Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/827147.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Jon_Snow/Robb_Stark, Jojen_Reed/Bran_Stark,
      Arya_Stark/Gendry_Waters, Jaqen_H'ghar/Arya_Stark, Shireen_Baratheon/
      Rickon_Stark, Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark, Stannis_Baratheon/Davos_Seaworth,
      Theon_Greyjoy/Robb_Stark_(Unrequited), Jon_Snow/Willas_Tyrell, Ramsay
      Bolton/Theon_Greyjoy, Tywin_Lannister/Arya_Stark, Arya_Stark/Aegon_VI
      Targaryen
  Character:
      Arya_Stark, Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane, Robb_Stark, Jon_Snow, Bran
      Stark, Rickon_Stark, Jojen_Reed, Catelyn_Stark, Ned_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy,
      Willas_Tyrell
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Friends_With_Benefits, Cousin
      Incest, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Secret_Relationship,
      Stalking, Rough_Sex, Dirty_Talk, Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added,
      Barebacking, Older_Man/Younger_Man, Shotgunning, guest_appearances_from
      other_fandoms, Serial_Killers, Weddings, Rimming, Recreational_Drug_Use,
      Dubious_Consent, Slut_Shaming
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-02 Updated: 2017-09-22 Chapters: 58/69 Words: 290859
****** Runs in the Family ******
by PockyofNyanyaland
Summary
     Let's talk about the Starks. Take a moment to be overwhelmed by the
     utter, inescapable perfection of this family. Catelyn and Ned Stark
     are madly in love. They have five beautiful and talented children.
     Their eldest son, Robb, is a student at one of the top universities
     in the world. He plans on taking over the family business and making
     his parents proud. Their oldest daughter, Sansa, is destined to
     follow in his footsteps, and is considered the most eligible
     bachelorettes in the UK. Their youngest daughter, Arya, is headed
     toward a professional dance career. Their second son, Bran, has every
     teacher in the district cooing over his precocious intellect and
     their youngest, Rickon, is already displaying profound leadership
     skills.
     And this summer, they come together for tears, laughter, and the
     occasional dead body.
     Robb is in love with his cousin and has dated half the women in
     England. Sansa's boyfriend has literal skeletons in his closet. Arya
     will do anything and anyone to get ahead. Bran is being stalked by a
     delusional drug addict. Rickon is a bully and a creeper. Jon, of
     course, has to deal with all of them.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
People know Sansa Stark as the perfect young lady. She is the type of girl a
man dreams about taking home to his mother and then straight into their bed.
Her legs are longer than snow covered mountains, with vibrant red hair and
jewels for eyes, a dainty figure with the right amount of curves to draw
anyone's attention. Her voice is sweet and melodious, and she drew people
towards her like an enchantress on a deserted island. She is obedient and well
mannered, perfection in every single form.
The people who think this, however, will never get to see Sansa Stark as she is
now: scantily clad in her favorite nightie, a transparent blue dress that
reveals her tantalizing breasts and soaking cunt. The fabric ran down to the
middle of her thighs, and despite its length, did nothing to hide the wetness
dripping down her legs.
She casually brushes her hair off her shoulders, raising the dress up enough to
give a little peek. She had no intention of hiding it in the first place.
Sandor Clegane stares from his doorway, entrance by the fantasy in front of
him. He is stunned speechless and his lack of words only serves to amuse Sansa.
The sound of footsteps awaken Sandor to reality, and he promptly slams his door
shut.
He stalks towards her and takes a hold of her lips. “Is it my birthday?”
Sansa giggles and she jumps on him, her legs wrapping around his waist while
their lips meet. He ravishes her body with his rough hands and forces her
against the wall to give her more, thorough attention. “I take it your last day
went well,” he suggests when they part.
Happy that he remembered, she begins to plaster kisses along his neck as she
explains. “Couldn't wait to see you.” She tries to tighten her legs around him
and rubs. His crotch dampens from the contact.
It is a challenge, but he manages to locate his bedroom door. “Your parents
must be very proud.” He wouldn't know, he never went on to college. He also
doesn't give a flying fuck, but it also turns the bird on when he talks about
her mum and dad when he's inside her. He might make her call him daddy later.
She kisses him, and soon the only thing he could think about right now is how
great her ass from behind.
“Proud enough to let me stay the night at a friend's house,” She whispers in
his ear, causing his cock to harden even more than he thinks is possible.
They finally reach the bed and he drops her onto the sheets. Sansa excitingly
pulls him on top of her. He could see perky little nipples and he backs away to
undo his jeans. To his horror and delight, Sansa lays there, displaying herself
like a Greek goddess. She isn't even trying to help him, just enjoying the
show. Her legs provide a bit of an opening, a wanton invitation to take what is
his.
When he is finished watching, he pulls off his shirt desperately and then
ravages her lips, earning a delighted little shriek from the eager teenager. He
is on top of her now. One of his hands found their way to her pussy, feeling
the heat that is radiating from there. Sandor's fingers rub her slit before
diving in completely. He plays with her a bit and he can hear Sansa moaning
through her kisses.
When they stop for breath, Sansa gives these weak little whimpers of protests.
The noise makes Sandor's cock leak more precum and he knows he has to get
inside her. With one hand still fingering Sansa to no end, Sandor frantically
searches his drawer for a condom. He wastes no time putting it on when he finds
it. The action causes him to stop finger fucking Sansa, and she responds by
assaulting him with her lips.
In public, Sansa has this air of delicacy around her; an invisible stamp that
says 'fragile' and 'handle with care.' In the bedroom, the red-headed vixen
liked it rough.
For caution, he does a slow test nudge to be sure of the angle. He's done this
a thousand times before, and half a thousand of those times were with Sansa (a
scary thought now that he thinks about it). He knows the way she likes to be
fucked and she knows how he likes to make love to her.
She scratches at his arm impatiently, telling him to hurry up without words.
Sandor chuckles at her petulant expression. He backs out an inch and she groans
in frustration. It doesn't last long before he rams himself forward, busting
her open.
Her legs wrap around his waist, bringing him closer to her. She rocks her hips
up against him, clenching around his dick the way he likes. “Good girl,” he
praises her, earning a happy chirp. She's fucking adorable, he thinks to
himself.
