell; he’s the heir and first in-line; he’s connected to the deep, mystical heart of the North of the weirwood networks and greenseers, he has the Starkiest-of-Stark names of the former Stark Kings and legends.

Unlike Arya and Sansa, he hasn’t been to other parts of Westeros (apart from further North) and built as many relationships and learned about politics or dynamics in other places. He’s fully rooted in the North, Winterfell and its people.

There’s a much more detailed examination of why exactly Bran should be King in the North and Lord of Winterfell here, which says it much better than I can, but I don’t see how you can read these quotes, and think it will be anyone but Bran:

Bran could see all of Winterfell in a glance. He liked the way it looked spread out beneath him… It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know.” – AGoT

"Your notion about the bastard may have merit, Bran," Maester Luwin said after. "One day you will be a good lord for Winterfell, I think." – ACoK

“The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.” – AcoK

“You are only a boy, I know, but you are our prince as well, our lord's son and our king's true heir. We have sworn you our faith by earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire….we are your servants to command.” - ASoS

(I’m not expecting robot!Bran to get king/lordship in the show – D&D massacring his character and turning him into an emotionless, Google search bar is still imo one of the worst things they’ve done imo).

As for all the theories for Sansa (and more rarely Arya) becoming Queen in the North, I actually think that role is too limiting for both of them – they’ve travelled over Westeros and seem suited to having much wider role than just Northerners. That’s not to say the two of them– and Jon if he lives – couldn’t have a place in their home, be based at Winterfell and travel further afield; it doesn’t mean they couldn’t advice Bran or work for the good of the North; it doesn’t mean they would be Princesses of Winterfell. It’s just there’s a hell lot more foreshadowing for King Bran.

(…+ Meera)

So, if we’re going to have any Queen in the North, it’s gotta be Meera. The gods only know how much the Reeds deserve it and Bran is literally hearteyes already.

Jon (...+ Dany)

Much as it physically pains me to admit it, chances are Jon and Dany will die saving the world: As many have said, they’ve got ‘messiah’ written all over them. As GRRM has always said – in the end the throne doesn’t matter, the ultimate fight is about the living. So, for Jon and Dany, it makes sense their ultimate fate wouldn’t be getting the throne but ensuring there’s a Westeros left to rebuild at all.

The only thing that makes me doubt them kicking it, is the sheer amount of time GRRM has spent giving the pair leadership training (see above point with Bran) as Lord Commander and Queen of Meereen respectively. GRRM’s issue with wanting to justify having a ‘good ruler’ in the end and not just ‘they ruled wisely’ gives me a smidge of hope the two of them might make it.

So, playing a fun game of if they survive; they’d logically be the ones getting the different kingdoms to cooperate, managing a central council/alliance, leading change, and acting as symbols of peace and the future. With the upheaval and massive change Westeros would be facing, they’re both leaders who would be equipped to forge a new way.

Both of them have experience in upending old systems, ushering in new eras and struggling to make different groups cooperate – Jon with the Nights Watch making peace with the Free Folk, the Nights Watch and the North; and Dany in Meeren with the slaves and former slave-owners.

Of course, it didn’t go perfectly, but they were learning and sure as hell have more experience than anyone else in taking on the role of rebuilding Westeros and forcing newly-independent kingdoms to cooperate.

Again, it may be Daenerys’ “I want to break the wheel” is a clumsy way of the writers trying to set that up.

Bonus: Tyrion and Davos

I’d put Tyrion’s chances of survival above Jon and Dany’s, but way below Bran, Arya and Sansa’s. In the books it does seem likely he’ll be the third head of the dragon and will be joining Jon and Dany on their mission to martyrdom.

That said, if he does survive, like Sansa he’d be ideal to play a role on a centralized council.

Out of the main characters he’s the one who spent the most time doing actual politicking in Kings Landing; he’s recognised for his brain; the main character who’s been up-close with the inner workings of government and was excellent acting as Hand. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility he’d be able to flex all those muscles in forcing post-Westeros leaders to work with each other and manage the logistics of rebuilding the kingdom.

Preferably Davos will get to retire, raise his remaining kids and live a quiet life. But in adding to the social upheaval and how he’s played the role of bringing in a different perspective to Stannis’ court and moved from commoner to lord, I’d put him in the running of being one of the main voices and architects of post-war Westeros.

#asoiaf theory #asoiaf speculation #asoiaf ending

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kee-writestrashh · 5 years

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To Marry a Bastard

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

summary: Before there were the Bastard’s Bitches, the Black Sheep, the Wicked Ones, and the Red King’s to worry about there was only the Bastard’s Boys. Before there was a bun in the oven there was a possessive, obsessive love. There was raw emotion. There was a rowdy group of men who frequented a small, hole in wall, bar…. There was something evil behind that smirk. But there was also something needing and wanting behind those cold blue eyes.

**prequel to Guns for Hire

Chap 1 || Chap 2

chapter song

Chapter 3: ‘Cuz This is THRILLER

×××Ramsay×××

”You’re late.” Roose said in his usual cool tone.

Ramsay frowned, but placed his jacket over the back of the chair and sat, rolling up his sleeves a little. For the end of October the days were still unseasonably warm. He pulled at his tie a bit and relaxed into the handsome leather chair before speaking. “Apologies, father. Traffic was a disaster. There was a wreck apparently.”

”Never mind that now. We have business to discuss.” Roose said curtly, setting his pen down and pushing the papers he was signing away from him.

”Yes, yes. Numbers. Everything is in working order. Why can’t I work here? Do you have any idea how much I hate the bank?” Ramsay said, words tumbling slightly.

”I have told you. I don’t trust anyone with our money but us. I need you at the bank to make sure everything is taken care of.”

Ramsay sighed, feeling ruffled. He could still do the same work by working here in the family company. Domeric did. “Yes but—“

”There are no buts Ramsay.” Roose cut across him. His voice never raised, but there was a finality in his tone to not be challenged.

Ramsay tutted, turning his eyes to the window to avoid looking at his father. Always being reprimanded like some child. It stung. Never as good as perfect little Domeric. Fucking prick. “Well, all accounts are accounted for. However, it has come to my attention that account c-one ten has made no change in two months.”

Roose considered his son in a few moments silence before nodding. “Take care of it.”

Ramsay turned his eyes back to his father and raised a brow. “How?”

”Any way you see fit.”

Ramsay cracked a wide, maliciously insane smile. “And the losses?”

”Will be picked up and added elsewhere.”

Ramsay nodded, still wearing his manic grin. “If that is all then... It’s Halloween. I have a fun night planned.”

”Then you will call your brother from the city jail and not me.” Roose said dismissively, picking up his pen again and turning back to the papers before him.

×××(y/n)×××

"Your skirt could be just a bit shorter." Olyvar said, bumping you out of the way of the mirror with his bony hip, to finish his zombie make up.

"Probably. But, I'd rather not be molested by ghosts and ghouls tonight." You chuckled, placing your fox ears on.

"Fair." Olyvar nodded. "You know, I was thinking... Maybe throwing you a big party. Kinda like a twenty first birthday, friendiversary kind of thing. I mean, you've been here three years now, and I couldn't imagine a more fun coworker than you."

You turned to Olyvar and beamed, "You don't have to do that. It's not a big deal. Just hanging out with you is enough of a party."

"Well, yes, but..." Olyvar shrugged. "Are we ready to have a monster mash?"

"Only if it's a graveyard smash." You winked with a giggle and leaving the bathroom of your apartment.

There was something about this little bar that you loved. Maybe it was the sense of freedom it brought you after your abrupt leave from home and never looking back. It was a fresh start, and at 18 when you had taken the job, you couldn't have been anymore grateful. You also loved the people who came in. Regardless of status or occupation, they were all here to have a good time, and you would make sure to deliver. You and Olyvar were a seamless team, and the Old Man, as you called your boss, well, he made sure to pay you both well for the fantastic job you both did in keeping the place well beyond the 'up to scratch' mark.

The costumes filling up the bar were grand. Some well thought out, others made you giggle. You stood behind the bar, filling orders, exchanging cash, and reminding people to enter the costume contest. The music upbeat, and Halloween classics in between dances. It was probably your favorite holiday at the bar. Sure, Christmas was fun, but all in all, watching people get hammered in naughty nurse and Pyramid Head costumes was the highlight of the year.

xxx(Ramsay)xxx

"Oh cheer up. She was a whore, and you knew that in high school." Ramsay tutted, adjusting one of his cufflinks and smoothing out his tie.

Alyn looked over the top of his glass and frowned at Ramsay, "Okay, yeah sure. But Skinner?"

Ramsay shrugged, "He has class. And he's a lawyer, and he lives in the land of always sunny and warm. Get over yourself. Just fuck half the bitches that show up on your Tinder and call it even. Now come on, we have fun shit to do."

"Like?"

"Well, we have a insufficient funds account to dispose of, and then we are going to get hammered. Ben and Damon should have the account moved by now." Ramsay said, placing his fedora jauntily atop his head and giving a haughty sniff.

Alyn sighed and gave Ramsay a look over, "Capone?"

"Mhm." Ramsay hummed, lighting a cigarette, nudging Alyn's foot with a wingtipped shoe and making his way to the door. "I've been dying for an excuse to use a Tommy, and what better way to do it than on Halloween, masquerading as Al Capone?"

"Fair." Alyn said, finally standing from the couch and following Ramsay out the door.

It was a quick drive across town. The sun had just started to set and children were beginning to emerge in their Batman and Elsa costumes. Something about Halloween made Ramsay giddy and animated. Maybe it was the mix of candies and alcohol. The fact that he could wear blood on him in public, and no one would think twice about it. Or just simply for the fact that mentally, as smart as he was, Ramsay was often childlike in his actions.

He and Alyn got out of the car behind an old warehouse the Boltons kept for tax purposes. They no longer stored manufactured goods here, but it still brought a tax break. And it was a secure place that Roose had allotted for Ramsay to 'take out the trash' when it involved family business means. Though, Ramsay was left on his own when he was to play his games for his own leisure purposes. Business only. And tonight it was business before party.

They entered the building to find Damon and Ben already set up. More or less. Damon and Ben sat at a small table in the corner, playing cards, waiting on Ramsay to show up and take care of the man they had gagged and bound to a chair. Alyn wandered over to take a seat with Damon and Ben, who didn't even bother to give a look at who had entered. All of this was like walking through motions. They Boys knew what to expect, and so they just let their boss get on with it.

Ramsay crossed to the man in the chair, kneeling down before his victim and cracked a wide, manic grin. He took in the beads of sweat forming in the man's hairline and popping eyes. He already smelt like piss and regret. Perhaps this wouldn't be as fun as he had anticipated, maybe he should just gut the fucker and go drown in a bottle of whiskey. "I suppose you know why you're here?" He said sweetly to the man.

At once the man tried to shift in his seat and speak out. The gag obscured his words however, and that seemed to send him into a heavier panic. Tugging harder at the cuffs on his hands and feet. Squirming this way and that at the rope around his chest. Eyes now bulging with fear when Ramsay pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped the blade open. He could hear the panicked breathing as he placed the knife to the man's cheek.

"You haven't paid anything in two months. That's not how it works. Not a fucking charity here. And judging by your shoes, you aren't a charity fucking case. Two hundred dollars a week for six months really wasn't a bad idea. And now a little girl is going to be without a father. Her mother already a drunk. And no daddy there to stand between the two. Sad time's we're living in, pal. But you did do it to yourself." Ramsay sneered, pressing the blade into the man's cheek. The man made more aggressive movements and more muffled pleading, but Ramsay had already grown bored.

"Dame, come hold his head. I wasn't a clear throat here." Ramsay snapped, glancing over at the Boys.

Damon jumped up from his seat and crossed the room quickly, taking the man's sweaty hair in his fingers and forcing his head up. It was a quick slice, spattering Ramsay in blood. He gave a satisfied smirk before wiping the blade off on his sleeve. He closed the blade and returned it to his pocket as he shook back the sleeve of his suit jacket and checked the time. "We have...?"

"A wood chipper out back." Ben said, tossing cards down and turning to look at Ramsay.

"Oh goodie." Ramsay chuckled, looking down at the bleeding out mess before him. "Well first, one of you get the Tommy. I've been itching to shoot it. And then we will dump him in the chipper, and drinks are on me all night."

"Where we going?" Damon asked, wiping his hands off on his pants.

"That one place." Ramsay said, waving a careless hand.

"Ah. Gonna make eyes at the chick behind the counter, but still not talk to her, huh?" Damon chuckled, giving Ramsay a wink.

Ramsay snorted, "Yeah, something like that." He nodded. How the girl had been plaguing his mind for days on end now, and he wasn't sure why. He usually didn't obsess over people. He was materialistic. He didn't form attachment. Not to anyone other than Damon, who had been his friend for the last twenty years. But something about the woman, (Y/N) Damon had said, had caught his attention and refused to let go. Like some kind of invisible bond that neither were aware of. But he was going to change that.

---

"Oh my goodness, go turn the AC up or something. I'm fucking melting over here." You said when Olyvar passed you.

It was only 10 pm and you were so ready to go home. Slinging drinks was turning into a sloppy mess, thanks to those who were overly intoxicated. Your eyes continuously falling on a group of men in the back corner who were laughing and carrying on. Chicks here and there stopping to pay them attention, and occasionally flash their tits that were already falling out of their tops. You noticed that two of them were guys from a few nights ago that had caught your attention then too. Olyvar commented on this many times.

"Just go talk to them, bring them refills or something." He coaxed many times.

However, you had declined each time. Your face flushing every time you even caught the profile of the shortest one of the group. His dark hair, hauntingly blue eyes, and that wicked smirk. His costume was your favorite by far. Because it was more realistic than most you had seen throughout the night. You shook your head, remembering what you were supposed to be doing and pulling your eyes away from the loud group. One idiot, lively and animated, climbing up on the table and telling some wild story that only bits and pieces you could make out over the other patrons talk and laughter, and loud music from all around.

You had kept yourself busy by filling more drinks, cutting people off, and calling cabs for those that were too drunk to make the call themselves.

Turning when you felt the presence of a customer behind you, you felt your cheeks redden and air leave your lungs. He was even cuter up close, and he knew it. His bold grin told you so.

"Shot of Jack." He said, looking past you.

"Sure thing." You said almost breathlessly, grabbing a shot glass and the bottle behind you.

As you slid the glass across the counter he brushed your hand with his. He glanced up and looked at you.

And is was as if the world had fallen away. You could have sworn he drew a sharp breath as your heart skipped many beats. Your face warmed and you looked away quickly, pulling your hand back awkwardly.

He threw back the shot, set the glass down gently, and slid a crisp $100 across the counter.

"Keep the change, doll." He hummed, standing from the stool and sliding an old receipt toward you as well.

You opened your mouth to speak but he had already walked away, and was heading out of the bar with the group of men he had come in with.

You took the money and the receipt. It had a number written on it. As if in a hurry.

You fell into the seat of your car and pulled your phone out.

[You: you gave me your number but didn't leave a name.]

You stared down at your phone, wondering if he would...

[unknown: let me take you out on a date Wednesday night and I'll give you a name. Goodnight, doll.]

