#got fanfiction
Keep it Quiet, my modern, arranged marriage mob AU is now finished!
Neither Sansa nor Jon has a choice in this arrangement. It’s expected of them. Getting married will keep their families safe, their territories secure, but Jon has something more in mind.
also on ao3 | As the day he meets his soulmate approaches, Jon is having a bit of a freak out over how unkind his words are.
Jon:I’m having an existential crisis.
Sansa:What kind today, love?
Jon:The romantic sort.
Sansa:Ah.
Jon:How does my soulmate hate me already? It’s not fair. And if that’s the case, maybe all this soulmate business isn’t what we’ve been told.
Sansa:A government conspiracy to distract the people from social issues by making us believe in love?
Jon:Yes, exactly.
Sansa:But some of the greatest advocates for change - health care, women’s rights, trans rights, all our rights - are people who’ve met their soulmate.
Jon:Yeah, there’s that. But they never get much done, do they? It’s the same push and pull and five steps back for every step forward. They’re outlawing abortion in some states!
Sansa:I’d say that has more to do with men’s desire to control women than soulmates. Anyway, your words don’t carry the tone. It could be the most affectionate telling off said on this side of the Atlantic.
(Five minutes later)
Sansa: Jon?
Sansa:Jon, are you getting weepy?
Jon:I don’t weep. I consider the purpose of life outdoors for aesthetic purposes, and the wind makes my eyes well up.
Sansa:*hugs* It’ll be alright. Only two more days to go. I’ll meet mine tomorrow, and you’re just the day after. Maybe they’re my soulmate’s sibling… That would be something.
Jon:Something, lol. Can’t wait.
Jon slips his phone into his pocket and wipes at his eyes. He does get a bit weepy about it. Who wouldn’t? He doesn’t let himself get down on himself for his sensitivity over them considering some people even write full books rashing on their soulmates because of their words. He’s sure it’s awkward when they actually fall in love. Maybe at a book tour.
He sighs and gets up. He doesn’t even drive, so he can be sure not to crash into his soulmate’s car. Sansa says that’s silly, and he ought to live his life like he would without trying to be his very best for someone he doesn’t even know. She’s always right, but it doesn’t mean he listens to her as often as he should.
Take their completely platonic relationship. Or… mostly platonic.
Sansa doesn’t believe in waiting on anything. She’s dated, had her heart broken, had sex, all without her soulmate. She even shared a flat with a particularly foul-mouthed man, Harry, who she kicked out after he went in on Jon for being a sensitive twat. His words, not Jon’s. She laments losing the good sex sometimes but says she probably couldn’t get off with someone who talked to someone she loves like that anyway.
Then, a few months later, a leak sprung in Jon’s apartment. As he’d been staying at Sansa’s more often than not, she proposed that he just move in. The second bedroom could remain a workspace and they could have a good cuddle before bed, wouldn’t that be nice?
It’s torture is what it is. Jon wakes up with Sansa’s lavender-scented hair in his face, her legs tangled with his, her head on his chest, and he doesn’t see why they can’t be soulmates instead of whichever nameless ass is going to be mean to him straight off. They touch all the damn time - brushing each other’s hair from their eyes, a hand on the back as they move about the kitchen, a hand on the arm while they tell a story, and then, of course, there’s the outright cuddling during movies and getting ready for bed and when one of them has had a terrible time of it at work.
He’s drawn the line at anything sexual, though. He’s a virgin at 28, and he’s determined to stay that way until he meets his person. He doesn’t want to give his soulmate any reason to say these words to him which is foolish and completely pointless. Once they’re written, they can’t be changed. It’s done. His soulmate is going to call him that, and they’re going to fall in love anyway. Or he’ll end up part of one of those soulmate pairs where there isn’t love at all and it’s just some companionship bullshit. That’s all good and well for the asexuals, but Jon has always imagined copious orgasms, both the giving and receiving. He’s spent too many hours on the couch listening to Sansa go at it with her vibrator to not want to make her his soulmate sound like that someday.
Some asexuals fall in love and others have sex, he remembers reading. Maybe he could negotiate.