Sansa moans start to fill up the room, and it's the greatest turn on in the
world. “Harder! Please!” She begs, and he has to laugh through his own moans.
Even in bed, she's fucking polite. Sandor complies, nonetheless, making deeper,
faster thrusts inside her. His heavy balls slap against the lips of her twat
with wet smacks, while Sansa's own juices drip out of her. He could feel the
slick even through his condom and regrets not barebacking. There's nothing
better than being surrounded by her raw, tight pussy.
"You're leaking all over the place, little bird,” She tightens at her pet name
and Sandor has to dig deeper. “How long has it been since I've fucked you good
and proper?"
"Too... long..." she pants weakly, and Sandor laughs.
“No wonder you want it so much--I might have to stuff your pussy a few more
times a week if you keep getting this desperate for my cock.” She moans even
louder and speeds up the movement of her hips. Sandor can feel her orgasm
coming and he loves to have that little flutter around his cock.
He thrust into her a few more times and then maneuvers them so that she's on
top. It's a great view, and he can see her nipples, red and swollen from the
lack of attention. He takes one in his teeth and bites onto it. "Oh!" She
moans.
He squeezes her ass, and she rewards him with another chirp. "Time to show me
how much you missed me, little bird. I want to see you fuck yourself on me like
it's the last time we'll see each other." As best as she could, she began to
fuck herself up and down on his dick while Sandor continues to play with her
breasts. They are the nicest pair of tits he's ever seen, though he supposes
he's a bit biased. First loves are incomparable to an old fling.
Sansa keeps moving, trying her best to go faster, to please him, but she was
already worn out from her first orgasm. He remembers one time she was so
determined that she ended up slamming herself down on his tool until the
neighbors called the cops. The screaming had gotten to them.
To make sure she doesn't get hurt (she told him she liked it, and he knew did,
but rough sex three times a week wasn't healthy for either of them), he grips
her hips to control her speed. Sandor pounds into her pliant, welcoming body
until he is pumping a huge load into the condom. Sansa shudders through a
second orgasm.
He pulls out and carefully lays her onto the sheets. Tossing his condom to the
side (he'll throw it away later), tucks her into his arms. Her nightdress,
while still on, is stained with various fluids and ripped in a few areas; her
thighs are bruised, and more liquids drip out of her swollen cunt. Sansa's red
hair washes over her like fire and sweat glistens on her body. It is a sight to
drive any man towards a second round, but he was spent for the day. He has to
wait until night time to try again.
“That was amazing,” Sansa applauds, she stretches out as much as she could
without hurting and snuggles closer into Sandor's arms. “Was it always that
great?”
“Dunno,” Sandor mutters, “Been so long without it, I can't remember. I think
you broke my dick, though.”
Sansa playfully smacks him on the chest while her face burns as red as her
hair, “It's only been two weeks!” Sansa had exams to study for and she couldn't
afford any distractions. Sandor never complained once. He understood how
important school was to someone her age.
“Two weeks too long,” he counters and then kisses her deeply before she could
say anything else. Sansa slid on top of him. When they broke for air, Sansa
laid her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“I missed you,” she confesses. “I missed you lots.”
“Me, too."
“Really?” She sounds so hopeful and Sandor finds himself smiling because of it.
He quickly sighs to cover it up, and acts as if he was put off by her
expression. Sansa tries to keep a neutral face but it doesn't work with Sandor.
His kisses her again to assuage her fears. “I'm going to make you something to
drink. You got to be thirsty after that.”
Sansa blushes so prettily that she earns another kiss. “I can help...” she
offers weakly.
Sandor raises an eyebrow. “Can you walk?”
Sansa attempts to stand up but there's a painful reminder in her lower regions
that says otherwise. She looks down. “I'll stay,” she murmurs.
Sandor chuckles and Sansa glares in embarrassment. He leaves the door just when
Sansa throws a pillow at him.
In the kitchen, he grabs a few ingredients to make one of those ridiculous
girly drinks that Sansa likes. He use to be reluctant about keeping the
ingredients in his home, but then he thinks about those long legs and how her
breasts fit in the palm of his hand. He thinks about her cunt and how it opened
up for him like it was made for his cock. He thinks about the bruises on her
skin that can be covered up but will still remain for days.
His cock twitches, and instead of getting glasses, he grabs a few bottles of
water and wine.
It is going to be a long night.
Chapter End Notes
     For all the new readers: chapters are updated every Thursday.
     Previews of the chapters are available on my twitter account
     @cheshiresua.
     All the pairings listed will be given a good amount of attention.
     Some chapters are centric on SanSan (like this ones) while others
     will focus on Jon/Robb, Jojen/Bran, etc. I follow the ASOIAF format
     where there are several different storylines going at once. If people
     request more scenes of a particular pairing, I try to accommodate
     them by adding giving them more "screen time".
     I like comments. I think all writers like reading comments. So please
     comment if you like it. :)
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“ I hope you don't mind, mum, ” Robb apologizes over the phone. “ But Jon is
really special. When we met, we just connected. I mean, I felt like I've known
him my whole life.”
Catelyn sighs. Where has she heard this before? Oh right, with Talisa, Jeyne,
Margaery, Roslin (who ended up marrying her brother much to their dismay),
Meera, Daenerys, Dacey...And it is a boy now. Did her son fall in love with all
the available women in the United Kingdom already?
“How long have you been seeing him, Robb?” Catelyn asks, trying not to sound
judgmental. Last time she disapproved, Robb eloped. Twice.
“Two weeks,” Robb gloats, “But I've been pulling him for a month. It was love
at first sight.”
“Of course it was,” Catelyn agrees dryly. “I'm sure he feels the same way."
"He...will. At the moment, he finds love to be...unfulfilling,"Robb reveals and
Catelyn rolls her eyes. Her son's in love with a realist, "But I'm so close to
convincing him that the union between our bodies and the moment of perfection
we accomplish together is a sign of future matrimony."
It's called an orgasm, Catelyn thinks dryly. But the whole 'sex is love and
love is sex' is something he got from his father. "So his family won't mind him
staying here for the summer?”
“He only has his mum and she's working in France,” Robb explains, “They're free
spirits. You should meet his friends. Gods, what eclectic group of people.