[You: deal. Goodnight, mysterious nobody.]

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samwpmarleau · 7 years

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for the request: Daemon II + ghost!Valarr

He expects to see Matarys, when he dies. He expects to see Grandfather, and Mother, and Father, but Mat most of all. He has to apologize. He’d called his brother stupid one night then Mother had sent them to bed, and by morning Mother was dead—she must have been ill long before that, but she never let on—and Mat was unconscious. It took a day for him to die, and Valarr himself followed within the week.

I didn’t mean any of it, Mat, he wants to say. You look so much like Father that it was easier for me to be cruel to you, but I didn’t mean it.

Instead, all he sees is white. No family, no nothing, just endless white.

“Is anyone here?” he calls out. He turns in a circle, but still—nothing. White, and silence. “Anyone? What is this?”

Is this to be his punishment? Are the gods shaming him for not living up to his father? The great Baelor Breakspear, invincible, the Warrior reborn, handsome, charming, generous, the greatest crown prince of them all…Valarr is none of that. He’s only ever had a shred of any of those. Handsome enough, charming enough, skilled enough, but never special.

He would never know true renown, never know what it feels like to triumph legitimately over a fearsome opponent like Father did over Daemon Blackfyre. He would only ever draw the easy matches, or opponents who throw the tilt to make him look good.

Mat had been the one who showed signs of having their father’s prowess. The master-at-arms had been genuinely proud when Mat accomplished something, where it was almost always resignation when he trained Valarr.

Surely, this must be the gods’ wrath for his sins. What kind of older brother is envious of his younger? What kind of future king lets men lose on purpose against him? Mayhaps his son will be his better, if he has one. Kiera should be safe, she’ll have made it to Dragonstone by now, and Aerys has the most talented maesters in the realm. Perhaps Valarr can be the father of a great king, at least. That’s better than having no legacy to speak of, is it not?

It’s as he’s pondering this that a flash of black catches his eye, and he scrambles to find it again. “Mat?” he asks aloud. It had looked like his brother’s hair, dark and long. “Matarys! Where are you? Brother!”

And then he sees it again, and he runs towards it—then pitches forward. He shuts his eyes against a fall that never comes, and when he opens them, the white is gone. Or, rather, different. He’s staring up at the pristine white walls of a giant castle, and instantly sounds assault his ears, sounds and color.

Could it be this was all just a fever dream? Could it be he’d just passed out and now he’s…all right, he’s not sure where he is, but it feels real. A woman holding the hand of a small child approaches him and he hurries towards her. “My lady, I’ve lost my way,” he says. “Could you tell me where I am?”

She doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at him. Well, she’s rude, but he does take after his father in looks far more than his mother; perhaps the woman didn’t like that. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had regarded him in disdain. The figure with the black hair is no longer in sight, but then Valarr sees a different figure, a pair of figures—a small boy with a shaved head, and a man at least half a foot taller than Father.

Joy blooms in his chest as he sprints across the field. If they’re here, then no doubt he is here, too! “Cousin! Ser Duncan!” he yells. “Cousin, I’m all right, see?” But Egg doesn’t look at him either, nor the knight, despite the fact that Valarr is right in front of them. “Egg? Egg, can’t…can’t you see me?”

“Come, lad,” says Ser Duncan. “Let’s find a place.”

They walk forward—no, through. Egg walks through him, as though he’s…he’s…

Abruptly, the boy whirls around with a frown, and shivers. “Lad?” prompts Ser Duncan. “What is it?”

“I just felt…cold for a moment,” says Egg. He shakes his head and turns back around. “Forget it, ser.”

“Aegon!” he tries one last time, but the boy and his knight keep walking, perfectly oblivious, and Valarr feels his feeble hope shatter into a thousand pieces.

This isn’t real. No, he isn’t real. He’s some kind of specter or ghost or something. Is this the destiny the gods chose for him? Is he to spend eternity as a haunt? Is he bound to this castle or to Egg? Or is he bound to nothing? And what had become of the glimmer of Mat that he’d seen? Or had that not been Mat at all? But if not Mat, then who?

He feels a curious pull then, like a string yanked taut, and with a forlorn glance at his retreating cousin, he lets the feeling guide him through the grounds and into the castle, up a winding staircase and into someone’s chambers, and then the pull stops. He looks around, confused, only to see a man emerge from behind a dressing screen, a man with dark hair. But it’s not Mat, not remotely. This man has skin near as pale as the walls of the castle, and eyes like Egg’s. There’s something familiar about him, too, but Valarr can’t place it.

“Why am I here?” he cries heavenward. “What do you want from me?”

There’s no answer, of course there isn’t, and as Valarr tries to leave—maybe if he talks to Egg again, he can make him hear—he finds that his feet are bound to the floor. He stares at the black-haired man in the room again; is this who he’s supposed to haunt?

“Who are you?” he asks.

He’s spared from wondering much longer when a pudgy man with lank blond hair enters the room and closes the door. “Alyn,” greets the black-haired man. “How is it looking?”

“No one you shouldn’t be able to best, Your Grace.” Valarr feels as though someone has staved in his chest. Your Grace? No…it couldn’t be…

“I will show them all that I am my father’s son,” says the man. Says Daemon Blackfyre. Valarr knows now why he’d been struck with that odd feeling earlier. He hasn’t seen Daemon since…gods, since they were children. It had only been once, but Valarr remembers the boy as goodnatured, friendly even. Everything his sire was not.

Valarr finds he has no choice but to follow Daemon through the tourney, listen as he tells everyone he is John the Fiddler, as he becomes smitten with Ser Duncan of all people. He nearly loses his mind when Egg is endangered, but somehow, some way, his cousin comes through alive, as does the hedge knight and even brave, broken Glendon Flowers. Valarr almost sobs in relief when he sees the army crest the hill; for the first time in a week, the gods let him leave Daemon’s side, and it is to Lord Bloodraven’s tent he rushes. He’s his last hope, his only hope.

“Uncle,” Valarr tries, once they’re alone.

He doesn’t know why he’s bothering, in truth. The woman hadn’t heard him, Egg hadn’t heard him, why would Lord Bloodraven be any different? Except the Hand tilts his head curiously, and looks around the room that to his reckoning is perfectly empty, and Valarr’s breath catches.

“Uncle Brynden, can you hear me? It’s Valarr. Please, tell me you at least can hear me.”

Bloodraven’s voice is little more than a murmur. “Baelor’s boy…”

“Yes,” Valarr exclaims. “Yes, it’s me! I’m trapped, uncle. You have to help me. Your magic—it can free me from this place, can’t it?”

He lurches forward and touches Bloodraven’s arm. He doesn’t shiver like Egg did, but his hand clenches into a fist and then relaxes. “This is the work of the gods,” he says. “They have taken you where I cannot reach, little prince.”

Valarr sinks to the floor, feeling more hopeless than ever. Bloodraven extends his hand, and for a moment, Valarr could swear he could feel his uncle’s palm on his shoulder, solid and warm. “What am I to do?”

He doesn’t have to see Bloodraven’s frown to know the connection has been severed. He lets out a scream heard by no one and his vision goes white, the same whiteness as when he’d first entered this astral hell, and then he’s gone from Bloodraven’s tent and instead in a dank cellar.

No, not a cellar, a cell, lit by not so much as a torch. Valarr would think himself alone, were it not for the faint breaths of a figure curled up on the floor. Valarr crouches down and tries to identify his companion, but he can’t make out a single feature.

“Who’s there?” asks the figure, jolting upright. His voice is a rasp, but Valarr recognizes it nonetheless.

“Daemon?” These are unmistakably the Black Cells, so if Daemon is here, it must have been Lord Bloodraven’s doing. He supposes he can’t blame him. As much as Daemon is not like his father, he had nevertheless attempted a coup against the crown. Valarr leans against the stone wall and grumbles, “I’m stuck with you again, am I?”

“Who’s there?”

“Prince Valarr,” he sighs. Bloodraven had heard him, sort of, but Daemon is no mage. “It’s Prince Valarr and I’m a bloody ghost and the gods want me to spend forever in this accursed place. At least you’re alive.”

Daemon shudders, though Valarr doesn’t know if it’s because of him or the cell. “Are you here to hurt me?”

“No,” says Valarr, not that Daemon can hear him. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“Then I’m glad you’re here, whatever you are. I am glad to not be alone. Will you stay?”

Valarr doubts he could leave anyway, but he finds himself feeling sorry for the man. Perhaps Daemon had not wanted to rebel because he wanted to usurp the throne, but because he felt he had no choice. Perhaps Daemon had always felt beholden to his father’s legacy the same way Valarr had. Perhaps they are not so different. At least Father had not named Valarr after himself.

“I’ll stay.”

He doesn’t know how long he stays, exactly, even though Father had taught him how to measure time without the sun. He supposes the cells were designed that way, or maybe being dead has something to do with it. What he does know is that Daemon’s health steadily begins to decline as time passes.

He had talked aloud at first, meaningless drivel or stories of his time in Tyrosh, or anecdotes about his father that had made Valarr’s fists clench in righteous anger. But not at this Daemon, never at this one. The talking dwindles, though, and Daemon spends more and more time asleep, and more than once he refuses the food the gaoler brings him even though he’s only fed weekly.

He’s going to die, Valarr realizes. And then what? Will the gods be satisfied at forcing me to watch a man starve to death? And what of Bittersteel? Is he to crown Haegon with Daemon dead? Will the circle go round and round and round forever, Blackfyre against Targaryen until no one’s left?

He had already watched so many perish, and he’s tired. Can ghosts get tired? Somehow, he knows Daemon is the answer, he has to be.

In all this time, he’s never touched Daemon; the cells are cold enough as it is, and he’s never wanted to make his companion any colder. But he touches him now, to wake him from his slumber. “Get up,” he commands. “I’m getting you out of here and you will live, and you will renounce all claims to the throne. Aerys will not listen, so you will go to my uncle Maekar at Summerhall and you will act in good faith as your father never did. You will help my uncle eradicate Bittersteel. The Blackfyres will never again threaten my family, do you understand?”

Daemon is so quiet that Valarr thinks he’s fallen asleep again, but then, in scarcely a whisper— “I understand.”

Valarr doesn’t know how the information comes to him, how he knows to tell Daemon which hinges are rusted through or where the secret passage is or any of it. Daemon’s movements are clumsy from exhaustion and malaise, but he follows Valarr’s instructions to the letter and finally emerges from the passageway into the dark of night.

“Summerhall,” Valarr commands again. “Go to Summerhall.”

Daemon nods and Valarr closes his eyes. When he opens them again, it is not the white he saw before, but his little brother.

#valarr targaryen #daemon ii blackfyre #asoiaf #gotfic #my fic #i know daemon died years later as a hostage #but i’m going to pretend he was held here for a few weeks then would have been taken to the castle #but ghost!valarr got him out first #compliance: canon #(sort of)#pliocenecat

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janiedean · 7 years

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There are people in the Theon tag saying we need to stop using the "I should have died with him" quote because it only holds Theon back and then others are reblogging it and tagging it with "Get over this line" and then someone made a gifset with that line and the same person was complaining in the notes about it saying that line has no place in the episode 4 scene with Theon and Jon. and yes these are the same people who hate the books and love the show. They've taken over the Theon tag.

hmmm. OKAY. SO. I cannot sadly reblog that post because I’m blocked by both parties in this story and whatever (NOT the person who made the gifset we all know who we’re talking about trololol *sigh*) but like, I read that post and fuck this noise, as someone who has basically started going into throbb hell thanks to that line and a lot of other shit I honestly have no fucks left to give on this matter so please let me say a few things.

first thing, saying that theon ‘can’t get over that line’ is already not understanding what the fuck that line is there for. thing is: he’s been feeling guilty SINCE A CLASH OF KINGS. the moment he realizes that robb was the person who was his home is the moment he accepts that he did wrong things and he lets it fucking go. or at least he lets it go enough to save jeyne’s hide and do one of the two heroic things people did in these books along with jaime saving brienne. that’s not about him being ridden by guilt, is theon admitting to himself what he had been denying since book two therefore making peace with the part of him who had betrayed robb which is what had been haunting him since acok among the rest but that he hadn’t quite been able to put into words.

like. he realizes he should have died with him. he realizes he’s lost the one person who liked him/cared about him for how he was. that’s the exact moment where every other thread in his story comes to a turning point and where he has to decide who the hell he is and what he wants to do with this life.

turns out he wants to be theon (not theon greyjoy or reek or whatever, theon, aka the person robb knew and who robb thought was an a+ person enough to stay friends with him for years but NEVER MIND THAT) and that what he wants to do is saying fuck you to ramsay, saving jeyne and jumping out of the castle. says something about how realizing that is not a bad thing for him that he put two and two together.

he wasn’t with robb but he wanted to be, and if he had died with robb he wouldn’t have gone through torture and shit which is honestly a good appeal, but the point is that he wanted to be with robb because robb was the one person who valued him and he’d have suffered a lot less but whatever. obv I’m glad he’s not dead. I also wish robb was not dead. but idk last time I wrote fanfic where they did die at the RW all the comments were ‘still less sad than canon’, everyone draw their conclusions.

I also want theon to move on and live a happy life, and the reason he can do it is that he realized he should have been with robb who was the one person who thought the world of him and he’s actually being that person right now without having to hide it because he can’t give two fucks. if he hadn’t come to that realization he could not live a happy life. because he’d be still torn by it. now that he realized it and he made peace with it, he can move on. he couldn’t move on if he hadn’t reached that stage and now that he’s lived up to what robb thought of him he can move the hell on.

he’s not beating himself on the head. he’s working through his guilt and succeeding at it, which the show is doing two seasons too late but never mind, and I hope he gets that defining moment in here too because he didn’t (yet, idk, I haven’t watch the last episode) and THAT WAS HIM REALIZING HE HAD TO MOVE ON. IT’S NOT UNHEALTHY GDI and tbh from two people who love the show best to say that when theon’s been carrying a lot more guilt on the show than in the book is like… what the fuck? then complain to d&d. book!theon’s been done with guilt the moment he jumped out of the walls with jeyne, or at least he’s been done with it enough that he can move on. show!theon hasn’t done that yet.

and he’s looked ahead THE MOMENT HE SAVED JEYNE RATHER THAN LETTING THE BOTH OF THEM DIE AND GO BACK TO RAMSAY like good lord how you don’t read that that way idk but it’s plenty obvious.

if they don’t like that quote, fine. but they really didn’t understand what the hell it’s about and if they didn’t realize that throughout all of adwd theon thought of robb when he wanted to think about when he was happy and not when he was feeling guilty idk what they were paying attention to. too bad because that’s exactly what happened but I guess it requires actually…… paying attention to the book which they already said to hell and back that they don’t like, which is okay. but can they let us people who like the book fucking live?