Besides, it could be worse, he reasons. If Sansa is right, and she usually is, he’ll have to watch her with some idiot for the rest of his life and not even be able to badmouth them to his own soulmate because it’ll be their sibling. Fuck.
So distracted is he by his miserable thoughts that he doesn’t look left and see the minivan barreling towards him.
It’s all very scary: the blurry look of the sky, people’s gasps of fascination and faint concern, the ambulance lights. He hasn’t stood up. Someone yelled at him not to try. He lifts his hand to his head, and it comes away bloody. So, he’d dying then. But he’s supposed to meet —
When he wakes up, he’s in hospital. The lights are bright and it takes his eyes several blinks to adjust. He’s scared and confused. He looks to the side, and Sansa is there. Her face is splotchy red, her eyes puffy, and she’s shaking her head down at her phone. She looks distraught, and he guesses he really is going to die. His breathing gets heavier, and he closes his eyes again to focus on the 4-7-8 breath count that helps him keep his anxiety at bay.
Sansa’s looking at him when he’s done. Her face is mutinous. She’s never looked at him this way before. He’d take a step back if he wasn’t lying down and, therefore, unable to escape.
“You absolute berk.”
He croaks, “You should be nice to me. I’ve been in accident.”
The fury falls off her face, and she stares at him with wide eyes. Her mouth falls open. His own eyes open further in response. She shakes her head with a chuckle. She stands up and pours him a cup of water, plopping the straw in it and bringing it to his mouth.
“I felt it buzz, but I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind to meet my life partner with you laid up in hospital.” She runs a hand through his hair.
“What?”
She lifts up her wrist and shows her zeroed out timer. Above it are the words: You should be nice to me. I’ve been in accident. “I should’ve realized.”
He looks down at his own wrist to his own zeroed out timer and the dark words that have haunted him for the past sixteen years. “Why did you have to call me a berk?”
“Because you are one,” she says, remembering her anger. “You died. Twice. They weren’t sure if you’d survive the night and all because you were so worried that your soulmate would be too much of an idiot to realize how fantastic you are.” Her hand clutches his. She is everywhere as she always is.
“This means —“ he clears his throat and tries again. “This means we can have sex.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Her eyes darken, and she looks down at his lips. He thinks she’ll kiss him now and maybe make one of those soft whimpers she does. “Not ’til you’re out of hospital, though.”
He leans back onto his pillows, fingers caressing hers. “So, I must have been unconscious. You saw me, and I woke up today and saw you. Who designs these timers anyway? We ought to file a complaint.”
“We ought to become anti-soulmate advocates. Not really anti, more… Don’t put your life on hold waiting for the one. We’ve been in love with each other for years. The only thing stopping us was the thought that we weren’t endgame. We could’ve had years together.”
“We did, though. Have years. Just without the, ahem, and I must not have become the right one for you until I died. That’s strange, that. Maybe I’ll be different now, more well-adjusted.”
“Doubtful. It wouldn’t make sense regardless. I find your idiosyncrasies endearing.”
“It could happen,” he argues.
And then she does kiss him. It is soft and tender and quick like she’s done it every day for the past ten years. The look in her eyes, though, that’s lingering and holds a promise. She lifts up and presses the call button, her other hand bringing his to her lips.
“Let’s hope not.”
an 8x04 scene remix, also on ao3 here.
My father once said that we find our friends on the battlefield, she thinks. And so it is. Now that Daenerys has fought alongside the North, the Knights of the Vale, and the Free Folk, the disdain for her queenship has dimmed for the night. They are cold with her yet they still cheer.
Sansa watches Daenerys toast Arya. She watches her give Gendry a lordship. She knows what is to come. She sees.
She lets herself rest for the night, to be taken in by Jon’s laugh, the loose set of his shoulders as he sits on the table facing her. He is more relaxed than she’s seen him since Castle Black. He has won this battle that she is sure he did not think to survive.
But with Jon turned away from her, smiling at her, what once filled her heart with lightness makes it heavy with dread.
She leaves.