There's Sam..." 
Robb spends a good while talking about Jon's friends, how amazing this young
man was, how she'll love him. She always hates them before the meeting. Robb
says independent and thoughtful and she hears 'skeptical free spirit who
probably hates being tied down.' Adventurous is code for sex addict. Well
travel means he's leasily unsatisfied. Catelyn patiently waits for the rant to
end.
"Besides, Jon loves Yorkshire. He has some cousins he's been dying to see
again. He's great with kids. All I have to do is persuade him to have them with
me.”
“Well, that's nice,” Catelyn responds indifferently. “I guess I'll prepare an
extra room for him.”
“No need,” And Catelyn is sure he's grinning over the phone, “Jon can stay in
my room.”
Catelyn groans, “Robb, you are not having sex where your siblings can hear.”
“Don't worry!” Robb soothes, “We won't be having sex.”
Catelyn arches an eyebrow even though her son couldn't see. “Is that so?”
“We'll be making love."
Catelyn almost throws the phone down in frustration. Before she could respond,
Robb immediately speaks up. She hears a door opening in the background.
“Anyways, Jon just came in. God, he's gorgeous. You should see him, mum."Robb
sighs like a love struck fool. "I swear, every time I look at him, it's like
watching Galatea come to life, kissed by the lips on Adonis and birthed into
this world with the beauty of Psyche and Eros." 
And there goes the poetry.
"He wants to have sex."
"Did he say that?" Catelyn asks incredulously.
"No, but he's wearing grey. And he knows grey is my color."
She needs a drink.
"He likes to tease me like this. He always wears just the right color that says
he wants sex. We've been doing it every day. And night. And in-between classes
and breaks. God, it's like my cock is apart of him."
Some Irish whiskey would be good.
"I'm going to tell him the good news so that we can start packing. See you
Tuesday!”
“Robb--” Catelyn starts before the phone hangs up on her. Once again, she
is left completely alone.
The Stark Estate is depressingly empty without her children or husband around,
and even with the servants, Catelyn feels alone. She sighs. Robb is at uni and
wI'll not come home until Tuesday. When he did, he'll probably be spending most
of his time with his new love interest. On the bright side, when said love
interest breaks up with him for being too intense, too needy, and too
commitment prone, she will be there to comfort him as always.
Sansa is staying at a friend's house, or at least that's where she told them
she was. If Sansa is anything like her (pre-Ned), she is probably at some guy's
place, enjoying her independence on her back and knees. She's lucky that Ned is
so trusting, or else he wouldn't let either of his girls out on the street.
Arya has a performance with her dance class. Afterward, she will probably be
celebrating with her friends. Her male friends whose she's probably shagged at
least once. They tried reigning her in a long time ago and it backfired on them
horribly. The best they could hope for is that she uses protection. Judging by
the box of condoms a maid found on her dresser (and pills in her drawer), she'd
say Arya was listening.
Bran and Rickon are camping(how Ned could get her to agree to such a thing, she
doesn't know) with their caretakers Hodor and Osha. Rickon loved the outdoors
and needed to be outside as much as possible in fear of him lashing out. Bran,
after his accident, enjoyed the scenery of nature and had taken to bird
watching and other activities. He hates feeling like an invalid, and did as
many hobbies as possible to avoid such a thought process. Caelyn understands
this, but that doesn't stop her from sending texts every fifteen minutes and
getting irritated when Osha does not reply. She knows the woman disapproves of
her 'coddling.' She once, in a more that almost got her fired, told Catelyn
that she might as well cut off Bran's balls and feed it to the wolves. 
After listing off her children, Catelyn grows more depressed. There is no one
for her to cook for, to clean after. She had no babies to take care of or
problems to listen to.
She should have had more kids, Catelyn regrets.
Catelyn Stark has always wanted to be a mother. As a little girl she would
imagine herself in a beautiful home, a kind husband who loves her, and a large
brood of children running around in pure chaos. When her father introduced her
to Brandon Stark, the son of her father's new business partner, Catelyn was
sure she met 'the one.' He was handsome, her father approved, and like Catelyn,
he was the oldest in a large family. They had a lot in common, both attended
the same university, both popular and both enjoyed the social scene. Everyone
agreed that they were a perfect match.
Then, she met his younger brother.
Ned Stark was nothing like Brandon, and it wasn't long before Catelyn realized
she liked that. Brandon loved to spoil his siblings. At first, she considered
it a trait of a good parent, the thing she wanted most in a partner. But when
she saw the wicked mannerisms of Lyanna and the complete apathy of Benjen, she
became disheartened. Ned was the one who helped his siblings with their
assignments, and made sure they took care of themselves. He was the one who
carried Brandon back to his bed when the man got too drunk to walk and made it
incredibly painful in the morning so that Brandon would learn his lesson (he
never did but it was still amusing to watch).
Catelyn praised him on it. Ned just gave her that half a smile and told her
that he liked the practice. He revealed that he wanted a big family one day.
When she asked him how many, he told her he wanted five kids, or at least as
many his wife would give him.
Catelyn can't remember the last time she was so aroused.
She realized that while Brandon was handsome and charming, Ned was the man she
wanted. The Tully born girl was nothing if not stubborn. She saw the way Ned
looked at her and sought to use his affection to her advantage. She used to
come out of the showers in nothing by towel, dress scantily in Ned's favorite
shade of blue--the one that makes her eyes pop, and laughed at all the rare
moments Ned told a joke. It wasn't long before they were sneaking off into the
gardens and behind Brandon's back. A wedding and five children later, Catelyn
knew she made the right choice. Ned eventually ended up taking over Stark
Industries from his father (Brandon had gone to jail and lost his rights to the
company outside his hereditary shares) and Catelyn became the perfect
housewife. She got what she wanted, as always, and she adores her five children
with all her heart.
Despite the fact that they all plan on abandoning her for the comforts of cheap
whores and rent boys.
She grabs a bottle of Irish whiskey and the whole box of Bailey's Mouse Pie.
One of the maids offer to cut her a slice but Catelyn growls at her. The poor
girl simpers away.
When Ned came home, Farlan warns him of her poor mood. Ned is a little
perturbed, but nonetheless braves the crises. He understands what his employee
meant when he sees his beautiful wife devour a whole pie with little mercy.