I’ve been throbb trash since I read that quote. I’ve been throbb trash about that quote for six years. I am never going to get over that damned line. a lot of other people will not either. They can go and make peace with it because the theon tag is full of people who like his and robb’s relationship and seeing it reduced to that and being told that we should get over it when theon’s relationship with robb is what saved his hide because if he didn’t have it he wouldn’t have had a point of reference for good memories/a support system is frankly ridiculous and I have no time for this. No, I’m not getting over it. Yes, it’s a fundamental line for theon’s char development. Feel free to dislike it but then stick to the show and don’t tell anyone to get over that fucking line. And given that basically that line is 90% of the reason why I’m this fandom, this sub-fandom and this ship and I certainly want theon to move on and be happy and so would robb, I find it honestly ridiculous to be told I should get over it. If there’s a reason so many people like it, ask yourself why and for the love of god stop trying to convince us all that the show version is better or that there’s nothing special about the book version.

(Now, this is not on the line but you mentioned the gifset so since I’m here: nice totally unwarranted trashing of poor kit’s acting huh? because obviously he can’t act and he has ‘his usual blank look’? listen, this is a post about theon and I love alfie’s acting and we all know that and I really goddamned do but I’ve seen just that frame and went like FUCKING HELL KIT WHY DO YOU HURT ME SO and like…. wow, nice putting them against each other when kit’s actually fairly good, has gotten really better from S4 onwards, is basically dragging half of this show on his shoulders and is not a bad actor at all all the contrary? christ, wow, amazing, apparently every single intention behind alfie’s acting is crystal clear and they know better than all of us but kit’s acting is ‘blank’ because he always has the same face? yeah no he doesn’t and it’d take watching any scene he was on in the last three years to see that he doesn’t and that it was really low. like. amazing. I knew someone was gonna put it on the acting side. I’ve known that since I knew jon and theon were meeting again. I’M NOT SURPRISED.)

tldr: no I’m not getting over this line, no a lot of other people are not getting over this line, and they should make damned peace with it because there’s a reason it’s a lot of people’s favorite line.

in conclusion:

Theon led the way up the stairs. I have climbed these steps a thousand times before. As a boy he would run up; descending, he would take the steps three at a time, leaping. Once he leapt right into Old Nan and knocked her to the floor. That earned him the worst thrashing he ever had at Winterfell, though it was almost tender compared to the beatings his brothers used to give him back on Pyke. He and Robb had fought many a heroic battle on these steps, slashing at one another with wooden swords. Good training, that; it brought home how hard it was to fight your way up a spiral stair against determined opposition. Ser Rodrik liked to say that one good man could hold a hundred, fighting down.That was long ago, though. They were all dead now. Jory, old Ser Rodrik, Lord Eddard, Harwin and Hullen, Cayn and Desmond and Fat Tom, Alyn with his dreams of knighthood, Mikken who had given him his first real sword. Even Old Nan, like as not.

And Robb. Robb who had been more a brother to Theon than any son born of Balon Greyjoy’s loins. Murdered at the Red Wedding, butchered by the Freys. I should have been with him. Where was I? I should have died with him.

thanks for the attention, I realize I’m coming off like an asshole, I honestly can’t with this thing where important lines from the books get demoted to ‘but they’re not important’ anymore and I’m not required playing nice at this point.

and given that jon’s had survivor’s guilt since he learned that robb died (but they wouldn’t know since from what I gathered they only read theon’s chapters so they obviously hadn’t read jon’s) it’s absolutely plausible that jon’s thinking the exact same thing. let that damned gifset live and let us book fans live.

#theon greyjoy #well okay there i've done that #the hell is this travesty #i should get over that line lol #they'll write that line on my fucking tombstone #that's how i'll get over it #otp: now and always #good fucking grief #ch: jon snow #game of thrones spoilers #i guess #wank for ts #extra wank for ts #notte e giorno faticar per chi nulla sa gradir #janie writes meta #anonymous #ask post #little grunge blueberry

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herdhamon-blog · 7 years

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New town

The Past “Life can be a funny thing.” Something my father always told me growing up as a boy. He would say “Son, life can be a funny thing.” I never ask him what he meant by that but what could the answer be. I was pretrans (it what we vampires were before we become an adult vampire.) When my father came to me again saying, “Son, life can be a funny thing.” He would always leave it at that but for some reason it had piss me off and I turned to him asking, “What the fuck does that mean father?” I knew I made the mistake but I was tired of that same damn line from him and never giving me an answer … until now “you will soon find out son what it means.” Later on that night, my mahmen came to my room to see if I would come down for last meal. When I went to get up I was so tired that everything hurt my head, my body and my eyes. My mahmen came rushing to my side when she saw that I was hurting and sat next to me. “Are you alright Dhamisnos?” I only nodded my head even though it hurt. My mahmen got up from my bed and went out of my room but before she left she said something. “I'll be right back son, so no worries ok.” I nodded again and lay back down on my bed. I found out later that night I was about to hit my transition or I was in the middle of it but it lasted a few days and nights. Some time later I saw my mahmen there or my father. At some point my father sat next to me on my bed and look at me saying, “Son, life can be a funny thing.” I was getting mad at him for that damn line but I couldn't even open my mouth since it hurt to damn much. Looking up at him was even a challenge but I did my best so that he could tell that I wanted answers to that line of his. My father finally gave me my answer when I woke up again, everything around me seem different like I was seeing things with new eyes and hearing things with better ears. My parents were in the room with me but when I took a deep breath there was another scent but that of a female. It turns out she was there for me to feed from and maybe she would be my mate. The Present I do have to laugh at the fact that my father was right about one thing, life is a funny thing because my parents thought I would be mated to that female who I feed from but it turns out she didn't want me or I her. I was getting dress in my black shirt and my black leather pants, with my black boots. Walking out of my bedroom after the shutters went up making my way down the grand stairs of my family home. The home I grew up in till now. At the bottom of the stairs I had all of my belongings packed in bags and was leaving this house all because of the work I do that my father thought is was better to kick me out than keep a son who as he said was a disgrace to this family. I wanted to laugh at this. My father said that the Glymera would not tolerated this kind of behavior from a male of worth since my father was and his father was. Well too damn bad and if only my father knew who really hired me he might change his tone but too bad for that. I was sworn to secrecy from the male who hired me. I pick up all of my bags and carried them to my new car since the job I have I could afford this ride and not accept a dime from my father. Packing the trunk up with my things, I take one last look at the house I was born and raised in. Seeing that both my parents were not at the door to wish me well spoke volumes to me. I knew my mahmen hated that I was kicked out but since my father was still alive she had to follow his rules. Before I had left that house I did some digging in my father’s desk and found out that I had a cousin in Caldwell, NY who is a nurse. I wonder if she wouldn't mind a little visit from her dear older cousin and in on a little secret that our fathers had. I had to laugh at how my father did his business that ruined any man but the sad part about it was it was his own brother, Alyne. I had taken those papers as proof for her to see what had really happened to her father as a result from my father. I climb into my black and blue 2017 Maserati GranTurismo Sport car, turning the car down the drive and out of my family property and heading start for NY. Luckily, I had found a place in Caldwell and it was the best place money can buy. When I finally reach Caldwell, NY I had about three hours before the sunrise before I toast my ass. I had to pass the two security fanced gates that I had ask to be put around this property to keep the lesser outs and to also keep me safe as well because of the job I did. Speaking of jobs, I needed to get in contact with my boss and see what he or who I needed to remove from this world. Good thing my doggen came and took my things up to my room. I headed for my office to check in with my boss and see what he needed me to do for tonight’s job. As I sat behind my desk, I pull out the documents that my father had concerning his hand in the business that destroyed my uncle. As I look at them the phone rang, “Yea Xhex, I’m here in Caldwell. Yea, I just got here. Do you need me to work tonight?” I waited till she came back on the line I knew she had a boss and that she wasn't my big boss either but I stayed under her rules. “Yes we need you to work tonight say around sundown meet me at the iron mask?” I look at the clock that was hanging on the wall seeing that I had time to rest and then show up at the club. “Sure thing boss. Yea, I know the area I made sure I knew Caldwell well. See you tonight boss.” I hung up the phone. After leaving my office I went up to my bedroom so that I could rest. Waking up to as the shutters raising tell me that the sun has gone down. I head for the shower and get ready for tonight's job. After my shower and toweling dry, I walk to my closet naked pulling my black leathers on figure it's better to go commando. I pull on a black muscle shirt and then put on all of my weapons. I pull out my Sig Sauer Revamps P226 XSeries of Competition Pistols. One of my favorite daggers, the Scorpion Hunter Ancient Sabre Dagger, Shadow Of The Midnight Dagger with Throwers and my black dagger. Granted it is not like one of the brothers’ dagger but just as good. I get into my car and drive down to the Iron Mask to see what Xhex needs me to do or more likely kill. #TBC #NewTown #SaintsNSinners #BDB #SASBDB

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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Bran

Dancer was draped in bardings of snowy white wool emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark, while Bran wore grey breeches and white doublet, his sleeves and collar trimmed with vair. Over his heart was his wolf's-head brooch of silver and polished jet. He would sooner have had Summer than a silver wolf on his breast, but Ser Rodrik had been unyielding.

The low stone steps balked Dancer only for a moment. When Bran urged her on, she took them easily. Beyond the wide oak-and-iron doors, eight long rows of trestle tables filled Winterfell's Great Hall, four on each side of the center aisle. Men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches. "Stark!" they called as Bran trotted past, rising to their feet. "Winterfell! Winterfell!"

He was old enough to know that it was not truly him they shouted for—it was the harvest they cheered, it was Robb and his victories, it was his lord father and his grandfather and all the Starks going back eight thousand years. Still, it made him swell with pride. For so long as it took him to ride the length of that hall he forgot that he was broken. Yet when he reached the dais, with every eye upon him, Osha and Hodor undid his straps and buckles, lifted him off Dancer's back, and carried him to the high seat of his fathers.

Ser Rodrik was seated to Bran's left, his daughter Beth beside him. Rickon was to his right, his mop of shaggy auburn hair grown so long that it brushed his ermine mantle. He had refused to let anyone cut it since their mother had gone. The last girl to try had been bitten for her efforts. "I wanted to ride too," he said as Hodor led Dancer away. "I ride better than you."

"You don't, so hush up," he told his brother. Ser Rodrik bellowed for quiet. Bran raised his voice. He bid them welcome in the name of his brother, the King in the North, and asked them to thank the gods old and new for Robb's victories and the bounty of the harvest. "May there be a hundred more," he finished, raising his father's silver goblet.

"A hundred more!" Pewter tankards, clay cups, and iron-banded drinking horns clashed together. Bran's wine was sweetened with honey and fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, but stronger than he was used to. He could feel its hot snaky fingers wriggling through his chest as he swallowed. By the time he set down the goblet, his head was swimming.

"You did well, Bran," Ser Rodrik told him. "Lord Eddard would have been most proud." Down the table, Maester Luwin nodded his agreement as the servers began to carry in the food.

Such food Bran had never seen; course after course after course, so much that he could not manage more than a bite or two of each dish. There were great joints of aurochs roasted with leeks, venison pies chunky with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, mutton chops sauced in honey and cloves, savory duck, peppered boar, goose, skewers of pigeon and capon, beef-and-barley stew, cold fruit soup. Lord Wyman had brought twenty casks of fish from White Harbor packed in salt and seaweed; whitefish and winkles, crabs and mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster and lampreys. There was black bread and honeycakes and oaten biscuits; there were turnips and pease and beets, beans and squash and huge red onions; there were baked apples and berry tarts and pears poached in strongwine. Wheels of white cheese were set at every table, above and below the salt, and flagons of hot spice wine and chilled autumn ale were passed up and down the tables.

Lord Wyman's musicians played bravely and well, but harp and fiddle and horn were soon drowned beneath a tide of talk and laughter, the clash of cup and plate, and the snarling of hounds fighting for table scraps. The singer sang good songs, "Iron Lances" and "The Burning of the Ships" and "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but only Hodor seemed to be listening. He stood beside the piper, hopping from one foot to the other.

The noise swelled to a steady rumbling roar, a great heady stew of sound. Ser Rodrik talked with Maester Luwin above Beth's curly head, while Rickon screamed happily at the Walders. Bran had not wanted the Freys at the high table, but the maester reminded him that they would soon be kin. Robb was to marry one of their aunts, and Arya one of their uncles. "She never will," Bran said, "not Arya," but Maester Luwin was unyielding, so there they were beside Rickon.

The serving men brought every dish to Bran first, that he might take the lord's portion if he chose. By the time they reached the ducks, he could eat no more. After that he nodded approval at each course in turn, and waved it away. If the dish smelled especially choice, he would send it to one of the lords on the dais, a gesture of friendship and favor that Maester Luwin told him he must make. He sent some salmon down to poor sad Lady Hornwood, the boar to the boisterous Umbers, a dish of goose-in-berries to Cley Cerwyn, and a huge lobster to Joseth the master of horse, who was neither lord nor guest, but had seen to Dancer's training and made it possible for Bran to ride. He sent sweets to Hodor and Old Nan as well, for no reason but he loved them. Ser Rodrik reminded him to send something to his foster brothers, so he sent Little Walder some boiled beets and Big Walder the buttered turnips.

On the benches below, Winterfell men mixed with smallfolk from the winter town, friends from the nearer holdfasts, and the escorts of their lordly guests. Some faces Bran had never seen before, others he knew as well as his own, yet they all seemed equally foreign to him. He watched them as from a distance, as if he still sat in the window of his bedchamber looking down on the yard below, seeing everything yet a part of nothing.

Osha moved among the tables, pouring ale. One of Leobald Tallhart's men slid a hand up under her skirts and she broke the flagon over his head, to roars of laughter. Yet Mikken had his hand down some woman's bodice, and she seemed not to mind. Bran watched Farlen make his red bitch beg for bones and smiled at Old Nan plucking at the crust of a hot pie with wrinkled fingers. On the dais, Lord Wyman attacked a steaming plate of lampreys as if they were an enemy host. He was so fat that Ser Rodrik had commanded that a special wide chair be built for him to sit in, but he laughed loud and often, and Bran thought he liked him. Poor wan Lady Hornwood sat beside him, her face a stony mask as she picked listlessly at her food. At the opposite end of the high table, Hothen and Mors were playing a drinking game, slamming their horns together as hard as knights meeting in joust.

It is too hot here, and too noisy, and they are all getting drunk. Bran itched under his grey and white woolens, and suddenly he wished he were anywhere but here. It is cool in the godswood now. Steam is rising off the hot pools, and the red leaves of the weirwood are rustling. The smells are richer than here, and before long the moon will rise and my brother will sing to it.

"Bran?" Ser Rodrik said. "You do not eat."

The waking dream had been so vivid, for a moment Bran had not known where he was. "I'll have more later," he said. "My belly's full to bursting."

The old knight's white mustache was pink with wine. "You have done well, Bran. Here, and at the audiences. You will be an especial fine lord one day, I think."

I want to be a knight. Bran took another sip of the spiced honey wine from his father's goblet, grateful for something to clutch. The lifelike head of a snarling direwolf was raised on the side of the cup. He felt the silver muzzle pressing against his palm, and remembered the last time he had seen his lord father drink from this goblet.