The Golden Company are equal to their forces in number and have not just been to war. It would be wise to wait until the troops are rested. Jon looks at her as if she’s declared she would not send the troops at all. Her eyes stay on him as he assures his queen of the North’s allegiance. She trusts him, yes. Her faith in him is still strong. It is why this stings like betrayal.
Worse when Arya touts that Jon made the right choice in bending the knee. She feels as if she is the only on who remembers that the Wall fell due to this queen’s dragons, due to her need for a true with Cersei. As she is looking down, her eyes meet Bran’s. No, she is not the only one.
Bran is contained, but Sansa has learned to read him well. He will not enter into an argument with them, not when he could visit much more interesting times, but he will not pretend that this queen has been a savior to them.
And then he tells them. Jon is not Ned Stark’s child. He’s a king.
Arya has rushed forward to hug him. She calls him her brother still. It changes nothing in her eyes. Jon would ruffle her hair and make her laugh after Septa Mordane scolded her. He is her brother.
Sansa feels a different rush. A rush of relief and hope. She speaks to squash it. “Your mother had the North in her, and you were raised by Lord Eddard Stark, the same as Theon. You are a Stark, now and always.” She takes his hand. “Who else knows?” She asks.
“Sam, Queen Daenerys, and the four of us.” His voice is gruff with emotion though his eyes are dry. She has never seen him cry, not even when Rickon ——
“Daenerys?” She asks incredulously. Arya stares up at her. “You’ve just made us swear to keep this secret from the world. Yet, you’ve told the woman who could have you executed for having a higher claim to the throne than she does?”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m still alive.”
But a muscle throbs in his jaw, and he looks down quickly after. His eyes are always shifty when he’s saying how good his queen will be.
The four of them talk but none of the tension fades. There is a chasm between them that has nothing to do with Jon’s true parentage. Jon is leaving with a queen that they trust even less now with their family. Bran regales them with a story of Lyanna and Father when they were young, how she would ride through the training yard while he practiced. Arya smiles. Jon is eager for more information. Sansa cannot help but think both of them are dead now because of Southerners. She thinks of Lyanna on her birthing bed, knowing that her father and brother died, trying to rescue her, that it may not have been just the birth that killed her.
Arya says she is cold and will take Bran inside with her. It’s a lie. Arya’s furs are enough to keep her warm, but Sansa appreciates the gesture. Jon looks ready to leave himself but Sansa takes his hand again and sits him down on the stone beside her. They wait until Arya and Bran are out of sight.
He is braced for an argument. They do tend to fight their way through every problem in front of them, each coming at the same goal from opposing sides. She doesn’t want another argument. She doesn’t know when she will see him again. He is headed off to fight one war war and seems unaware of the precariousness of his position in another.
“I wish you hadn’t told her,” she says. “I don’t know what is between you now. Regardless, she is your family, too. I know what family means to you. I only wish you had not told her.”
He sighs. He stands and turns his back to her. “It’s done now. She knows. As long as I don’t press my claim, it will be alright.”
“And is that what you want to do?”
“All I want is to keep the North and our family safe. This is the way to do that. You don’t have to like her, but she’ll be a good queen.”
“So you’ve said.” She closes her eyes at the bitterness in her voice. She exhales sharply and continues in a cooler tone, “What you haven’t told me is why you believe in her. You said we needed a powerful ally, her armies, and her dragons, but you’ve never said why we need someone who would consider burning an entire city of innocents to reach one enemy.”
“She is our queen! Whether you like it or not, you need to respect it! What is it you need to hear to do that? That you were right? That I never should have gone to there in the first place? We did need the dragonglass. We did need her armies. There are always prices to pay. You taught me that.”
“That’s what you think this is about? My pride?” She stands, watching his face with narrowed eyes. Her intake of breath is sharp and burns her throat with cold. “It may have escaped your notice, with you busy pleasing your precious queen, but the only reason the North hasn’t turned against us is because the war with the dead was looming. Now that it is done, we are in more danger than ever before.”
“Has someone ——”
“You never have been good at this side of things, have you? Be serious. Do you think someone announced their plans to murder Robb and my mother before they did it? Lady Mormont might have voiced her discontent to your face. The others won’t, Jon. The others will wait until we need them and refuse to come to our aid or worse. And now, now you are taking an injured, weary army that feels betrayed by you to fight for a queen they despise. Can you truly not see the danger in that?”