“Are you pregnant again?” Ned inquires as he walked into a room.
Catelyn scoffs, “I wish, you're too busy to give me a baby.”
Ned chuckles, and Catelyn feels as if she's being patronize.
“Ned, what do you see?” Catelyn motions around the lounge.
Ned looks around curiously. “Nothing.”
“Exactly,” Catelyn hisses, “Nothing. My children are all gone. Do you know
why?”
Ned thinks this is a trap. He answers anyways. “Well, Robb is at uni-”
“No Ned!” Catelyn refutes, “The real reason I am all alone.”
This will not end well for him.
Catelyn slams her nearly finish plate on the table. Ned winces, mostly because
it was a family heirloom. “I am alone because my children are being taken away
by a bunch of frivilous little tarts. Do you know Robb called today?”
This will definitely not end well for him.
“About what?” Ned asks neutrally.
“He's bringing a boy home this break. He says that this is the one.”
Ned snorts, “Did they run out of women in this country already?”
“That's what I thought!” Catelyn agreed. Ned sees a pout forming on her face, a
positive change from her earlier depression. "His name is Jon and he's some sex
fiend whose seducing my son. Robb was telling me how they have sex every
night."
"He said that?"
"And it's such plain name! Who names their kid Jon?"
"My sister? My godfather's parents?"
"My children are leaving me," Catelyn sighs and leans on her husband's
shoulder. Ned pats her on the shoulder in a comforting manner. "I wouldn't
worry too much. Once summer break hits, this house will be happy and full
again."
Catelyn moan. "Summer is so far away. It might as well be a dream."
"It's a week. Sansa's already finished with her school. It's just Robb and
Rickon and Bran left."
"Arya?"
"Arya comes home when she wants to come home." He points out the obvious. All
of them knew that Arya is just biding time before she applied to an academy or
dance trope.
Catelyn agrees. "I'm tired of going home to a quiet household."
Ned hesitates for a moment. Then, bites the bullet and clenches the sword.
Right now is the perfect time to break the bad news.
“Besides, I have a good feeling that this is going to be the busiest summer of
our lives,” Ned starts out.
Catelyn goes on high alert. She knows Ned's 'bad news' voice when she hears it.
"Is that so?"
"Yes." Ned coughs. "One might say it is the time to finally fill up all the
empty rooms."
Catelyn groans. “Just say it.”
“Cat-”
“Don't 'Cat' me. You use the exact same tone when you revealed you hired a
caretaker for Bran without my consent."
"But Osha's doing a great job."
"Only when's not disagreeing with me."
"Discord evolves a society."
"So what is it? Robb does the same thing except he pretends it's good news.”
Ned laughs softly, but then sighs. Catelyn looks at him with a mix of
apprehension and boredom.
“Robert wants to come over.”
Oh. 
That is rather lackluster. “That will be interesting,” Catelyn states. She has
always had mixed feelings for Robert. She tolerates him well enough, but there
are times where Catelyn couldn't stand being in the same room as the man.
“He's hoping to bring his children so that they can spend time together.”
Catelyn did not know what to say to that. Instead, she does what she always
does. Speaks her mind. “It's been nine years since he's had contact with them.
How does he expect to bond?”
“He wants to take them hunting, amongst other things.”
Catelyn shrugs. “Well, if there's anything a Lannister knows how to do, it's
kill.”
“They're expert hunters," Ned corrects.
“That's what I said,” Catelyn sighs and says the next thing on her mind,
“Cersei won't be happy.”
Ned nods, “I know. She called my office seventeen times making death threats.”
“Should I be expecting her as well?”
Ned eyes her cautiously, “Would you leave our children with him?”
“I wouldn't leave our dogs with him,” Catelyn confesses seriously. As if on
cue, Nymeria runs after Lady, the latter seems dead set on getting away from
her aggressive sibling.
Ned agrees. “He's trying.”
“Any man who can make me feel sorry for that witch isn't trying hard enough. I
hugged her when she announced the divorce. That's how sorry I felt for her.”
Ned smiles, and Catelyn feels herself relax. “Any more house guests?
“Well...”
“Ned!” Catelyn seems aghast. “Who else?”
“You won't like the answer.”
“When has that ever stopped you?” Catelyn asks him sarcastically. “Is it
Brandon?” She asks horrified. Just the thought of seeing her ex again made her
squemish. She already needed to buy extra packages of cigerettes during
Christmas.
“No.”
“Lyanna?”
“No.”
Thank goodness for that.
“Renly?”
“I thought you liked Renly?”
“I did until my children caught him having sex with his boyfriend on our
couch.”
“Well then, no.”
“Stannis?”
“You don't like Stannis? When?”
“I like his daughter. I don't like the potential chaos brought on by his seven
stepsons. How did he meet Davos again?”
"Davos was a janitor at his company."
"Ah! The one he promoted to general manager and then became his vice CEO. Good
for him." Catelyn whistles. "Didn't know he had it in him."
"It wasn't like that," Ned defends, though he can't fight the smile growing on
his face. "Stannis is a good man."
"Of course! The fact that he promoted Davos after having great sex with him was
a complete coincidence."
"How do you know they had great sex?"
"Davos has seven kids. You don't have that many children from bad sex."
"We have five."
"We have great sex," Catelyn smirks. Ned kisses her tenderly.
“No.”
Catelyn jumps into game mode. “Do I know them?”
“You have to know them to dislike them,” Ned teases her.
Catelyn hits him with a nearby pillow for his smart mouth. “Let's see...is it
one of your old friends?”
“Yes."
“But I don't like them.”
“You don't like a certain attachment that comes along with them,” Ned
reluctantly discloses. He watches for the chain reaction.
Catelyn thinks further before she gasps. Her gaze darkens. “No!” She all but
shouts at him.
“Cat-”
She shakes her head furiously. “I have accepted a lot of things into this
house, each stranger than the next. I will not let him in here with Bran.”
“They need a place to stay. He was one of my best friends growing up,” Ned
defends. "He saved my life." Ned takes her hands into his own. "Do you remember
the fires from a couple of weeks ago? Well, their homes were hit. And he just
lost his wife, and with his daughter going off to university, times have been
rough. They can't afford a hotel right now. Meera is a good girl. Remember when
she was dating Robb? You told me you liked her."