It had been the night of the welcoming feast, when King Robert had brought his court to Winterfell. Summer still reigned then. His parents had shared the dais with Robert and his queen, with her brothers beside her. Uncle Benjen had been there too, all in black. Bran and his brothers and sisters sat with the king's children, Joffrey and Tommen and Princess Myrcella, who'd spent the whole meal gazing at Robb with adoring eyes. Arya made faces across the table when no one was looking; Sansa listened raptly while the king's high harper sang songs of chivalry, and Rickon kept asking why Jon wasn't with them. "Because he's a bastard," Bran finally had to whisper to him.

And now they are all gone. It was as if some cruel god had reached down with a great hand and swept them all away, the girls to captivity, Jon to the Wall, Robb and Mother to war, King Robert and Father to their graves, and perhaps Uncle Benjen as well . . .

Even down on the benches, there were new men at the tables. Jory was dead, and Fat Tom, and Porther, Alyn, Desmond, Hullen who had been master of horse, Harwin his son . . . all those who had gone south with his father, even Septa Mordane and Vayon Poole. The rest had ridden to war with Robb, and might soon be dead as well for all Bran knew. He liked Hayhead and Poxy Tym and Skittrick and the other new men well enough, but he missed his old friends.

He looked up and down the benches at all the faces happy and sad, and wondered who would be missing next year and the year after. He might have cried then, but he couldn't. He was the Stark in Winterfell, his father's son and his brother's heir, and almost a man grown.

At the foot of the hall, the doors opened and a gust of cold air made the torches flame brighter for an instant. Alebelly led two new guests into the feast. "The Lady Meera of House Reed," the rotund guardsman bellowed over the clamor. "With her brother, Jojen, of Greywater Watch."

Men looked up from their cups and trenchers to eye the newcomers. Bran heard Little Walder mutter, "Frogeaters," to Big Walder beside him. Ser Rodrik climbed to his feet. "Be welcome, friends, and share this harvest with us." Serving men hurried to lengthen the table on the dais, fetching trestles and chairs.

"Who are they?" Rickon asked.

"Mudmen," answered Little Walder disdainfully. "They're thieves and cravens, and they have green teeth from eating frogs."

Maester Luwin crouched beside Bran's seat to whisper counsel in his ear. "You must greet these ones warmly. I had not thought to see them here, but . . . you know who they are?"

Bran nodded. "Crannogmen. From the Neck."

"Howland Reed was a great friend to your father," Ser Rodrik told him. "These two are his, it would seem."

As the newcomers walked the length of the hall, Bran saw that one was indeed a girl, though he would never have known it by her dress. She wore lambskin breeches soft with long use, and a sleeveless jerkin armored in bronze scales. Though near Robb's age, she was slim as a boy, with long brown hair knotted behind her head and only the barest suggestion of breasts. A woven net hung from one slim hip, a long bronze knife from the other; under her arm she carried an old iron greathelm spotted with rust; a frog spear and round leathern shield were strapped to her back.

Her brother was several years younger and bore no weapons. All his garb was green, even to the leather of his boots, and when he came closer Bran saw that his eyes were the color of moss, though his teeth looked as white as anyone else's. Both Reeds were slight of build, slender as swords and scarcely taller than Bran himself. They went to one knee before the dais.

"My lords of Stark," the girl said. "The years have passed in their hundreds and their thousands since my folk first swore their fealty to the King in the North. My lord father has sent us here to say the words again, for all our people."

She is looking at me, Bran realized. He had to make some answer. "My brother Robb is fighting in the south," he said, "but you can say your words to me, if you like."

"To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater," they said together. "Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you."

"I swear it by earth and water," said the boy in green.

"I swear it by bronze and iron," his sister said.

"We swear it by ice and fire," they finished together.

Bran groped for words. Was he supposed to swear something back to them? Their oath was not one he had been taught. "May your winters be short and your summers bountiful," he said. That was usually a good thing to say. "Rise. I'm Brandon Stark."

The girl, Meera, got to her feet and helped her brother up. The boy stared at Bran all the while. "We bring you gifts of fish and frog and fowl," he said.

"I thank you." Bran wondered if he would have to eat a frog to be polite. "I offer you the meat and mead of Winterfell." He tried to recall all he had been taught of the crannogmen, who dwelt amongst the bogs of the Neck and seldom left their wetlands. They were a poor folk, fishers and frog-hunters who lived in houses of thatch and woven reeds on floating islands hidden in the deeps of the swamp. It was said that they were a cowardly people who fought with poisoned weapons and preferred to hide from foes rather than face them in open battle. And yet Howland Reed had been one of Father's staunchest companions during the war for King Robert's crown, before Bran was born.

The boy, Jojen, looked about the hall curiously as he took his seat. "Where are the direwolves?"

"In the godswood," Rickon answered. "Shaggy was bad."

"My brother would like to see them," the girl said.

Little Walder spoke up loudly. "He'd best watch they don't see him, or they'll take a bite out of him."

"They won't bite if I'm there." Bran was pleased that they wanted to see the wolves. "Summer won't anyway, and he'll keep Shaggydog away." He was curious about these mudmen. He could not recall ever seeing one before. His father had sent letters to the Lord of Greywater over the years, but none of the crannogmen had ever called at Winterfell. He would have liked to talk to them more, but the Great Hall was so noisy that it was hard to hear anyone who wasn't right beside you.

Ser Rodrik was right beside Bran. "Do they truly eat frogs?" he asked the old knight.

"Aye," Ser Rodrik said. "Frogs and fish and lizard-lions, and all manner of birds."

Maybe they don't have sheep and cattle, Bran thought. He commanded the serving men to bring them mutton chops and a slice off the aurochs and fill their trenchers with beef-and-barley stew. They seemed to like that well enough. The girl caught him staring at her and smiled. Bran blushed and looked away.

Much later, after all the sweets had been served and washed down with gallons of surnmerwine, the food was cleared and the tables shoved back against the walls to make room for the dancing. The music grew wilder, the drummers joined in, and Hother Umber brought forth a huge curved warhorn banded in silver. When the singer reached the part in "The Night That Ended" where the Night's Watch rode forth to meet the Others in the Battle for the Dawn, he blew a blast that set all the dogs to barking.

Two Glover men began a spinning skirl on bladder and woodharp. Mors Umber was the first on his feet. He seized a passing serving girl by the arm, knocking the flagon of wine out of her hands to shatter on the floor. Amidst the rushes and bones and bits of bread that littered the stone, he whirled her and spun her and tossed her in the air. The girl squealed with laughter and turned red as her skirts swirled and lifted.

Others soon joined in. Hodor began to dance all by himself, while Lord Wyman asked little Beth Cassel to partner him. For all his size, he moved gracefully. When he tired, Cley Cerwyn danced with the child in his stead. Ser Rodrik approached Lady Hornwood, but she made her excuses and took her leave. Bran watched long enough to be polite, and then had Hodor summoned. He was hot and tired, flushed from the wine, and the dancing made him sad. it was something else he could never do. "I want to go."

"Hodor," Hodor shouted back, kneeling. Maester Luwin and Hayhead lifted him into his basket. The folk of Winterfell had seen this sight half a hundred times, but doubtless it looked queer to the guests, some of whom were more curious than polite. Bran felt the stares.

They went out the rear rather than walk the length of the hall, Bran ducking his head as they passed through the lord's door. In the dim-lit gallery outside the Great Hall, they came upon Joseth the master of horse engaged in a different sort of riding. He had some woman Bran did not know shoved up against the wall, her skirts around her waist. She was giggling until Hodor stopped to watch. Then she screamed. "Leave them be, Hodor," Bran had to tell him. "Take me to my bedchamber."

Hodor carried him up the winding steps to his tower and knelt beside one of the iron bars that Mikken had driven into the wall. Bran used the bars to move himself to the bed, and Hodor pulled off his boots and breeches. "You can go back to the feast now, but don't go bothering Joseth and that woman," Bran said.

"Hodor," Hodor replied, bobbing his head.

When he blew out his bedside candle, darkness covered him like a soft, familiar blanket. The faint sound of music drifted through his shuttered window.

Something his father had told him once when he was little came back to him suddenly. He had asked Lord Eddard if the Kingsguard were truly the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. "No longer," he answered, "but once they were a marvel, a shining lesson to the world."

"Was there one who was best of all?"

"The finest knight I ever saw was Ser Arthur Dayne, who fought with a blade called Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star. They called him the Sword of the Morning, and he would have killed me but for Howland Reed." Father had gotten sad then, and he would say no more. Bran wished he had asked him what he meant.

He went to sleep with his head full of knights in gleaming armor, fighting with swords that shone like starfire, but when the dream came he was in the godswood again. The smells from the kitchen and the Great Hall were so strong that it was almost as if he had never left the feast. He prowled beneath the trees, his brother close behind him. This night was wildly alive, full of the howling of the man-pack at their play. The sounds made him restless. He wanted to run, to hunt, he wanted to—

The rattle of iron made his ears prick up. His brother heard it too. They raced through the undergrowth toward the sound. Bounding across the still water at the foot of the old white one, he caught the scent of a stranger, the man-smell well mixed with leather and earth and iron.

The intruders had pushed a few yards into the wood when he came upon them; a female and a young male, with no taint of fear to them, even when he showed them the white of his teeth. His brother growled low in his throat, yet still they did not run.

"Here they come," the female said. Meera, some part of him whispered, some wisp of the sleeping boy lost in the wolf dream. "Did you know they would be so big?"

"They will be bigger still before they are grown," the young male said, watching them with eyes large, green, and unafraid. "The black one is full of fear and rage, but the grey is strong . . . stronger than he knows . . . can you feel him, sister?"

"No," she said, moving a hand to the hilt of the long brown knife she wore. "Go careful, Joien."

"He won't hurt me. This is not the day I die." The male walked toward them, unafraid, and reached out for his muzzle, a touch as light as a summer breeze. Yet at the brush of those fingers the wood dissolved and the very ground turned to smoke beneath his feet and swirled away laughing, and then he was spinning and falling, falling, falling . . .

#ClashofKings

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kee-writestrashh · 5 years

Text

Guns for Hire

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

Summary: You are the wife to the Heir of the Red Kings, Ramsay Bolton. living the undercover life of a mob wife has its perks, and you love your husband. But you find out something that seems to unfold a series of unwanted events…

Chapter 55: Sigyn and Loki

You slowly wandered the halls of the house, not sure where you were going. Nor did you care. Misery and anger licked at your insides like a white hot fire.

You entered the den and found Liz sitting there watching one of her Sunday night shows.

You took a seat beside her, not looking at her as you stared at the television.

"Join us tonight on the news at ten as we bring you a new developing story. Multimillionaire Ramsay Bolton, a simple businessman or a violent crime boss?"

You tutted at the commercial, chest tight in anger. Liz gave your hand a small squeeze before she rose from the couch.

"Need anything from the kitchen?" She asked.

"No thank you." You replied curtly, still staring at the television.

You lost track if time as you sat there in numbness and self pity. All of this was so wrong. Ramsay being accused of the Stark murders. The only crimes against him that he had nothing to do with. Who was the rat? How could you find this person? Or was it a group of persons?

You sighed, pulling your feet up and tucking them under you, as you grabbed a throw pillow and buried your face in it. The silence of being alone was haunting. Liz had long since left to put Kaden to bed. But it was fine. You didn't want to be bothered by anyone or to see anyone.

What was Ramsay doing? Was he scheming and putting things together? Did he miss you? Was he possibly laying on his shit bunk thinking about you?

The tears were hot and steady as the slid down your cheeks. You gave a small jerk as your son awoke to do his usual nightly gymnastics practice. His movements were getting stronger, and more painful.

Now that you took the time to sit and feel and listen to your body, you ached all over. All of you felt heavy and tense. It reflected how your heart felt.

"(Y/n)?" Came Ben's voice.

You sniffed, wiping the tears away furiously, and turning to see Ben, and a man who must have been Skinner.

He looked like a lawyer. He had a haughty, lying, snake like air about him. Maybe he wasn't to be trusted either. Was there really anyone to trust?

You stood from your seat and met the men halfway across the room.

"(Y/n), this is Skinner. Skinner, Ramsay's wife, (y/n)." Ben said introducing you both.

Skinner held his hand out. You took it, noting how warm and unnaturally soft his skin was. You dropped the handshake quickly.

"A real pleasure, Mrs. Bolton." Skinner said with a cold smile.

He had a silky, oily voice that seemed to match his unemotional eyes.

"Please, (y/n) will do." You said, offering a polite smile.

"Mind if we talk over a few quick matters? I know it's getting late, but the sooner the board is set, the sooner this is over." Skinner said, glancing the room over.

"Yeah, sure. I've got nowhere else to be." You shrugged.

"Excellent." The man said, walking past you to take a seat on a sofa.

You and Ben followed. You resumed your seat on the couch and Ben sat beside you. No one spoke as Skinner pulled papers and a pen from the briefcase he had been holding.

"Now, the list of offenses is pretty extensive here. Honestly never seen the likes of it. Ranging from petty crimes all the way up to the Stark murders. We have established that Ramsay did not engage in any of these murders?" Skinner said, glancing between you and Ben.

"Right." Ben nodded.

"Where was Ramsay the night Ned Stark was gunned down?"

"With me. We had gone to the theater downtown. The Mockingbird. We met his father, Tywin Lannister, his children, Joffrey Baratheon, and the two youngest Tyrell's there. We stayed for most of the play and then Ramsay got bored. So we left. As we sat in the back of the limo at a stoplight, multiple cop cars flew past. As soon as we got home he got ready to shower and I turned the tv on to catch the news and that was how we discovered Ned Stark had been killed and his eldest daughter kidnapped." You said, recalling that night. It felt like a million years ago, now.

"What about the night Robb Stark and his mother and lover died?" Skinner asked.

"He was with me. Roose gave us a job. We were nowhere near where the Stark's were murdered." Ben said.

Skinner nodded. "These are the accusations we are most concerned with. The others, while they do pose a threat, are not seen as, um, important as murder in the eyes of the public. Now, what are we going to do?"

"Kind of thought that was why you are here." You said rather rudely.

Skinner chuckled, "No, no. I mean, how are we going to persuade the public Ramsay is innocent? The Stark's were a very loved family in the community."

"What is there to do?" You asked, brain feeling a bit slack and torpid.

"You. You are the key." Skinner said pointedly, giving you a long look.

"Rams told me that I..." You began.

Skinner held his hand up to stop you, "we have a press interview tomorrow. Play your part and it will help Ramsay's defense."

"I don't want to talk to anyone." You frowned.

Skinner tutted, "You will. The public will love you if you come at it the right way. Six months pregnant, husband thrown in jail after being roughed up by the police for crimes he didn't commit. While instead of relaxing and getting ready for the arrival of your first child, you are stressing, struggling, and miserable with your husband in jail for no reason. It's damaging to your health and your child's health. It's a story the public will eat up. Ramsay is a charmer, and if you do your part, there will be an outcry for his release as soon as possible."

You stared at Skinner through narrowed eyes for a few moments and then sighed with a nod, "What time?"

"Three. At the courthouse." He replied almost immediately.

"Then, I will be there. What about my husband? Surely they can't keep him."

"I'm working on that. Just a simple matter of talking to the right people at the right time." Skinner said, scribbling down a few things on a notepad and returning his belongings to the briefcase.