He takes a step forward. She brushes aside the hand he reaches toward her. Her breaths are heavy and mingle with his. He looks away with a sigh.
“They may not love me, but they love you, Sansa. You’ve kept them safe and made sure they have shelter. They wanted to name you queen. They won’t make a move that would bring harm you.”
She shakes her head. “You are taking their sons and fathers to what may well be a slaughter. We are all unrecognizable in love. It makes us do things we never imagined we’d do.” She swallows, the stiffness of her spine relaxing a touch. “You don’t see. You never have. I’m angry with you, so very angry. I would be content to let you make any error you see fit to if I wasn’t sure it would cost you your life. But I can’t stop you. You’ll do what you think is best.”
“Sansa,” he pleads.
“As will I.”
“I need you to trust me in this. It may not look like it, but I’m protecting you, us.”
Her eyes take in his furrowed brow, the cut on his cheek, the tremble of his lips.
She trusts him. She believes in him. He is wrong. Pretending that everything is well will not make it so. The last time he looked so uncertain, she had assuaged him. She cannot do that now. Instead, she leans forward and kisses his forehead to take the sting from her words, a hand at his neck, fingers curled into his hair. His breath is shaky beneath her. She drops her forehead to his and says, “Try trusting in me for a change.”
She moves back, and his eyes drop to her slight smile before rising to hers. Her fingernails graze his scalp as they untangle themselves from his strands.
She steps to the side and away from him. He does not follow her out of the godswood. She knows that he will not. We are all unrecognizable in love, and she does. She loves this foolish, stubborn man. She will do what she must to protect him now even from himself.
also on ao3
Her breath comes fast and breathy in his ear. She quivers around him and takes her pleasure. Sansa with her hair fanning her face and red coloring her cheeks. She cries out; he follows after her, and he can almost believe that what they have is enough.
They say that love is the beginning and end of everything. It’s what happens in the middle he worries over.
There’s no advice to be given, no action he can take. He loves this woman. He loves how quickly her mood sours, each smile no matter how small he is able to draw from her. He craves every intimacy and look. He loves this woman, and she is fading in front of him.
He doesn’t talk to her about it. It’s more unbearable to watch herself to force herself rise from bed, bathe and dress, each activity taking longer than the last. She walks the halls of Winterfell and performs an hour’s duties in a day. He sits in their study, getting even less done as he watches her fidget with these papers then these scrolls, mind moving from one issue to another, eyes glossing over and coming back sharply with an exhale.
Some days, she eats only a bread roll; others, she has them make her a pile of lemon cakes and eats them until she sicks up. He smoothes the wrinkle in her brow with a gentle thumb. He doesn’t understand her. She tells him she doesn’t understand herself.
The maester gives her herbs. Leeches. It’s all for naught. Ghost begs for her attention. He lays on the bed with his head on his paws and stares at her dolefully. He can walk the grounds without her but he stays at her side. Jon does not wonder why, not after the day when he came back to their rooms to a blood-red bath. Ghost watches over her while Jon attends his duties as king.
In the songs, a love like theirs transcends past pain.
Arya throws the window shade open, pulls the covers off of Sansa, screams. She calls her all manner of horrible things and accuses of her not loving her, not loving Jon. Sansa’s effort gives them her dressed in the same room. She frustrates at being spoken to and has little to say herself. She tries. But a man with a broken leg can only force himself to walk for so long. Eventually, it will crumble beneath him and be worse than before.
It’s different when he touches her. That dimness in her eyes brightens. She is wanton and urges him to use her body as she uses his. Faster, harder, rougher, she wants to feel the bruises on her skin. It’s the only time she can feel something, she tells him after.
She spends hours in the bath. The skin of her feet whitens before she makes herself stand and settle into bed again. He has to rub oil into the skin to stop it from feeling like it will simply peel away.
“I stopped trying.”
“What?” He looks up from his task.
“To find her.”
“Who?”