"This isn't about Meera, Ned," Catelyn hisses. "This is about his other child.
The dangerous one." 
"Jojen is..." Ned tries to find the words, anything that could provide ailment
to the situation. Aloe to a third degree burn. "He's special, intense,I agree.
But I don't think he meant any harm--the psychiatrists all agreed that it
wasn't anything perverse.”
"I don't care what the bloody psychiatrist say! I care that, for months, our
son had a target on his back and we allowed the archer to enter our home!"
"It was a phase." 
“Bran was a child, Ned,” Catelyn emphasizes, obviously frustrated by how this
was going. “Jojen was sixteen. Bran was barely a teenager, and for some reason,
Jojen decided he was--what was the phrase he used--"the only thing that matters
to him". Don't you see what's wrong with that?”
“I do,” Ned sighs, “But I owe a lot to Howland, and Jo-Meera is a good kid.”
"Do you even care about what he could have done to our son?”
“I doubt it was ill will," Ned disclaims. "I'm not saying he's completely ready
to be out on his own but he's trying Cat. He goes to therapy twice a week and
works to support his family.”
Catelyn laughs as if it was the funniest thing in the world. “Right, what did
the doctors say again? He worships Bran, right? He saw Bran as a God.”
Ned groans. “I've met him, and I swear to you, he would never hurt Bran. He...”
Catelyn waits for it.
Ned takes a breath. “He loves him.”
It was too much for Catelyn to handle. ”Fine. Fine! You can bring him into this
household. You can even introduce him to the other kids but not Bran. If they
ever meet, God forbid, I want them supervise at all times, especially by Osha.”
Ned agrees with no complaint.
Catelyn wasn't finished. “Jojen is allowed nowhere near Bran's bedroom and I
want him on the other side of the estate. And if I see so much as a longing
glance, or a brush of fingers, I am throwing him out, Ned.”
“I'll do it myself if it comes to it,” Ned promises her. He places his hands on
her shoulder in an motion to massage them. Catelyn brushes him off. “It'll be
okay.”
“It better be,” Catelyn threatens. She storms off into her bedroom without a
second thought.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter originally had six pages of Ned/Cat flashback. I cut it
     all out. ALL of it. What you are reading is literally all that was
     left. So stressed right now. Anyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter!
     Kittens to those who could guess Robb's University! Waffles to those
     who could figure why I choose Yorkshire!
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Robb Stark started dating when he was twelve, and since then, he's had over
eighteen girlfriends. The oldest relationship was three months. Two left him at
the alter. One left him for his uncle.
The reason isn't that Robb is a bad boyfriend. He's actually the perfect
boyfriend, a regular prince charming who does everything possible to make his
girlfriend happy.
He just really, reallywants to get married.
And most of the women he meets--don't.
In all fairness, it is not Robb's fault he is obsessed with finding a wife.
He's the son of the happiest couple in Europe. His father, "the quiet wolf,"
the forever brooding middle child who never spoke a word, the former army man
who has never read a poem for enjoyment in his life, used to spend hours
talking about how his was his first love. When he saw Robb's mother, the
gracious and beautiful Catelyn Stark, he claimed to have fallen in love at
first sight. He said their first kiss tasted like raindrops in a dessert, and
that there was no greater feeling than to wake up next to the warmth of her
body and the touch of her fiery locks and soft bosom. Robb has dreamed of his
wedding day since he was five and played ring bearer to his parents vow
renewal. He wants the dream house and the happy spouse. He wants a half a dozen
kids running through the estate with a puppy attached to each of them. Robb has
made it clear in all of his relationships that he's looking for The One. He's
made it even more clear that he will never be truly happy until he finds her.
This belief carried all the way through sixth form and the university, where he
finds himself walking to a bar to meet up with his beautiful girlfriend.
It is universally acknowledged that the only way to get rid of Robb Stark
(without feeling like a puppy murderer) is to find someone else for him to fall
in love with right after breaking up with him. If not, Robb will fail in his
studies (making your professors hate you), stop hanging out with his mates
(making the men hate you), and become public enemy number one for breaking the
heart of the Edinburgh's golden boy (making the other available women hate you
because they have no chance with a man still pining over another woman).
With that being said, Jon Snow was not meant to be the sacrifice that day.
Robb's girlfriend at the time didn't even know Jon as anyone other than the
cute customer with the luscious, hair pulling curls. Unfortunately, Alys was
desperate when her 'replacement' hadn't shown up at the pub that night. She had
tried leaving Robb two times before, only to be charmed into another date. She
couldn't keep going like this! She had exams! Jon had been the one to pick up
the fork she dropped, and in her cowardice, the petite thing begged him to
relay a message to her boyfriend. Jon agreed.
He had not expected the message to be 'I'm breaking up with you.'
Before he could get clarification, Alys ran into the boy's bathroom and climbed
out the tiny window. The tiny, impossible to climb through for a human, window.
Robb came in shortly after with a charming grin and a sensual voice, waiting
for his girlfriend's 'news.' Out of pity, Jon tried to soften the blow by
starting a conversation, and after ten minutes, Jon declared that the girl must
have been stark-raving mad.
Robb was absolutely wonderful.
So wonderful, that after relaying the message, Jon foolishly asked if Robb
wanted to come over to his place for some tea. Robb said yes. He would love
some 'tea.' And with his perfectly shaped jawline and smothering gray eyes,
Robb clutched Jon's hand and went to his flat that night. Several rounds of
intense fucking ('love making,' Robb corrected) later, and Jon found himself
with a stalker, who, after two weeks, wore him down long enough for them to go
out on an actual date.
Thanks to that whole event, Jon is now fishing for his keys totheirflat. It's
so domestic that Jon prays his friends never find out. They would be so
ashamed. Lyanna still refused to speak to him after finding out he was in a
monogamous relationship. He even called Robb his boyfriend.
"Where did I go wrong?" She moaned. 
Jon replied, "Somewhere after the second paternity test."
Speaking of disapproving mothers, Robb seems to be on a conversation with his
right now. His boyfriend is in a good mood, meaning he is disregarding any
signs of discomfort on his mother's part. Robb brightens up at his presence.