"We will win, won't we?" You asked, hating the desperate tone in your voice.

"We will. There's nothing to hold up. I owe Ramsay. So, I will work all my magic and get him cleared. By the way, judge is signing the search warrant tomorrow, according to my sources. Make sure this place is clean. Now, if I could get those alibis I will get out of your hair for the night." Skinner said, rising from his seat.

Ben stood too, "Yeah, no problem."

"Until tomorrow then." Skinner said, nodding at you before he left with Ben.

You nodded back, watching them leave.

You sat in the silence a few moments longer before deciding maybe you would go to bed.

The hot water of the shower did nothing to wash away the muck of the day. You couldn't remember ever feeling so miserable. You didn't trust this lawyer. He was just as much of a rat as whoever set up Ramsay.

Moose looked at you through his big, brown eyes from the foot of the bed as you sat on the edge of the bed with a frustrated sigh. He whimpered. You looked around at him.

"Come here, mutt." You said gently.

Tail wagging he slowly belly crawled across the bedspread to you, burying his massive head under your arm.

You yawned and fell back into the bed as your phone rang. You frowned, sitting up, and swiping your phone from the bedside table: mom

You took a deep breath and answered, "hey mom."

"Baby, is everything okay? We just watched the news. What's going on?" your mother said, worry encasing every word she spoke.

"I wish I knew what to tell you, momma. But I'm kind of at a loss. Somebody set Ramsay up. Just like over that bank shit. Somebody is really gunnin' for him. Mom, I don't know what to do." You said, voice cracking as you spoke.

Your phone made a noise in your ear. You pulled it away to see a message.

[E: everything good? Saw the news.]

"Just stay strong baby. Pray about it. Do you need anything?"

"A hug honestly. I just want to cry and scream. Someone out there is dragging my last name through the mud and pointing fingers at my husband." You said, swallowing thickly.

Another ding:

[Olyvar: you okay?]

You wished people would leave you alone.

"I know it is easier said than done, but try not to stress it baby. It's not good for you. Especially right now. Take care of yourself and that baby. Everything will be okay. If you need anything at all let me know and I will be there. I love you baby."

"I love you too, momma." You sniffed, hanging up before she could say anymore.

[You: no. I'm not okay, E. I'm angry. I want answers and no one seems to have any.]

[You: guess I'm okay as I can be. Why didn't you call me today?]

You stared at your black phone screen for a few moments, deciding to wander to the kitchen and find something to eat to drown your misery.

You entered the kitchen to find Matt and Alyn at the table, fighting over a jar of salsa. They both looked tired and irritable.

"May I ask what you two are doing?" You asked, raising a brow at them as you opened a cabinet.

"I told the Kid I was finishing this jar and to get his own, but he doesn't want to open a new one." Alyn said, stabbing Matt on top of the hand with a chip.

"Where have y'all been all evening?" You asked, taking the jar from them, along with the bag of chips.

"Cleaning. You never realize how much illegal shit there is hidden, until you have to find it all and move it." Matt said, rubbing the top of his hand.

"So we're good? Nothing to find?" You asked, pouring the remaining contents of the jar into a bowl and setting it on the table.

"Nothing. Dogs won't hit anything either." Alyn said with a nod as you pulled an unopened salsa jar from the pantry.

"Good. Alyn, do you know Skinner?" You asked, setting the jar between you and Matt as you sat down.

"Oh yeah. Dick bag, but he's loyal to Ramsay." Alyn nodded sagely.

"Why?" You asked, fingering a chip.

"Not sure. Know Ramsay pulled some strings and helped him out of a real tight spot. But I don't know. Damon was the only one who knew."

You sighed, "I miss Damon. I feel like none of this would be happening if we hadn't lost him."

"It'll be alright. We will make it through. Always do. As you know, Ramsay should have a felony record, but as you also know, he does not. Just another rough day at the office." Alyn shrugged, opening his can of beer.

"So what do we do?" You asked.

"Well, you're the boss bitch. Already hashed out a very demanding job for us. So...?" Matt said, leaning back in his chair with a deep stretch.

"Boss bitch." You huffed, tasting how the words were in your mouth. It made you laugh. You, of all people.

"Well, I'm going to bed. I've a long day ahead of me tomorrow, apparently." Matt said, standing with a yawn.

"My city is being painted, yeah?" You called after him.

"Yes ma'am. It should make a big statement tomorrow morning." Matt called back as the door swung shut behind him.

×××

3 new text messages.

[Olyvar: sorry. Just kind of lost track of time. But I'm here if you need anything.]

[E: anything I can do to help? Maybe we could go to the range or something? Idk how being pregnant works, but if you're able to go shoot, we can. Or whatever. Maybe we can hang out and talk or something. We haven't done that in years.]

[Tyene: can you come by the shop? I want to know you're okay, and papa needs to speak with you.]

You rubbed your eyes and set your phone back down on the pillow beside you. Ramsay's pillow. You thought with deep sadness, the day before coming back to you.

A knock came on the door. Quiet and almost forbidding.

"Enter." You called, sitting up, stomach turning over sourly as you did so. A dull stabbing pain in your back.

The door slowly opened and Liz came in. Behind her a maid with a tray of breakfast.

Liz said nothing as she climbed up on the bed, sliding under the covers with you, grabbing up the remote and turning the TV on.

"What are you doing?" You asked through a rather dry mouth.

"Do you think I'm going to let you sit here alone and wallow in misery?" Liz said, flipping through channels.

You gave a small, grateful smile, sliding from the bed to go through your morning routine.

"What are you doing today?" Liz asked as you pulled your closet open.

"I have a doctors appointment and then I'm going to see Rams, and a press interview." You said with a small frown.

"This dress is very cute with your belly." Liz said, zipping the back as you munched toast and tried to decide what to do with your hair.

"I think I'm going to cut it off." You said, frowning at yourself in the mirror.

Liz glanced up at you and eyed your hair. She gave a small grin.

"Well, it's just hair. It will grow back. I'm a pretty firm believer in that." She said quietly.

You suddenly felt like a pile of shit for talking about hair. You sighed, set your toast down, turned to Liz, and gave her a tight hug.

She hugged you back just as tightly.

You sat at the vanity, flipping the switch to the blinding lights and pulled your makeup out. You frowned at yourself again. You were pale and sickly looking. Pregnancy really was not kind to you. You were slightly apprehensive for your appointment. You still weren't gaining weight as you should have been.

"So, girl talk. What's going on? Ben told me about the dinner last night. He says he's worried about you." Liz said, giving you a beady look that made her look like her mother.

"I dunno. I'm pissed. I have to find whoever did this. It makes no sense. None of it. But, I'm a woman. I had to make a statement because otherwise no one in that damn room would have taken me seriously because I have a fucking vagina. And honestly... I kind of enjoyed it. You should have seen the fear on their faces." You said, applying mascara.

"What's mother making for you?"

"I can't tell you. Not yet." You said apologetically.

"Well, it is none of my business, but as a fellow mob wife, and as your friend, I really think you need to slow down. You're putting Damon's health at risk with all your going. I don't want my surrogate nephew hurt. Nor you. And I know Ramsay doesn't want his wife and son in harm's way. It would tear him up. Especially when he can't do anything to stop you." Liz said, choosing her words carefully and staring down at her lap.

She was right, of course. But the course of action you had set into motion could not be undone now. It was going to be a domino effect and there was no stopping it. It all started with a bullet to the face and a severed pinky on your dining room table.

You cleared your throat, gave a sniff, and held your head high, "I know. I will not do anything to hurt my son, or myself. But I now have these men under my thumb. I'm not letting them go. Not until I can turn them back over to Rams."

You put your makeup away and slowly rose from the bench, a dull pain in your back again.

"Dinner?" Liz asked, exiting the room with you.

"I hope to be back by then. It's going to be a long day." You said, glancing down at your phone.

"I understand. Please be careful." She said, worry etched in the premature age lines on her beautiful face from her illness.

"Always." You said with a small smile, leaving her at the garage door.

"(Y/n)! Let me drive you!" Matt said, hurrying through the door after you.

"I'm perfectly capable of driving myself, Matthew." You said curtly.

"I know. But you're not to be alone. Not now that the whole city knows your husband is locked up. Makes you a target." Matt said, pulling his keys from his pocket.

You sighed, adjusting the strap of your purse, "fine."

"Where are we going?" Matt asked, opening the passenger door of his car for you.

"Hospital down town on the river front." You said with a small nod.

"Who are you?" You asked Matt after many moments of silence other than the radio.

"Uh... Matt?" He said, unsure.

"That I know. But who is Matt?" You said, watching the world pass by outside the window. Trees were blooming and the grass was turning plush and green as tiny flowers pushed their way through the ground.

"Dunno. Just a guy. A lucky one I guess. From rags to riches kind of story. Seventeen, stealing and selling drugs. Sleeping in a homeless shelter. Then along came Ramsay fucking Bolton." Matt shrugged, lighting a cigarette.

"I think this is where Rams would make a sarcastic remark about you being Cinderella. How's your mom?" You said with a small laugh.

"Alright I guess. Her and Alyn are a thing" -he made a face- "but she seems better. Got her set up with an apartment and got her a car. Thought maybe asking you to let her work at the bar to help her get back on her feet. Maybe if she has a stable income and life she'll be okay if something happens and I can't support her or whatever."

"Do you plan on something happening?" You asked, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

"No. But I can't rule it out. Not after Damon. That really drove it home to me that what we do is dangerous. I look up to all of them. Sure, they aren't great role models, but they all have their strengths. Work as a seamless team. When they are on form it's almost like they are gods. You should of seen it when we robbed the bank. It went so smooth. Everyone had their own job. There was no confusion about who should be doing what. And even more... when we aren't engaging in violent crimes... we are just one big, dysfunctional family. Yeah, they give me shit. But I love them. I do. All of you. You and Ramsay... Oh man."

You gave a small smile.

"You know, it wasn't until I got pregnant that I really knew my husband. We were like two strangers married and living together. But we never really saw one another. We both worked and were so busy. I'll be married to him for three years on Wednesday, and it's only been the last four or five months that I've actually got to know him."

"He's an interesting dude. He's funny. Wouldn't know he's so fucked up just by looking at him or having a single conversation with him." Matt said with a grin to himself as you passed the sign saying you were entering city limits.

"How are you and Tyene?" You asked, pulling a pack of gum from your purse and offering a piece to Matt.

He turned a brilliant shade of red and cleared his throat.

You grinned, "do you love her?"

"Yeah. She's the most amazing person ever." He said with a fond sigh.

"Are you going to ask her to marry you?" You asked, raising a brow.

His face fell slightly, "I don't think I can do that."

"Why not?"

"I can't take care of her the way she deserves. What if I'm gunned down tomorrow? I'm not sneaky or witty like Ramsay. I can't take care of Ty the way Ramsay takes care of you. I would love to, but I don't think I can. Besides, I don't think her parents like me very much. I don't want to put that kind of strain on her." He sighed.

"Let me give you some advice. Do it. Roose hates me and everything about me. But I love Ramsay. And I will continue to love him and give him everything I can, regardless of what Roose says. He can fuck off. He has done nothing but try to make Ramsay leave me, but I am still here. Other people's opinions don't matter." You said, staring back out the window. "Besides... I really enjoy planning weddings."

Matt chuckled and then gave a sigh, "maybe you're right. I guess we will just have to see."

"Well, give me until I have this baby at least. Give me a breather." You giggled.

"Deal." Matt grinned.

"Bet." You hummed, watching the cars passing by at the traffic light. You suddenly felt very tired and weak. You frowned. You still had so much day ahead of you. You hadn't even made it to your first destination yet. You toyed with the gum between you back teeth, hoping this wasn't a sign of how the rest of your day would go.

"You can wait here if you want. It shouldn't take me long. I don't think you want to sit in the waiting room while a bunch of pregnant women try to seduce you and those freckles." You grinned at Matt as he helped you from the car.

"I'm not supposed to let you out if my sight." Matt said, frowning at the prospect of being stuck in a waiting room full of pregnant women.

"Alright then, little brother. Let's do this." You said, pulling your wallet and phone from your purse and turning to the hospital entrance.

You and Matt sat in the corner furthest from the crowd, scrolling through your phones and occasionally smacking gum until your name was called.

You turned to Matt, "I won't tell if you'd rather just sit here instead of listening to my doctor bitch at me for being too skinny. I don't think I'm in any danger right here."

He frowned but gave a nod, "right."

You saw the eyes of many women watch you walk across the waiting room. Clearly curious at your last name. You held your head high and ignored them.

You went through the usual stand on a scale, piss in a cup routine, and heaved yourself up on the examination bed, waiting.

[You: don't think I'm up for shooting at the range, but maybe we can catch lunch? I'm in the city. Lots of shit to do. I could really use a hug from my baby brother.]

There was a knock on the door. You set your phone down as the doctor walked in. She gave you a small smile, and you gave a weak on back.

"How are we today?" She asked, looking down at the thin laptop she carried.

"Honestly or patient to doctor?" You asked, raising a brow, making her laugh.

"Honesty would be best. Especially looking at your vitals and such." She said, looking at you as though x-raying you.

You sighed, "I'm not doing okay. Physically or emotionally. I eat all kinds of things and I still can't gain weight. I feel horrible. My entire body hurts. I have a constant headache that refuses to leave. I'm tired. I keep having a stabbing pain in my lower back. I just want to hibernate for thirty years."

"I want to order an ultrasound this week. Your lack of weight gain is very concerning. We are now entering the last trimester and it seems that the baby is already wanting to be stubborn. We will take a listen to the heartbeat for now and hopefully see you back in a day or two so we can take a look at him." Doctor Mordane said, pulling the heart doppler from her white coat pocket.

You nodded, worry gripping you. "What happens if..." You said, not able to finish. You couldn't. You couldn't think of that.

"Well, we are at week twenty seven now. Lungs have developed and are working. However, we obviously do not want to have him so early, he still has plenty of time... But, should it come to that we have one of the best premiee units in the state. Our NICU is phenomenal. But, let's plan on keeping him in the oven until at least week thirty eight, if we can." The woman said with a serious nod.

"Let's hope." You said, throat tightening as you laid back on the table, shrugging your dress from your shoulders to give the doctor access to your belly.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling an uncomfortable push in your belly as the doctor pushed the doppler into you. Finally the tiny heartbeat could be heard. But it was not as pronounced as the last time. It had been so strong and loud last time.

The doctor pushed firmer against your belly and you felt your son turn over, annoyed that someone had woken him up with the pushing and prodding.

He settled again slightly and the heartbeat came back, this time louder, making your panic subside some.

"His heartbeat sounds healthy. A bit slower than expected, but I don't think it's anything to be concerned about. Like I said, we will have a better idea once we look at that ultrasound. Usually I would ask to start seeing you twice a month now that we are nearing the home stretch, but until we can figure out exactly what the baby is doing I would like to see you weekly. I want you to rest. I won't put you on bed rest yet, but keep your activities limited." Doctors Mordane said, replacing the medical instrument in her pocket and walking back to her computer to type down notes.

"Yes ma'am." You said, sitting up.