Her shoulders drop an inch and she pulls her feet up onto the bed. She lies on her side. He pulls the covers up to her chin and places a kiss on her forehead. His hand lingers, waiting, waiting, and then he leaves.
He only remembers later. Once, she’d asked him to send her way to the Silent Sisters. The Faith would know what to do with something like her, she’d said. She is neither here nor anywhere. Could it be her lack of love for the gods that makes her so? She’d fought him then but sobbed in relief when he’d won the battle, clutching him to her. She’d took him there on the floor shaking with tears and ecstasy.
He brushes her hair until it gleams. He reads to her. Her needlework is begun and stopped by the end of the third page. She has been making this item for three moons’ turns. She’d told him once what it was but the answer changes.
How much she loves him is something grotesque. He is the only bright spot in a dark castle, but she has to travel further and further to find him in the room he stays. He is right here. He will always be right here. She turns her face away. He doesn’t understand. Her hand is limp over his heart. She tires of these conversations more easily. She needs him, but he is failing her.
“Do you hate me?”
It is the question he asks most often. It seems every fortnight these words are falling from his lips. If it is the marriage she wants to escape, he would let her go if it meant she would be happy. She does not seek him out. She dismisses him like Ghost with a sharp word on the worst days. Hate, he could fathom. If she could tell him what he’s done to earn her ire, he would change it. He would make amends. He would do anything.
This answer stays the same. “You’re the only one I love.”
Today, her voice is broken and soft. She looks up at him with that uncertain gaze. Relief softens his expression. There she is. His laugh turns to a sob, and he is kissing her. He holds her to him and tells her mundane things she can’t fake an interest in on other days. He tells her Arya sends her love from Braavos. He caresses her cheek and relishes in her fingers in his hair, her nose rubbing against his when he makes a good jape, these touches that do not lead anywhere. Seeing her come alive during a coupling is an exquisite agony. But to have her tease him and chide him, to have her look at him the way she is now is pure joy.
She is gone in the morning.
also on AO3
She seems a stranger to him now. Every bit the lady as always even with her hair disheveled and blood streaking her cheek. It’s the smile on her lips that’s changed, he thinks. There was innocence there once and anticipation but never the knowing confidence it holds now.
It is not the first offer for her hand now that she’s the widowed daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, beloved cousin to the king, but it is the only one that makes her eyes shine with happiness. The Northern lords have all scrounged up their sons and nephews for her perusal. She’d disdained them all with the polite, distant way she has. Then, she’d looked hunted and turned to him for protection, for the assurance that she need never marry again, that he’d let her stay safe within the walls of Winterfell.
Now, he can hear the smile in her voice even when he tries to shut his eyes against her beaming expression. “It seems Lord Willas Tyrell was in Oldtown when their keep was attacked. He yet lives and, remembering how well his grandmother and sister spoke of me, would like to know me better if I’m amenable.” There’s a laugh then, light like he hasn’t heard her give since she rode through the gates of Castle Black.
“And you’re amenable to corresponding with a man you’ve never met whose house is in ruins and who cannot possibly have enough men at his disposal to protect you?”
“The war is done, Jon. I’m not in need of protection, and I’m not averse to the hardships that come with rebuilding a house.” She makes a small motion towards her face. “You’re right that I don’t know him, but I feel as if I do. Margaery and Lady Olenna spoke of him often when they planned for us to marry.”
“You were betrothed?”
“Secretly. It was a plot to save me from Joffrey and his viper of a mother. It failed, but the thought of it flamed my hopes many a night. Did you know that he’s so good-hearted Littlefinger swore he’d bore me to tears? That’s just what a man ought to be,” she says, sobering. “Better boring than a brute.”
He takes it as his opening. “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to wed after all that’s happened.”
“This isn’t a marriage proposal,” she lets the scroll curl in on itself. “It could be something more, someday, but for now it is only an offer of friendship.”
“Aye, it is. We both know that no matter how he dresses it now. There’s no sense in leading the man on when you’ve no intention of marrying him or anyone else.”
“And who says I’m leading him on? Who says I don’t want to marry someday?”