“Jon just came in. He wants sex,” Robb assumes shamelessly.
Jon rolls his eyes. He could only imagine how awkward his mother must feel.
"No, but he's wearing grey. And he knows grey is my color,” Robb explains with
self-satisfied grin.
This makes Jon laugh. Feeling kind, Jon saunters over to Robb and sits in
between his legs, making Robb groan softly. He entwines a hand into Jon's curls
and tightens when Jon begins to mouth his crotch.
"He likes to tease me like this. He always wears just the right color that says
he wants sex. We've been doing it every day." He licks his lips. "It's like my
cock is apart of him."
Jon blushes. The boy really has no shame. Despite his boyfriend's inability to
read a mood, Robb is too adorable to leave alone. Jon undoes Robb's zipper with
his teeth, freeing his boyfriend's hard, mouthwatering cock. It's so big and
wet. Jon licks his lips before bringing his mouth down on it.
Jon's oral fixation is a running joke amongst his friends. He loves giving
head, loves the taste of a fat cock or a wet pussy more than anything. He likes
how his tongue melts in the heat, or how badly his throat has to stretch to
accommodate. Robb likes to receive almost as much as Jon likes to give, and
they found themselves at a fun two-three times a day quota. Robb never
complains to waking up to rich, intense heat or a quick blowie before he leaves
for school. It's almost addicting how much Jon loves his cock. 
"I'm going to tell him the good news so that we can start packing. See you
Tuesday!” Robb moans out hastily. He quickly drops the phone in order to clutch
Jon's hair with both hands. “Fuck, don't stop.”
Jon made no plans to.
He suckles the tip before taking him all the way. Robb’s eyes roll to the back
of his head as he begins to pant out excitingly. Robb has never been quiet in
bed, and Jon loves it. He makes a little gagging noise which just spurs Robb
on, and he begins to thrust into the tight heat of Jon’s mouth. His tongue
slides along the underside of his cock and Robb groans. Jon looks up at him
desperately, mouth stretching prettily around Robb’s thick cock.
“Love fucking your face,” Robb murmurs. “Love how you look with my cock in your
mouth.”
Jon pulls off Robb before swallowing him whole again, bobbing his head in a
slow, dragging way that Robb almost cums at. Robb is one of those guys who
revels in giving praise and showering their partners in affection. He starts to
mumble these little compliments and words of encouragement. 'Beautiful' and
'Perfect' were the most common. Jon hates to admit it but he's really eager at
this point, and his hands start fondling Robb’s balls.
Jon's bobbing begins falling into a steady pace until Robb says, “I'm coming!”
Ever since he discovered Jon's limited gag reflex, Robb has stopped managing
his self control.
Robb thrusts fervently into his throat. His eyes roams over the beautiful boy
on his knees before pushing his cock past Jon’s throat to feel it flutter. The
grip is hot and tight around him, and Robb tries to push in deeper. Jon
responds by gripping Robb’s hips harder and pulling off to toy with Robb’s
slit. Overwhelmed, Robb comes with a groan. Jon's mouth doesn't catch all of
it, and Robb watches through half lidded eyes as his cum splatters on Jon's
face.
Jon swallows what he can and wipes the remnants off his face with his fingers.
Knowing how it gets Robb off, Jon crawls on top of Robb's lap. He slowly slips
a finger into his mouth, blowing it for all its worth. With the cum on it, it
almost tastes like Robb's cock. Before Jon could add in the others, Robb pulls
Jon into a deep, tantalizing kiss.
When they separate, Jon rests his forehead against Robb and Robb lays sloppy
kisses all over his face, like a puppy saying thank you.
“You are the most amazing man on earth,” Robb praises sincerely. The kisses get
more wet, more intimate. “So perfect. So sexy. All mine.”
Jon loves it when Robb gets possessive. Robb throws Jon on the couch and
hastily takes off Jon's pants to get a clear view of that nice, firm ass.
There's some lotion on their table (they kept it all over the flat since Jon
moved in), and Robb starts slicking up his fingers.
Jon can feel Robb hardening and he can't help but be impress by his vigor.
When Robb thinks there's enough slick on his fingers, he places one of them in
Jon's entrance. He slides in easily and immediately decides that two fingers is
ready to stretch the tight hole. Jon relaxes easily enough, already use to the
glorious sensation of being fingerfucked by Robb. Moaning, Jon thrusts back on
those coated fingers and Robb places a third digit in which jolts Jon back to
reality.
“What...what were you...fuck...were you talking to your mother...god, don't
stop...about?” Jon huffs out.
Robb actually laughs at the question. “Is this the best time to talk?”
Jon takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. “When else can we talk?”
Robb chuckles. He moves his fingers to search for Jon's prostate. Jon can feel
the joints rubbing against his sides raw. After a few seconds, the older boy
cries out in pure pleasure. Robb does a scissoring motion to stretch him
further. The hole looks absolutely obscene, pink and gaping around his fingers.
Robb withdraws his fingers and Jon whimpers at the lack of sensation.
Robb teasingly places his tip inside Jon. He's still soft from earlier, but the
feeling of the flesh rubbing against Jon's hole is frustrating and arousing all
at once. He moves the head around the slick hole, lotion slipping out lewdly.
“You should see yourself, Jon. You're so wet.”
Jon gasps in response.
Robb grins and pulls out completely. Jon whimpers. The teasing, insufferable
penetration is still better than no penetration. He attempts to reach out for
the cock with his hips, but Robb holds him firmly in place. The university
student flips the other over until Jon is on his hands and knees. Doggy style.
“Figures you'd liked this position,” Jon pants out.
Robb doesn't reward Jon with a response. Instead, he slowly slips into Jon as
punishment. Jon, tired from a long day and from his surprise, gives out
instantly. Jon presses his forehead into the couch and lets out a wanton moan.
Robb reaches forward, lacing his fingers with Jon's own. It's one of those
small, intimate gestures that helps Robb's argument that this isn't sex, it's
love making. Jon likes it a lot more than he cares to admit, and maybe his body
knows it because Robb's grunts get louder.
“I want you to meet my parents,” Robb informs him, as if talking about your
parents is typical conversation during sex. Jon is less horrified by this fact
than what is actually being said.