"By the way, good luck. I saw the news last night. I don't believe for a second your husband murdered any of the Stark's. I knew them very well. Whoever framed your husband will end up caught soon, I'm sure. Just try not to stress it too much."

You gave a weak smile at the doctor as you fixed your dress, "thank you."

You stood, waiting at the receptionist's desk as she looked at her computer screen.

"We can do Wednesday at two thirty?" She said, looking over her glasses at you.

"Sure. Not a problem." You said with a nod.

"Alrighty then, Mrs. Bolton. We will see you Wednesday." She said, writing the day and time on a card and handing it to you.

"Let's go, bro." You said to Matt, placing the card in your wallet and walking towards the exit.

You sat in the seat and looked down at your phone: new message

[E: actually not in the city today. Long story. Tomorrow? Or maybe I can come out to your place tonight?]

[You: please come by tonight. Love you!]

"Where to now?" Matt asked, glancing over at you.

"We are going to go pick up lunch and head over to see my girls. I need to speak with Oberyn." You said with a nod.

"What do you want to eat?" He asked.

"Surprise me. Take me to your favorite place." You shrugged, not caring what you ate at the moment.

"You sure?" He asked.

"Yup."

×××

"I didn't expect you so early." Tyene said, giving you a hug as you and Matt walked into the salon.

"Had a doctor's appointment. Now for an early lunch and then waiting around to go see Rams. I'm not to be there until two. Then I have to meet with the lawyer and press at three." You sighed, throwing yourself down in a chair and opening the paper bag.

"How are you?" Obella asked, sitting at her table across from you.

"Fucking horrible. My doctor's appointment was shit. My husband is in jail on murder charges. Like the only murders he has absolutely nothing to do with. Go figure. I really don't like the lawyer. He makes me uncomfortable, but Ben and Alyn assure me he is alright. Owes Rams a favor or some shit. I dunno, Bella. I'm just tired. Like, it was not supposed to be this way."

"You see all the new gang tags? Who are they? No one seems to know?" Tyene said, looking between you and Matt, who busied himself with his lunch, and handing Tyene hers.

You shrugged, "Dunno. Haven't paid much attention." You shrugged, finishing your food, "M'kay, Matt. Your hole in the wall was amazing. One of the best burgers I've ever eaten."

Matt gave a grin, "I told you. It's always the shit looking places."

"So, what does your father want with me?" You asked, balling up the empty paper bag.

"Stopping the drug runs until the heat is off." Oberyn said, entering the main shop floor.

You nodded, "Yes please. I don't want anyone else fucked in the ass over this. My house is about to be ransacked, and I don't want my pilots in trouble, nor you guys."

"Well you need to find a way to make it okay with your husband. It's a big blow to all of our pockets." Oberyn said, taking a seat beside you.

"He can get over it. I'll take the fall for it. I'm the Bolton in charge. My rules." You said, looking at your nails.

"Ty, Bella... I need my nails fixed and someone wax my legs. My belly is in the way. I've still got two hours until I go see Rams."

"I guess I will wait here. Don't want to get between you and Ramsay." Matt said, glancing around the parking lot. He gave a grin and nodded to the courthouse.

You followed his gaze and gave a small laugh as you watched a group of men working on scrubbing your tag off the wall.

"Right, I doubt they let me have too much time with him, and then I have the damn interview." You said, taking your gun and sliding it under the seat.

Matt scrambled out of the car and hurried around to your side to help you out. You placed your sunglasses on, holding your head high, walking past the press already gathering, through the door.

You stopped at the front desk beside Skinner. He gave you another cold smile.

"Ready to see your husband?" He asked.

You simply gave him a look as you took your glasses off. He chuckled, offering his arm.

You hugged Ramsay tight, swallowing the tears, never wanting to let go again. He encased you in an equally tight hug. He looked pale and disheveled.

"Rams, I miss you." You whispered through the tears.

"I know, baby girl. It'll be over soon." He whispered back, taking your ear lobe between his teeth and pulling you in closer.

You drew a sharp gasp, closing your eyes tight as he ran his tongue over your skin.

"I cannot wait to get home and fuck you stupid." He purred as you clutched at his back.

"I don't like Skinner." You whispered in his ear.

"Me either, but he owes me. He's a Boy. He will get me out." He whispered back, finally pulling away from you and pulling your chair out.

"How was the doctor?" He asked, watching you closely.

You sighed. "Shit. I have to get an ultrasound done on Wednesday. Doctor is already talking about premature birth."

Ramsay frowned, sucking his front teeth, but gave a nod.

"The house?"

"Way too fucking quiet." You said with another sigh.

Ramsay gave another nod, understanding your meaning that the house was clean.

"Are you good? You look rough?" You asked quietly, squeezing your husband's hand.

"Withdraws already it would seem. Been a long twenty four hours. I could go for a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes." He sighed, running his free hand over his face.

"Well, hurry up and come home." You said, giving a small smile.

He smirked, "But I just love my bunkmate so much. Fucking little cry baby bitch."

You sat there, hand laced in Ramsay's as you both answered Skinner's questions. Too soon an officer came to collect your husband.

"Our blades are sharp, baby girl." He said before giving you a final kiss.

"Well (y/n), ready to go enchant the press?" Skinner asked after a few moments silence.

You gave a small nod, stomach tightening in nerves, as he held the door for you.

Your heels echoed across the marble floor and too soon were you pushing out the door to be greeted by a crowd full of cameras and notepads.

"Mrs. Bolton! What can you tell us about this case?"

"Mrs. Bolton, is your husband innocent?"

"Mrs. Bolton, how do you feel about the treatment of your husband."

The noise and questions were annoying. It was pushing you over the edge as your heart beat painfully hard. You stood until the questions subsided.

"I am upset and angry about the events of the last twenty four hours. It is unjust and unfair. My husband is not involved with the murders or any of the other crimes the prosecution is trying to blame him for. My husband is just a businessman. We are not affiliated with gangs or mafias. I am very affronted by these accusations and having our name dragged through the mud. I only hope that the police are cooperative and help us apprehend the real culprit. We have enough to be getting on with, without the public thinking my loving husband is a murderer. The police have made this hard on both my husband and I, as we are trying to rebuild our business and get ready for the arrival of our first child. My family has been targeted by a person, or persons recently. My husband has been assaulted by officers and picked up on false charges already before this. I ask the public to please come forward with any information regarding the recent acts of violence in this beautiful city, to help clear my husband's name." You said, in a loud ringing voice.

Skinner helped you down the stairs and released you once you were back with Matt. The reporters following, clicking pictures and still asking questions as Matt shut the door for you.

"Well?" Matt asked, giving you a glance.

"I have a finger to collect." You shrugged.

#guns for hire #gfh #kee_writestrashh #chapter 55 #55/90 #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton fic #modern ramsay bolton #ramsay bolton imagine #AO3 fanfic #game of thrones fanfic #modern game of thrones #Modern Setting

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kee-writestrashh · 5 years

Text

Guns for Hire

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

Chapter 41: Eye of the Storm

"So lemme get this straight, your father in law wants to kill his son and use the child inside of you to be groomed to his liking?" Tyene said, setting her empty glass down and giving you a hard look.

"Yes. But what's more is that Walda is pregnant apparently. If she has a boy too my son will be no better off. Just another Ramsay in Roose's eyes. All three of us will be killed." You said, throat feeling tight as you struggled to get the words out.

"Then we have to strike first." Tyene said, as if it were that simple.

"No. We can't. You don't understand. Ramsay doesn't know! Nobody knows except you. And it will stay that way. Do you understand? Tell no one." You said with a threatening snarl.

"How and why are you keeping this from Ramsay?! Friday night showed me he would love to kill his father."

You sighed, pulling your phone toward you. "That's the problem though, Ty. Rams doesn't want to kill his father. He wants his father to love him. It's sad. Roose hates him, and all Ramsay wants is for his father to approve of him. Just once to praise him. A pat on the back. And I'm afraid that's what's going to happen. Roose is going to lure him into a sense of false security and kill him once he thinks his father fucking loves him. Ramsay is like a toddler. He acts out to get a reaction from Roose, no matter how negative. Any response is better than none, right?" You unlocked your phone, thinking you better tell your mother the 'good news'.

"What are you saying?" Tyene asked, leaning back into the couch.

"I'm saying that Ramsay is unstable and vulnerable because he's fucked up in the head! Watch. Roose is going to prey on all the mental instability he has instilled into his son. I cannot let that happen! We need to strike. But I can't afford it until he makes the first move. And the most unsettling part of that is it is unpredictable. It may be tonight. It may be next week. Hell, Roose may not do shit until his newest child is born. I don't know. But I need to be ready. I need more girls in Kings establishments. Fuck the Lannister's for now. I could care less about them. We are at war within our own ranks and nobody but us know. But the Boys are not to know anything."

"Your secret dies with me. And I plan on living many, many more years." Tyene said, holding her pinky out to you.

You gave a laugh and took her pinky in yours.

"So, where are the Boys now?" She asked, standing and grabbing up her empty glass.

You too rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen.

"Don't know really. On the way back here we passed that group of men from Friday night. Rams said they were Frey men. It's funny though... Kings, Lions, and the Towers. What an odd group to be dealing with one another..." You said slowly, looking back down at your phone.

[You: hey mom. Just wanted to let you know, you will be having a grandson come end of June.]

"I've only ever heard of the Frey's in passing. I don't know much about them?" Tyene said, sitting at the table as you set your phone on the counter and pulled the freezer open.

"The Boys talk shit about them. Apparently bottom of the barrel kind of folks. Inbred idiots who are only in the game because they come from old money." You glanced over at Tyene, "wanna stay for dinner?"

"Sure. If you don't mind. I'm stuck here until Matt gets back anyways." She shrugged.

You saw your phone screen light up. You picked it up:

[Mom: oh my goodness! Your father and I are both excited! I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am! We love you baby! Come see us soon.]

[You: alright momma. I'll see what I can do. I love you guys too!]

×××

"Hey good looking, whatcha got cookin'?" Ramsay purred, grabbing your hips and pulling you back into him.

You melted into him with a grin.

"Thought I'd finally make that rack of ribs." You replied, motioning at the salad you had been cutting up, "and salad. And baked potatoes."

"Right on, little momma. Everything good here?" He said, releasing you and reaching for a glass tumbler.

"Far as I know." You shrugged, gasping as something pushed you into the counter slightly.

You looked down quickly to a pair a deep brown eyes, a wet black nose, and lolling pink tongue.

You shot Ramsay a dirty, disbelieving look.

"Rams. I told you, I'm too tired to keep up with a puppy." You said, kneeling down to love all over the puppy regardless.

"You keep bitching about how boring it is here. So I solved your problem." Ramsay shrugged, pouring his whiskey into the ice filled tumbler.

You rolled your eyes, but grinned anyways, "name?"

"Don't know. Fuck Head if he pukes in the floorboard again."

"Puppy!" Tyene said excitedly, walking in the kitchen. "Look at these ears!"

"See. Someone likes puppies at least." Ramsay sneered, leaving the kitchen.

"I'm naming him!" You called after your husband.

"Then I get to name our son. Choose wisely." Ramsay called back.

You pursed your lips, turning to the sink to wash your hands.

"Think if I choose a stupid enough name for the dog Ramsay will choose a decent name for our child?"

Tyene snorted, "no. He would do anything to get under your skin."

You sighed, "you're right. But as long as my son isn't named Kylo or Anakin, or... Han Solo."

"Nah, it would be more like Bruce or Clark. Maybe Steve or... what's Iron Man's name?" Tyene laughed.

"Tony." you said, curling your lip in distaste .

"See, Anakin Bolton sounds better than Tony Bolton in my opinion."

"You are not helping." You laughed.

"I'm here to keep secrets and do dirty deeds. Not help defend you against your husband's terrible choices in names." Tyene giggled, scooping up the puppy and leaving you alone in the kitchen.

×××

Matt rested the side of his face on the table, "Can I just adopt you both so I can eat like this every day?"

"Sure. And you can move in and sleep in the spare bedroom right next to ours. You will love that. Right when you're little baby ass is so close to dreamland." Ramsay smirked.

Your cheeks warmed.

Matt snorted.

"Don't believe me, kid? I am a sex god."

Tyene caught your eye and you looked away quickly, embarrassment swallowing you as you stared at your hands in your lap.

"Boss, don't mean to interrupt your bragging, but we have a situation." Damon said, looking up from his phone. "Check your shit."

Ramsay pat himself down, casting around for his phone.

"Couch, dear." You said, frowning as the atmosphere in the room turned from cozy and happy to tense and on edge.

Ramsay left the kitchen in a hurry. You could hear him cursing in the other room.

He returned to the kitchen, lighting a cigarette and pulling his coat on.

"Let's go then, Boys. Looks like we're playing cop detail." Ramsay mumbled through his cigarette.

Matt, Damon, and Alyn rose from the table.

"Ben and Yellow Dick will meet us at the shop."

You frowned, watching the men scramble around to grab up coats and guns.

Ramsay placed a kiss to the top of your head, "I'll be back as quickly as I can. I love you."

"You boys be careful. I love you too." You said, watching them leave.

"Wonder what's going on?" Tyene asked.

"I'll ask Charlotte. Damon always had the scanner on." You said pulling your phone from your pocket.

[You: hey, what's going on? The Boys just left here in a hurry?]

"You go sit down and relax. I'll clean up the kitchen. You busted your ass to make dinner. Now it's my turn." Tyene said.

You simply nodded, realizing how tired you were. You walked into the living room, curling up under your blanket on the couch. A cold, wet nose nudging your hand tucked under the throw pillow.

You grinned, grabbing the remote and pulling the puppy up on the couch with you. He made himself as small as possible to lay with you. You dreaded how big he was going to be, judging by the size of his feet.

You flipped through TV channels. Your phone vibrated.

[Charlotte: no idea. I'm working tonight. I'll see what I can find out and let you know.]

[You: thank you! Oh, we are having a boy, btw.]

[Charlotte: awe! I'll be by tomorrow and you can tell me all about it. But give me about 20 to see if I can find out what's going on.]

You set your phone back down, scratching the puppy between the ears and closing your eyes.

After lying still for awhile you could feel the fluttering movements in your stomach.

My son. You thought with a small, sad smile, resting your hand on your belly.

"Uh... (y/n)?" Tyene's voice said from far away.

"Hm?" You hummed, opening your blearily eyes a bit

"TV."

You blinked a few times and glanced over at the TV. You must of fallen asleep as the ten o'clock news was on.

It took you a moment to realize what you were looking at. But when it hit you, you couldn't help but make a noise in your throat, sitting up straight, scaring the puppy who yelped loudly.

The police station. Burning to the ground.

"Hold on folks... we are getting reports that Robb Stark, Ned Stark's son, has just been shot... oh... And his... oh god. Excuse us while we cut to a quick break. Stay tuned for more breaking news..." The news reporter was saying, his face pale and upset, pushing the earphone further in his ear to listen better.

You glanced over at Tyene and frantically felt around for your phone.

"Take the pup out back please." You said, finally closing your fingers around your phone.

2 new texts.

[Charlotte: not 100 on what's going on, but the Boys are safe. They are there as a bumper for whatever is going on. Not directly involved.]