He walks closer to look at her better as if it is only the dim light that stops him from seeing her reason clearly. His voice is low and measured when he speaks. “Did you not beg me in this very room not to send you away?”
She looks down, shifting her jaw. “It was so soon after — It was so soon after Ramsay that I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to let a man touch me.” Her gaze touches on his, his lips before dropping again. “I know myself better now. He is gone. I am here, and I can’t think it wrong to want a man to desire me. Do you think me so spoiled that that could never be possible?”
“You don’t see the way the men look at you, freefolk and lords alike. The lords may want an advantageous marriage, true, but their eyes follow you even after they’ve been rejected.” He sighs. “Beautiful doesn’t do you justice, Sansa. You’re a sight to behold, the most comely woman south of the Wall.”
“Oh,” she breathes.
He’s taken her off guard, and she’s staring at him now like she finally understands him. He hopes she doesn’t. He clears his throat. They are so close, too close. She moves toward the window and there is silence as he reminds his body to breathe. His fist clenches and unclenches at his side. He wants to leave before he embarrasses himself. He wants to tell her not to marry anyone but him.
“Most of the men who’ve offered for my hand never lifted a finger to save me. They bowed to the Boltons and dined in the Great Hall. They threw worried glances my way and did nothing to help me.” She turns around to face him. “I could forgive that. There was no one to rally behind with me a girl twice married to her family’s enemies. I know that. But those same men refused the call when it was time to take back Winterfell. Those same men wanted to give me your crown the moment fealty became inconvenient. I simply can’t stomach the thought of dining across from a man like that for the rest of my days, of letting him — I couldn’t. That’s why I’ve eschewed the Northern lords.” Her voice softens. “Why have you?”
He swallows.
“You’re the king. You could have any woman you want for a wife but you’ve not taken the offers any more seriously than I have.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, inhales and exhales. “Not any woman.” He can’t look at her. He can’t see the disgust on his sister, cousin’s face. He doesn’t want to see that cold stare she reserves for their enemies directed at him.
A featherlight touch on his fingers and his eyes startle open. She is so near that he could — he could… He tenses to stop himself from doing what he’s wanted to, what he shouldn’t.
“Any woman,” she stresses, “would be happy to have you. You’re kind and so brave. Braver than I want you to be sometimes, running off to stop the dragon queen and the Night King, always putting yourself between your family and danger. You’ll make someone a very good husband one day.”
Her smile is small but the warmth of it is reflected in her eyes. He’s watching that smile, not staring indecently at her lips, of course. She moves first. He always lets her move first. Their lips meet with no crash, no fanfare. They are gentle and move slowly. He holds her bottom lip between his and then she holds his. On and on and on until they are gasping. His hand comes to her back, the other at her hip. She presses herself close to him, and she is pushing him against the wall, her hands in his hair. And he can’t think of anything else but this moment.
She has to pull back eventually. He takes a look at her face, gauges her reaction, and then he is on her again. Kisses to the corner of her mouth up to her cheek and back down to her jaw where he pauses at the apex of her throat to suck. Her groan is breathy, and his hands tighten around her.
They shudder to a stop. Her fingers run through his hair, settling the strands into place. Her other hand cups his cheek. He takes a steading breath and confirms, “You. I’ll be a good husband to you.” The lilt in question makes her laugh and drop her head forward onto his shoulder.
She hugs him to her. “Yes, Jon. You’ll be a good husband to me.”
That feeling when post-S8 despair finally motivates you to post the Jaime/Brienne fic you’ve left gathering dust since November 2018
new rules on AO3 (rated: E) if you fancy a read!
(Jaime/Brienne, mentions of past Jaime/Cersei, MEGA Brienne/Sansa/Margaery BROTP)
Brienne had made three mistakes in conducting her first one night stand, according to the font of sexual wisdom that was Margaery Tyrell.
Mistake one. There was nothing anonymous about it.
Mistake two. There was nothing casual about it.
Mistake three. No protection. Gods be good.
Jamie x Brienne: A Good-Bye
I had to.
She always saw the best in him.
Even when he couldn’t see it in himself.
Especially when he couldn’t see it in himself.