“W-what?” Jon's breath comes out in harsh pants as he tries to think. The
squelching noises brought on by the thrusts made his thoughts hard to hear.
“What-what were you thinking?”
Robb's hips move back to his own grueling rhythm. “That my boyfriend deserves
to know how serious I am about him.”
Your entire university knows how serious you are about me, Jon thinks half-
serious, half-joking. He's surprise by how coherant his thoughts are. His cock
hung heavy between his legs, leaking and throbbing. Robb is nothing if not
attentive; he untangles one of his hands from Jon's fingers and reaches down
and strokes him furiously.
Jon lets out a pleased sound, which somehow causes Robb to fuck Jon even
harder. Jon comes a few moments later, crying out and shaking hard. It spurs
Robb on to pound more erratic thrusts into Jon, pushing him flat on the couch
and spilling deep inside him.
Jon sinks into the couch, his body is boneless with pleasure. He doesn't even
know where the strength to roll over on his back comes from. Robb is quick to
fall on top of him, and even quicker to cuddle. Jon can't help but chuckle when
Robb nuzzles his neck affectionately.
“This isn't over, you know,” Jon mumbles. Their lips rub against each other
while their fondling hands move.
“Sorry bout that,” Robb answers, lapping up the sweat running down Jon's neck.
His inability to stay on track is one of Robb's most annoying traits, even to
his best friends. “We can discuss it later.”
They don't. After recovering from their post-coitus haze, Robb suggested that
they discuss it over dinner. Jon's stomach growled and he agreed. Robb tried to
help (try being the operative word), but as a single bachelor from a
posh family, he was absolutely useless with housework. It took a full thirty
seconds and Robb's idea to use vegetable oil as salad dressing before Jon
promptly kicked him out and tended to their meal in peace. He looked back only
to see Robb cruising on the couch.
During dinner, Robb distracted him again by bringing out a memory from his
childhood, playing with his favorite cousin (who coincidentally was named Jon).
“You remind me a lot of him,” Robb quipped. "I think it's the curls."
Robb is a sentimental bastard. He goes on and on about how regretful he was
that he missed Jon's visit last year due to exams. And the one before that
because of a winter trip with his friends.
“I just really miss him,” Robb admits longingly.
“I can tell,” Jon grinned, despite knowing it was a ploy. “Careful, I might get
jealous.”
“Don't be,” Robb appeased, taking a bite of his spinach. “You're much cuter.”
“How do you know?” Jon japes.
After dinner, Robb took a thirty minute phone call from mother, stalling 'the
talk' once more. Jon doesn't like to think of his boyfriend as manipulative (he
was but that doesn't mean that Jon actually likes to think it), but the way he
casually congratulates his sister on her performance was perfectly planned. Jon
ended up talking with Arya for a whole hour. He looked up once in the whole
conversation, and found that Robb was on the phone with Theon. By the time both
of them were finished, it was time for bed. Robb had an early appointment, and
Jon really didn't want to have to wake him up. He reminded himself to talk with
Robb after he gets home.
On Sunday, their bags are packed and ready for travel. By Monday, they are
already boarding the train. Jon doesn't remember the details of how it
happened, only that Robb should really consider a degree in law.
Theon Greyjoy is already waiting in their cabin when they get in. He's lying on
one of the couches in a wanton 'fuck me' pose directed at Jon's boyfriend, and
his shirt is button down enough to see his chest. It's shameless and tacky, and
Jon almost bashes his head against the wall for not doing the same. He fights
the urge to undo his own shirt. Gods, what is it about Robb that makes people
so crazy?
“You're late!” Theon barks at them petulantly. He casts an appreciative look in
Robb's direction, eying his body like a piece of meat. Jon bristles. He places
himself in front of Robb to block those undressing eyes.
Robb sees no foul play, and steps aside to greet Theon. “We could have come
together if you'd stayed with me like planned.”
Theon scoffs, “And listen to you two poofs fucking all night? No thanks.”
“Says the fashion major,” Robb retorts playfully. Theon grins. He catches Robb
off guard when he pulls the younger man on top of him. Robb tumbles in laughter
and the two wrestle like children in their limited space. Jon almost growls
when Theon tightens his hold on Robb.
Jon's knuckles turn white. He knows that the right move would be to brush it
off. Theon only wants a reaction. He knows that they are best friends, and that
they have history. Jon's never been the jealous type; his best friends/ex-
lovers Ygritte and Satin are proof of that.
But when Theon starts moaning, all the gloves are off. He grabs Robb off of
Theon and throws him onto their side of the cabin. He then proceeds to send
Theon a threatening look, and presents Robb with one that says he's not happy.
The action leads to an uncomfortable silence which they sit through until the
train starts moving.
A few minutes past. They look around at their surroundings awkwardly. When
Jon's mobile rings, the music makes the situation even more awkward. Because of
the ring tone, Jon already knows who it is. Knowing that there is no way for
him to avoid answering, he takes it out and gets up to take it in the train's
common room.
“Have something to hide, bastard?” Theon can't shut his mouth to save his life.
The nickname is dirty, and Jon knows Theon knows how much it annoys him. Robb
is about to defend him before Jon speaks up.
“It's my old boss.” Jon reveals. He doesn't elaborate, and allows the little
demons in Theon's mind to plot maliciously.
Theon snorts, “That doesn't sound suspicious at all.”
“Theon,” Robb warns. Theon pouts petulantly and directs his attention to the
window.
Robb switches his gaze to Jon, and his puppy eyes can't hide his curiosity for
shit.
“I was his nanny,” Jon explains, maybe a little irritated by the distrust. Jon
isn't a perfect angel, but he likes to think of himself as a good person. He
leaves the room in a huff, not listening to Robb's pleas to come back.
After landing himself in the common area, Jon picks up the phone. He's a bit
surprise to see it ring for so long, but his employer has always been a patient
man.
“Mr. Baratheon?” Jon assumes politely.
“Jon, I need you.”
Always to the point, this one.
“Does Mr. Seaworth know what you're asking?” Jon hears a few breaking vases in
the background and fights the urge to laugh. It must be hell raising eight
kids. And to think, Stannis always wanted a boy.