[Rams: do not worry.]

You frowned, looking back at the TV, wishing the stupid truck commercial would hurry up and be over so you could find out exactly what was going on.

You sat on the edge of the couch, eyes glued to the TV.

Robb Stark dead. His poor girlfriend, dead. Doctor Cat, also dead. All three murdered in cold blood. According to the sources, the poor older woman watched her son and his woman die before she was finally killed.

Would that happen to You? Would you watch your husband die before the cold metal was turned on you?

What about the other Starks? Did Sansa know? What about your little street racer? Then there were the two youngest. Both boys. You knew nothing about them.

Where the fuck was Ramsay? Did he set the blaze to the police station? Who killed the Starks?

What a very weird, unsettling day. Seemed to be setting the mood for what was to come.

#guns for hire #gfh #kee_writestrashh #AO3 fanfic #chapter 41 #41/90 #ramsay bolton x reader #ramsay bolton/reader #modern ramsay bolton #ramsay bolton #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones au #modern au #modern game of thrones #got modern au #mafia au #organized crime au

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kee-writestrashh · 5 years

Text

Guns for Hire

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

Chapter 34: Married to the Noise

You said nothing as you took a seat on the couch in Ben's living room. Kaden hugged you tight and Liz sat next to you, running her hand over you back.

"Are you okay?" She asked quietly.

You opened you mouth but no words came out. You rested your head on her shoulder and sniffed the tears back.

"My dogs, Liz. Why? What did they achieve by killing my girls?" You finally got out, bottom lip trembling.

"I know, hon. We will find them. Ramsay won't rest until he finds whoever did this." Liz said softly, running her hand harder over your back, in a very motherly fashion.

"Aunt (y/n)? What happened to your cheek?" Kaden asked quietly, cramming himself between you and the arm of the couch.

You brought your hand to your cheek, trying to come up with a lie. But nothing seemed good enough.

"A bad man." You said finally, with a deep sigh.

"Did he go to jail?" Kaden asked.

Liz hissed at Kaden in her native tongue and Kaden dropped his head.

"Yes, mama." He said, staring at his lap.

You slumped your shoulders and hugged Kaden, "don't worry about me. Uncle Ramsay kept me safe, and the bad man will be... in jail soon."

Ben handed you a bottle of water as he, Alyn, Damon, and Matt all took seats and opened beers.

"Did... did Ramsay go alone?" You asked.

Ben nodded, "yup. Figured he'd get in and out quicker if it was just him.'

You frowned, "Who was supposed to be watching the house tonight?"

Damon shrugged, "none of the Boys. It was a Kings man I believe. Ramsay gives us all a break every once in awhile, and fills in spots with his father's men."

"Can you find out who?" You asked, trying to make sense of it.

Damon shrugged again as a knock came on the door, "I'm sure I can."

Ben answered the door, it was Charlotte.

"Has anyone gotten ahold of my husband yet?"

"Not yet. But be prepared for the explosion when he gets my messages." Alyn sighed, downing his beer.

"What I don't get is why they went through the trouble of destroying the place and writing a message on the wall if they was just gunna blow it up?" Matt spoke as Liz led Kaden from the room to get him ready for bed. Ben followed her, trying to take over, as she wasn't really supposed to be exerting herself while going through cancer treatment.

"Because it was just a threat. A show of power." You said slowly, standing up to pace. "Damon, how long have you and Ramsay known each other?"

"Twenty-two years." Damon said, handing Charlotte a beer.

"So you would know about Ramsay and Roose?"

Damon shifted uncomfortably and nodded, "yes. I know a few things. Things I will take to the grave."

You grinned at his dedication, or fear; whatever, "I'm not asking you to tell me anything. But you can confirm they hate each other?"

"I don't know if I would call it hate. I mean regardless, they are father and son. They loath each other, for sure, but what you're getting at... that's basically treason." He said quickly.

Hm. He wasn't as stupid as you thought.

"Look around Damon! It's not treason if it's true!" You said, recounting the last month of trouble.

"Discuss it with Ramsay then, see what he thinks. Let me know how that goes."

You gave him a sour look and heaved an irritable sigh, throwing yourself back into the couch.

What would Ramsay say? Would he be on the same page with you? Would he dismiss what you said? Was it even Roose who destroyed your house? You'd have to find out more and have a solid foundation before you spoke to your husband.

Liz brought you a blanket as you curled up on the couch, waiting to hear from Ramsay. You were starting to get worried. Why had he not gotten in touch with anyone?

"Want something to eat or drink?" Liz asked, with a yawn.

You shook your head, "No. I'm okay. Go on to bed. You have a doctor's appointment in the morning."

Liz gave a sigh but didn't argue as she nodded and turned to leave. She broke into what sounded like a very painful coughing fit as she made her way down the hall.

Ben watched his wife disappear down the hall with much sadness, "she's been battling that cough for a week and it only seems to be getting worse."

You laid there, staring blankly at the TV as the Boys exchanged bullshit conversations and you silently panicked because you still hadn't heard from Ramsay.

That wasn't like him. Not at all.

You worried yourself into an uneasy sleep on the couch. You almost screamed when someone sat down beside you, heavily, the cold of the night pouring off them.

Ramsay.

He gave you a quick look over and then looked between Alyn and Damon.

"Well?" Ramsay said, setting his helmet on the floor and shedding his cold jacket.

"No idea, boss. I had been to your house three times today. Early this morning to let the dogs out and feed them, then again around one, and finally about four to pick up the Jeep. Nothing was out of place. I checked everything. But, there was no forced entry. Not at the front or back doors. It's got to be someone who knows you and your habits." Alyn said, running his hand over his chin, thinking.

"All of you are to be on high alert. One of you will be next. Give me two days and I will have us a safe house set up that no one but the people in this room will know about. For tonight... I'll just rent a room at the Hilton on the river or something. Matt, you'll stay next door. Once I get the wife settled, Damon, Alyn, you two are coming with me to see what we can see." Ramsay said, leaning back into the couch and running his hand along your leg under the cover.

×××

"Please don't be long. I've already silently cried over you like three times." You said as Ramsay handed you the hotel key card.

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, "I'll be back as quick as I can. You won't have to bury me."

"Promise? You said, grabbing at his hand as he turned to leave.

He pulled his hand back, gave you a wink, and left.

You sunk down on the edge of the bed and tried to hold back the tears. This had to be the worst 24 hours ever. You'd been kidnapped, tied to a chair and threatened, passed out because you couldn't watch your husband be the psycho he truly was, get bossed around and told to be home by your cranky ass father in law, and then come home to find your house destroyed and dogs gutted. And Ramsay was acting way too damn calm.

You decided to take a long, hot shower. Maybe it would help ease the tension in your mind.

You wrapped the towel around you tightly and returned to the bed, where you sat on top of the blankets, heater blasting in the corner, and flipped through the TV channels. You heard your phone buzz across the room.

[Rams: tell the kid what you want to eat and I'll have him go get it real quick.]

[You: I'm really not hungry baby.]

[Rams: you will eat. I will know. Behave baby girl. I'll be there soon. I love you.]

[You: fine. I love you too.]

You picked up the hotel phone and called Matt's room. He answered rather awkwardly.

"Hey, it's only eleven fifteen and the pizza shop on the corner doesn't close 'til midnight. What kind of pizza do you want? They deliver so you don't have to worry about trying to get food and the impossible mission of keeping tabs on me, that I'm sure my husband set you up with."

"Whatever you want to order is fine. As long as it doesn't involve pineapples."

"Oh come on, pineapples can go on pizza, boy!"

Matt gave a laugh, "I'm sure. I just can't indulge on the pineapple band wagon. I'm allergic."

"Hm. But anyways, pizza. Big N O on pineapples. Gotcha." You said hanging up and dialing the pizza parlor from your cellphone.

"Do you have like an obsession with pizza?" Ramsay asked, dropping a bag at the foot of the bed with a sigh and grabbing a slice of pizza from the box.

"Well, I do really like pizza. But they delivered and were the only close place open so late on a weeknight." You shrugged, sipping your soda through your straw. As if he had room to talk about obsessive behaviors. Fucking freak.

"You have clothes in the bag. I'm going to take a shower. I'm freezing." Ramsay said, dropping his pizza crust in the box and walking into the bathroom.

You pulled a pair of flannel pants and a tank from the bag, and slid under the covers, missing your bed so very much. You had been so close.

You said a silent prayer and felt warm sleepiness engulf you, only half aware of what was going on.

You felt Ramsay climb into bed, and relaxed into him as he pulled you into him.

"I'm sorry about all this baby." You whispered in a sleepy voice.

He inhaled your damp hair, pulling you closer. "It's not your fault baby girl. With you being pregnant I should of known it would make us bigger targets than usual."

"Any ideas?" You asked, kissing lightly across his breast.

He gave an irritable growl, "too many. It will be sorted out though. Goodnight, baby girl. I love you."

"Goodnight, my darling. I love you too." You said with a yawn.

×××

You laid there, curled up in the covers watching your husband dress and curse to himself.

"When did you become so cranky in the mornings?" You asked, watching him aggressively button his shirt.

"I'm not cranky." He said, rolling his eyes.

You frowned, sitting up. "Take the day off. Take your shirt off. Take your pants off. Get back in this bed, and sleep. You're exhausted baby. Always going. You aren't eighteen anymore. Or even twenty-three. It's okay to be tired. Whatever you had planned for today... it will still all be there tomorrow. I'm tired of you being a grouch."

He turned to you completely, annoyance clearly written on his face. But no matter what he said, there was no hiding the fatigue. His usual, chaotic, happy air was dampened and murky. His eyes were dull. He was even paler than usual.

"Please? Just one day. It won't hurt. You need it. You'll feel better. Come on. Come lay down." You said, pulling the blankets back.

"Can't. Too much shit to do, and not enough people worth trusting. Or time." He said, turning his back to you.

You clenched your jaw and narrowed your eyes. Drastic times called for drastic measures, right?

You slid from the bed, crossed the room, grabbed Ramsay's phone from the table, and rummaged in your purse.

"What are you doing?" Ramsay asked, crossing his arms.

You pulled your gun from your purse and held it, steadily (much to your relief), pointed at him, and scrolling through his phone with your other hand.

"You will get back in bed, and you will take a fucking nap, and you will get the fuck over it. I will shoot you." You said, hitting call.

Ramsay narrowed his eyes at you as you held both gun and phone, the ringing on the other end almost deafening loud as the silence grew.

"You can't kill me like that. Hold it tighter. All the way into the palm. I'd predict that if you pulled the trigger you'd miss me by about a foot and the force of the kick would make you drop the gun." He whispered wickedly, stepping over to his left by about a foot.

"Sup boss?"

"Damon, the boss is incapacitated today. Whatever needs to be done can be done tomorrow." You glanced up at Ramsay, "go on baby, tell him."

An evil smirk began to twitch the corner of his mouth, "Right. I guess we are taking a day off. Set up tighter security and I will see you later."

"uh, right. Anything else?"

"No. Nothing at all." Ramsay said, stepping into you, taking both phone and gun, hitting end on the phone screen. "You are a very foolish woman." He whispered.

"Is it foolish or is it dangerous? I've learned from the master of both. You are the most foolish man I have ever seen. But you play the bluff so well and have built such a murderous reputation that nobody questions who you are, Ramsay Bolton." You whispered back, jabbing your finger in his chest.

"Who am I then, baby girl?" He asked, pushing his chest further into your finger.

You looked up at him, opened your mouth, but closed it again. It was as if all words had left you. The smirk on his face grew and it annoyed you.

"That's what I thought. Now, if I'm supposed to take a fucking nap, close the curtain and turn off the heater. It's way too fucking hot." He said, stepping away from you to return weapon and phone to the table and take his shirt off.

"Its never dark enough." He sighed, burying his head under the pillow, and laying on his stomach.

You threw your leg around his, and gently ran your nails along his back, until you were sure he was asleep.

You laid there in the dim silence for awhile before rolling over and getting comfortable.

What was it about him that made you feel so bold and yet so... weak? The words you had wanted to say had been at the tip of your tongue, but one look from him sent the words back down. Why? He wasn't really that scary, was he?

At least, not to you. More like he was an insecure guy, who wanted nothing more than for his father to approve of him. To love him.

The thought always made you sad whenever it crossed you. Ramsay would never get that from Roose, no matter how badly he wanted it.

Roose Bolton didn't love anyone or anything. You weren't even sure he had loved Dom. If only there had been no Dom, only Ramsay, how different would it have been?

You hoped Ramsay's hatred for his father would make him a good father. Maybe he loved a little differently, but at least he had emotions. Maybe having a child would change him for the better. Make him more stable. Less likely to engage in psychotic shit. You heaved a deep sigh and held back a laugh. Who were you kidding? Having this child only made Ramsay even more wound and psycho. Oh sure, he cared. Deeply. But, it was obsessive. Just like his love for you. While you were sure it was there, the true love, it was masked by the obsession.

An uneasy sleep washed over you and again your dreamed of graveyards, fire, and screaming.

You awoke with a jerk, sitting up quickly. You looked around to find yourself alone. You scowled.

You looked around for your phone. Gone

You dressed quickly and crossed the hall to bang on Matt's door. No answer.

You took a deep breath, smashing the down button on the elevator pad. It seemed to take forever as you waited on the doors to open. You furiously hit the bottom floor button.

You stormed past the front desk, passing the lobby. You back tracked to find Ramsay and Matt sitting at a table in the corner, playing chess.

You stomped over to the table and opened your mouth but Ramsay held up a finger, never looking at you as he examined the board in front of him. Finally he made his move and looked up at you.

"Yes, baby doll?" He said, rather politely.

"What are you doing?" You asked, watching Matt.

"Playing a game." Ramsay said, reaching over for a chair and pulling it up next to him.

You sat, glaring at your husband. "You were supposed to be taking a nap."

"I did." He shrugged, gazing at Matt and clearing his throat.

"Quit rushing me man. I've almost got you cornered." Matt muttered, after changing his mind for the third time.

You heaved an irritable sigh, taking Matt's tower and sliding it across the board. "Check."

Both men glanced up at you. You pulled a face and shrugged.

"Bold move." Ramsay chuckled, reaching for a piece.

"One that will kill you if you make that move." You said, glancing around the empty room.

"Olyvar needs to meet with you at the bar. Or are we still avoiding the real world today?" Ramsay said, handing you your phone.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

"And what are you wanting to do?" You asked, taking your phone.

"Well, I have to find out who fucked my house. The trail grows colder every second. So now I have to get the police involved, so they can pick up the trail for me."

"Are we staying here again?"

"No. Can't afford to stay in the same place for too long."

"Then where will we go?"

"Working on it. I will drop you off at the bar and then get with you when I have an all clear."

"I'm not riding on that. It's the middle of winter, and I'm pregnant." You said, as Ramsay handed you his helmet.

He fixed you with a look, "You can walk."

You bit your tongue, snatching the helmet and putting it on. He gave you his gloves and climbed on the bike.

You sighed, climbing on behind him and wrapping your arms tightly around his middle.

Even with gloves your hands were painfully numb and your legs felt frozen when Ramsay helped you remove the helmet.