His heart hurt.
He looked into her eyes, saw the love, the expectation, the purity of her soul and knew…
He had to make it right.
Had to right his wrongs, atone for all his sons, one way or another.
He had to make himself worthy of this beautiful, honorable woman who made him feel whole, made him feel like he was worth a damn.
He looked into her eyes and knew he couldn’t live with her, couldn’t revel in her until he had made it right.
He yearned to kiss her, to pull her against him, to stroke his cheek against her familiar, strong palm as she told him he was a good man. He wanted to believe her, but all his past sins swallowed him in their darkness and not even this beautiful, noble warrior could reach him.
He had to cleanse himself.
If he died in the process, then so be it.
But if he survived the oncoming battle, if he survived his own redemption by fire, then he would go back to her and spend the rest of his life reveling in her, learning from her.
His muscles fairly ached from wanting to hold her but he felt as if he would taint her with the poison he carried in himself. He wanted to press his lips to her forehead, tell her not to worry, soothe her but he couldn’t touch her.
It was impossible but he walked away from her.
He’d done impossible things before but this…
He mounted his horse with a grunt and left her without a backwards glance, her sobs echoing in the marrow of his bones.
He vowed to make himself worthy of her…he had to.
A Dream of Spring
It was hot here in Winterfell.
He knew he shouldn’t complain, but as he walked down the halls of the keep, Davos Seaworth found himself sweating. It was a known tale that the hot springs underneath Winterfell kept the stones cool to the touch yet the air was as warm as a spring day. Yet, as he walked with his layers and furs, the air felt a little too hot for the old smuggler’s soul.
‘I should have taken these damn rags off when I had the chance.’ He mused to himself as he continued his trek towards the library. In truth, he liked the number of layers he wore, it served as an armor, a shield from the biting cold the northern lands were known for. When he was up in the Wall, before Jon Snow had been betrayed and Shireen was still alive, he had rather liked the breeze that ran within Castle Black. His black layers had protected him then, the color of the Night’s Watch meant to keep in the body’s internal heat. It was the color of Jon Snow, although grey was his eyes.
The deeper he went into the heart of Winterfell, the more windows were open to let the gusts of wind inside. He was thankful for them, his forehead had a fine layer of sweat and even his beard felt incredibly itchy. Davos passed a massive window looking out into the northern plains outside the walls. The grass looked green, but he knew that it would be covered in white in a matter of days. A chill went up to his spine then, remembering seeing the white crow perched on the courtyard’s railings not so long ago.
The Starks always promised a winter, and now it was finally here with the Night King leading the march.
Cersei burns Kings Landing with wildfire, because Dany is pregnant, Jon tells her to flee with Drogon of Kings Landing, meanwhile they catch Cersei, but Dany, doesnt want to kill a pregnant woman so she and Jon put Cersei on prison on the dungeons.
Cersei flees and no one knows who did that or where she is.
Dany and Jon help rebuilding the city with the help and union of all houses in Westeros that now trusts the Targaryen family.
Jon and Dany both are crowned Queen and King of Westeros. They change their family house name to Stargaryen with the motto of “Fire and Honour”, with a white wolf and dragons has a symbol. They decide their children will stay in Dragonstone where are more safe. Since Cersei is out there. Dany gives birth to twins - a blond girl named Lyanna and a boy with black hair named Aemon.
One day Kings Landing are attacked, Its Cersei with the Golden Company, elephants and scorpians. Its a epic fight, Cersei Jon Dany Drogon they all die during the battle.
Davos Sansa and Tyrion help raise the twins. Sansa teaches them how to read people and always being one step ahead, Tyrion teaches them to being strategic and Davos to be good and truthful how their parents were.
Westeros is in peace.
TheStargaryen kids discovers in Dragonstone 2 dragon eggs that Drogon layed and always have Ghost by their side too. When they are 15 years they rise has King and Queen of Westeros with Ghost and Medium dragons by their side.
Giving all the suspense if they are going to be a good or mad kings. Westeros only can hope so.
Sorry but thats how you deliver a suspense bitter and happy ending Dumb and Dumber.