"How are you so calm?" You asked, looking him over.

"Why does it bother you? I promise you don't want to see me lose my shit." He shrugged, leaning in to kiss you as Olyvar pulled into the parking lot.

You kissed his cold lips and handed him his gloves.

"Take her to lunch. It's on me." Ramsay said to Olyvar when he joined you.

Olyvar nodded, glancing at your bruised cheek.

You watched Ramsay leave before turning to Olyvar.

"What the hell has been going on?" He asked, pulling your chin up to look at him full in the face.

"It wasn't Ramsay. If that's what you're thinking. You know he'd never lay a hand on me. But, don't worry about it. The man responsible will be deader than dead soon. Now, what's up?" You said, glancing at the construction. It seemed to be going along smoothly. Foundation laid, beams being put up.

It rekindled a fire in your chest.

Fire.

"Oly, before you answer my other question, tell me... do we know any pyromaniacs?"

"No? I don't think so. Other than your husband, maybe." Olyvar said, following your gaze to the construction going on. "Anyways, we just had to meet here to sign papers with the contractor."

You nodded, following Olyvar to the contract manger's trailer office. You blindly signed papers, still going over faces, names, and offenses in your mind.

"(Y/n), are you okay?" Olyvar asked after the waiter left with your lunch order.

"Fire." You said, thinking you would ask Ramsay to pull profiles later.

"What of it?" Olyvar asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Well. It seems to be... a theme? The bar burns. I keep having nightmares about fire and graveyards. I leave home for like three days and come back to my dogs killed and everything drenched in gasoline." You said, picking at your napkin. It was nice to be able to tell someone. You trusted Olyvar the most. Maybe you should make him your advisor. He always gave sound advice.

"You should go talk to a psychic." Olyvar suggested.

You scoffed, but saw that he was serious. You rolled your eyes.

"May as well sell my soul to the devil."

"Hmmm. Kind of assumed you did when you said 'I do.' Ramsay is no saint." Olyvar shrugged, sipping his drink.

Why was everyone so intent on reminding you that your husband was a "bad" guy?

"Have you worked over Loras and Renly yet?" You asked, picking at your food as the waiter refilled your glass.

"Mm! Interesting story. Renly has gone into hiding. Deep underground. Kind of left Loras high and dry. Poor dear. Anyways, Stannis plans on making a move against the Lannister's before the Baratheon Tyrell wedding." Olyvar said.

"I wonder if Rams knows?" You asked, more to yourself than Olyvar. "Anything else?"

Olyvar shook his head.

You both finished your meal in silence.

"So sorry about your dogs by the way." Olyvar said kindly, as he set his fork down.

You sighed and looked up from your plate, heart stopping.

A young woman was walking across the floor from the bathroom. Her hair had been dyed dark but there was no mistaking her.

You snatched your phone up and snapped several pictures before calling your husband.

"Yes, baby girl?" Ramsay panted on the other end, screaming and begging in the background.

"Rams. I have eyes on Sansa Stark. With... that jumped up Baelish pedophile." You said quietly, watching Sansa resume her seat at a table at the back of the restaurant. Baelish wrapping his arm around her shoulder and talking animatedly to a group around him.

"Meet me at the garage. You need the jeep anyways."

You set your phone back on the table, "give me a ride to the shop." You said, pulling cash from your wallet.

Olyvar nodded, showing you out.

"Where's Ramsay?"

"It would probably be best if you just waited for him in his office." Damon said, throwing a pile of clothes in an empty, metal 50 gallon barrel, and striking a match.

"Where is he?" You asked, crossing your arms.

Damon didn't need to answer as the sounds of breaking glass and wood on metal filled the air.

You opened the door to the garage, crossing the bay to the back door. You stood there in the doorway, watching Ramsay destroy the Nova with a baseball bat.

Like your living room wall it was painted with the word BASTARD. The body full of bullet holes and the seats torn to shreds.

Watching Ramsay be so destructive made your blood run cold. He didn't stop until he had efficiently damaged every part beyond salvage. You didn't assume him to ever notice you standing there watching him in his fit of rage.

Finally he dropped the bat, sighed deeply, removed his headphones, lit a cigarette, and finally turned to face you.

You had expected him to look like a maniac. But he just looked tired, as he blinked slowly, pulling his phone from his pocket and pausing his music.

"You okay?" You asked, stepping into him and hugging him tight.

"Always." He chuckled, taking a drag and wrapping his arms around you.

"Liar." You whispered.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" He laughed.

"Why? You could of redid her. You built it from nothing." You said, peering around him at the destroyed car.

"I ran out of bodies." He replied simply.

Despite yourself you laughed, stepping back. He raised a brow, letting a grin form as he snorted in amusement.

"You're fucking wild." You said, kissing his cheek.

"Something is different about you." He said, grabbing your face, and kissing you roughly.

"Maybe I'm just tired of pretending like I give a shit about people and their lives." You said, kissing him back.

"No. That's not it. Because that's a lie. You care too much. That makes you foolish, and so very dangerous." He said, dropping his hands to your waist.

You looked up at him, his manic glint back in his eyes.

"Let's kill tonight." He said, grabbing your hand and leading you inside.

"Who and why?" You asked, very taken aback.

"You tell me. It's more fun when it's a surprise. I have a fun game for that." He said, snapping his fingers at Damon as he walked past.

The Boys all followed, to the conference room.

You stood beside your husband as he leaned against the polished table.

"Alright Boys. Get me all the messages in and out of all my father's shit. Everything. Also, get the word out to Robb Stark that I have his sister. And someone find me a fucking Greyjoy!" Ramsay said, glancing at Damon, Alyn, and Matt.

Matt stared at his feet. You noted how much Ramsay was including him on big things. You wondered why?

The three men turned to leave but Ramsay stopped them.

"Meet me at the shit hole, seven. It's been awhile."

2 notes · View notes

midnightcindy · 6 years

Text

To Love a Sinner: Chapter 13

The way into the Howard estate was damned near impossible. In fact, with Alyn’s lack of espionage training, it was a suicide mission just showing up. Alyn’s line of work called for less finesse: a hard knock on the head, a kick to the gut, a bullet through the skull, and the subsequent disposal of any remaining bits. This mission tonight was anything but quick.

Alyn read carefully over the instructions that Nico had already worked out. Thankfully, at least someone had put some thought into how to get in. From the detail Nico had written, someone would have believed that he lived there; seriously, what was that kid doing as muscle? His talent was clearly in the details.

The information file burned into Alyn’s brain, he carefully followed the path through the woods that Nico had found. Alyn moved his way silently past the guards patrolling the property, carefully avoiding the areas that were marked as watchdog territory. Soon he was slipping in through the back veranda, hiding among topiaries and hugging the path that had been plotted for him on the map. He carefully watched the gentle sweep of the cameras, and prayed that he wouldn’t make a wrong step.

Since God clearly wasn’t watching out for someone like him, it must have been sheer luck that he was able to get in through the french doors cresting the patio. He dug through his pocket until he found the lock picking kit Leo showed him how to use, and after three tries, the door creaked open. He breathed carefully as he ducked inside, laying low in the darkness of the sunroom. Alyn closed his eyes, searching for the next step.

Through the sunroom, past the kitchen, into the main hall. The stairs to the second floor, hug the left railing, cross the hall. Alyn breathed low as he approached two ornate, wooden doors. Pulling his gun from his belt, he held it at eye level, and exhaled. Alyn pushed the door open with one hand, and stopped.

An elegant man in a lax version of a suit- an undershirt with exposed suspenders, wrinkled slacks, and a tie that had been loosened after a long day- with a shock of blonde hair rested his hip on a large desk made of heavy wood, a document in hand. He chewed on a pair of spectacles as he read, his silky hair covering his face until he looked up.

For a moment his eyes were cold and unfocused, until he saw the gun Alyn had pointed at his face. His cool demeanor fell, and he raised his hands, glasses and papers hanging loosely in his fingers. “Don’t shoot.”

“Yeah, that’s not why I’m here,” Alyn said softly, shutting the door behind him.

Louis Howard lowered his hands, dropping the glasses on the table.

Alyn cocked his gun nervously. “Don’t fucking move, Howard.”

“All right,” he said, his voice even enough. “Just tell me why you want me dead, and maybe we can make a deal.”

“I’m just doing what Mr. Branche hired me to do,” Alyn admitted, moving closer. “That should tell you enough.”

“Look, whatever Robert is paying you, I can triple it,” Howard said, his hands outstretched.

“Right,” Alyn said, scoffing. “Except he's paying me in ways that you couldn’t match.”

“Please,” Howard begged, although his voice never wavered. “I’m just a man with a family, trying to provide.”

Alyn chewed the inside of his lip. “Nice story,” he said. “But I’m not the emotional type.”

Of course the next voice to speak would make Alyn regret his words. “Daddy?”

Alyn’s eyes widened, his face running cold. A boy walked into the room, no more than five years old, his big, blue eyes red and sleepy. He rubbed at his face, blanket trailing behind him. “Daddy,” he said again. “Who is that?”

Alyn wasn’t ready to see this. No, he thought, not again.

“Mommy,” Alyn said, clutching a teddy bear. He walked into the tiny kitchen from his bedroom, leaving Leo still sound asleep in their bunk bed. He was so tired, and he yawned with a tiny squeal. “Mommy, I heard a funny noise.”

Alyn walked forward, past the cupboard that was blocking the tiled floor. He cocked his head when he saw a pair of slippered feet poking out. Turning the corner, there was a funny smell in the room. It reminded him of warm pennies. “Mommy?”

His mother was lying on the ground. Thinking she fell asleep in the kitchen, Alyn moved toward her head to wake her up. He stepped in something hot. Looking to his feet, the floor was covered in a red liquid. “Mommy,” Alyn repeated. “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mom,” he tried again, poking at her chest.

Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

Alyn screamed.

Alyn was breathing heavily, his gun shaking as it pointed toward Louis Howard.

“It’s all right, Charlie. Go back to bed.”

“Daddy,” Charlie said, shuffling forward. “Why does he have a gun?”

Alyn couldn’t breathe. His finger was trembling on the trigger. Why was he here? Who was that man?

“Charlie,” Howard said, backing away from Alyn. “Go to your room.”

“Daddy,” Charlie said louder.

Alyn heard the voice. No witnesses.

“I… I can’t…” Alyn muttered.

“Charles,” Louis warned, pointing at his son. “Do as daddy says!”

“I… I…” Alyn’s head was spinning. Mom? Wake up!

Charlie started to cry. “I’m scared!”

“It’s okay,” Howard said.

Alyn’s gun was falling now. He couldn’t see. He pressed a hand to his face. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.

Howard paused, looking back to Alyn. “What?”

“I can’t live in this nightmare anymore,” he said, crumpling to his knees. The gun slipped from his hold, falling onto the carpet. The air was still.

Alyn flinched when he felt a tiny hand on his cheek. He looked up, eyes stretched and tired, and stared into the soft blue pools of innocence. “It’s okay,” Charlie said. “I have nightmares too.”

Alyn felt his chin quiver, and he ducked his head, crying softly. He saw Leo’s face, young and still so innocent, holding his brother. The police lights flashed around them in the cold night, the night that held so many memories from so long ago. It’s okay, Alyn, Leo said. Someone will take care of us.

Alyn reached out without thinking and held onto the small child. He shivered helplessly, hugging the little boy close, comforting the shadow of himself.

Then, Alyn felt another hand on his shoulder, a larger stronger one, and he looked up. Louis Howard was kneeling next to him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to have a drink with me?”

Alyn sniffled, wiping at his face as he released the little boy. He cleared his throat, wiping at his face and nodding. “You got anything strong?”

________

“So,” Louis said, his fingers a steeple resting on his lips, “what do you think?”

Alyn finished his second drink, grunting at the burn that coated his throat. “It sounds too good to be true.”

Louis chuckled, leaning forward in his chair to pour Alyn another glass from the decanter.

Alyn covered his glass, shaking his head politely. “Sorry,” he said tiredly, “I normally don’t even drink this much.”

Louis nodded, and leaned back again. “If you insist.” He took a thoughtful breath, then settled his hands on his lap. “Mr. Crawford, I am prepared to offer you everything I have said and more. All you have to do is exchange some information to me.”

Alyn shook his head snickering. “And how do I know you’ll actually come through?”

“Because I believe you’re a good man,” he said seriously. “A good man who has led a life through a series of unfortunate events.”

“How do you figure that?” Alyn quipped, settling back into the armchair.

“You couldn’t kill me or my son, even though you were given direct orders. That doesn’t sound like a heartless thug to me.”

Alyn smirked, stretching out his legs over the thick rug. “You know what I think?”

“What is that,” Louis asked.

“I think you’re just sweet talking me,” Alyn challenged. “I think the minute I give you what you want, you’re just gonna shoot me on my way out the door. You really think I believe you can keep me safe from Robert?” Alyn shook his head, laughing. “I can’t even keep me safe from Robert, and he trusts me. Can’t keep anyone safe from that bastard…”

Louis narrowed his eyes, and stood. Strolling to the wall, his hands in his pockets, he seemed to be deep in thought. Alyn watched as he stared at a portrait of his family. The Howards looked regal as ever, Louis standing proudly, his arms draped around his wife and child as if both embracing and protecting them. Louis mused, “Do you have a family, Mr. Crawford?”

Alyn stared blankly at the portrait. “What does it matter?”

“Would you do anything to protect them?”

Alyn went quiet. He thought of the only two people that mattered to him, and he found himself sinking into his seat.

“So would I,” Louis murmured, and turned on his heel to face Alyn. “Believe me when I say that you and I are not so different, Mr. Crawford. So trust my words when I say that in keeping your family safe, I can also protect mine.” Louis stood over Alyn, leaning slightly to set his arm on the backrest. He stared down into Alyn’s eyes as he spoke firmly. “Tell me what I need to know, and in turn, I will see to it that those you hold dear can live long, happy lives away from this madness. Do we have a deal?”

Alyn stared down at the hand lingering in front of him. In Louis’ palm, he could see Leo and Billie, relaxing on a beach somewhere, not having to worry about phone calls from mob leaders or angry exes. Just tan skin and martinis, Leo’s laughter and Billie’s touch. Taking Louis’ hand, Alyn stood. “I want them safe, first. Then I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Louis grinned. “Very well. I can arrange to have them sent off wherever you like, completely untraceable. Robert will never be able to find any of you.”

Alyn gripped Louis hand tighter. “Let’s get one thing straight, Howard,” he said firmly. “I don't give a damn what happens to me, but if one of them gets hurt, I’ll kill you myself.”

Louis Howard grinned, shaking Alyn’s hand. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Louis released Alyn and wandered back to his desk. “You twenty-four hours to get them here, and I can handle it from there. When you get back here, you’ll give Byron anything he needs on Robert’s operation. Then, I’ll sneak you off. But until you get here, you’re on your own.”

Alyn nodded stiffly with his chin, and tugged on his leather jacket. Cracking his neck, he walked briskly out of the study. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#i stayed home from class today i just missed writing #i miss you guys #midnight cinderella #cindy writes for y'all #midnightcindy #Alyn Crawford #to love a sinner #chapter 13

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