“Don't be daft!” Stannis reprimands breathlessly. He shouts at one of the kids
to stop hanging off the curtains. “Davos isn't here.”
That doesn't sound suggestive at all. Jon really needs to give him a lesson in
euphemisms. “Where is he? Where are you?”
“He's signing the papers to our house. We've moved. North Yorkshire. Steffon, I
swear if you-”Stannis pants out. There's a brief period of silence, and then a
huge tackling noise that implies someone got hurt. The groan implies it was
Stannis. The man, not the kid.
“Why did you move?” It's a reasonable question. Stannis was a corporate lawyer
and most of the work he did was in London where the headquarters of Baratheon
Inc. is located.
“Too crowded,” Stannis huffs out. “Housing prices are horrid. My condo isn't
big enough for four kids.”
“I thought it was eight,” Jon asks curiously.
“Allard and Dale moved out already. Matthos and Maric are in university-”
“What if they come to visit?”
“Fuck! I forgot! No! Don't repeat what I'm saying! Stop it, Stannis! Shireen go
back to your room-!”There's silence again, and Jon can only assume that he's
trying to lay down the law. After a few minutes of crashes and cries of mercy,
Stannis returns. It actually sounds peaceful. Stannis acts as if he just fought
a great battle.
“How much will it cost?” Stannis bargains.
“What?” Jon doesn't know why he feels thrown off. He knew this is what it was
leading to.
“I can't trust any of the help. They're the twits who gave Steffon and Stannis
chocolate. It has to be you.”
Jon chuckles. It's actually the sweetest thing Stannis has ever told him.
“Stannis, I'm flattered-”
“I need you to get here immediately. I'll text you the address. Hell, I'll send
you a jet. Please, Jon. I'll do anything.”
Dear Gods, Stannis is begging.
“Don't bother,” Jon informs him, amused. Stannis makes a noise of protests, but
Jon cuts him off. “I'm heading to Yorkshire to visit...family.” Stannis has
been sort of a father figure to him, up there with Uncle Ned and Aemon from the
nursing home he used to work at. He doesn't need the man judging his life
choices. “Just give me the address and I'll try to send you a schedule.”
“Thank you,” the relief in Stannis' voice is overwhelming.
“No problem,” Jon replies and they say their goodbyes. To Jon's surprise, he
feels some serenity after accepting the offer. When he turns around, his
serenity is shattered when he sees a conscience stricken Robb who has obviously
heard the conversation.
“How much did you hear?” Jon calmly asks, placing his phone back into his
pocket.
“Most of it,” Robb smiles sheepishly. “I didn't know you were a nanny.”
Jon shrugs, “I used to be.” It was a temporary gig until he could find
something he was passionate about. He liked it well enough.
“Sorry for doubting you,” Robb apologizes. It's sincere, like all things Robb.
“I just...I don't know anything about you."
That's because we've only been together for two weeks, Jon sighs. He takes pity
on him, and holds his face still for a kiss. It's incredibly public, and Jon
could practically sense some of the other passengers watching. He doesn't care.
Not really. When they part, Jon grins.
“You have all summer to learn.”
Chapter End Notes
     By the way, do you guys want warnings in the beginning for the sex
     scenes or would you rather be pleasantly surprise? Obviously, I don't
     mind. If it's porn, I'll read it.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arya is no stranger to hospitals.
The youngest Stark girl has always been drawn to danger, earning more bruises
and scratches than all the boys in her neighborhood together. Her first bone
was broken when she was five, and the black eye and swollen lip followed
shortly after. She lacked an impulse control, an inability to reign in the
energy deep within her. She mouthed off to her teachers and didn't play nice
with the other girls.
When her mother decided to her enroll her into her first ballet class, the
intention was to teach her discipline, or at least, give her a decent
distraction before she moved onto her next death wish.
No one expected her to be actually be good at it.
Arya Stark was a prodigy, her first ballet instructor declared, and was
advancing three levels in the year she enrolled. Despite her late age in
joining the art, Arya was already advised to move up in classes, or be
transferred over to a more formal education. It got to the point where Ned
Stark was recommended to enroll her under the private tutelage of Syrio Forel,
a dancer of great, international renown. He, like all the others, claimed that
Arya had the potential to become a professional dancer.
"When she is old enough, I will recommend her performance schools. Talent like
that should not confined in a lackluster education."
Catelyn was ecstatic when she first heard the news. Arya had stopped picking
fights with her sister, stopped getting hurt playing sports with the boys, and
even stopped disobeying her teachers. She would actually listen to Catelyn and
Ned now that she had something she wasn't willing to lose.
It wasn't until her fourth recital, when Catelyn visited her backstage to
congratulate her on her stunning performance, that she realized the mistake she
made.
Her daughter laid on the floor, collapsed in pain. Her feet were swollen purple
with her nails colored black with blood, and with a closer look, Catelyn could
see day old blisters and bunions, more than a few scabs, and some bleeding.
Syrio had checked her once, his face covered in familiarity.
“It's broken,” he told her youngest girl calmly.
Catelyn gasped in horror when she heard Arya laughed. “I could have told you
that.” She winced and bit her lip to keep herself from crying.
Syrio did not yell at her, nor did he criticize her for her foolishness.
Instead, he praised her for her strength, as if dancing on a broken foot was
her greatness accomplishment in life. “You did majestically! They sing praises
of your name! Be careful, boy!” Syrio affectionately titles her, after her
first performance with a male's part, “They might try to steal you away.”
Catelyn saw her laughing all the way to the hospital. While there, she begged
the Stark girl to quit--there were many other, safer hobbies to try out. Maybe
she should sign her up for a an all girl's football team, or perhaps fencing.
She always liked the stories of knights and warriors. Arya refused all of them.
“I'm good at this,” she reminded her, “I can be great.” And as far as Arya was
concerned, the discussion was over.
It's almost midnight when a young man rushes into the emergency room and
therefore Jaime Lannister's care. On his side is the petite heiress known as
Arya Stark, limping slightly from another dance injury. Jaime notes that her
companion is a handsome lad, younger than Jaime himself but visibly older than
Arya herself. From his clothes to his wearied face, it was obvious this young
man came from the estates, and that' being generous. What was he? Eighteen,
nineteen? Either way, he was far too old to be spending time with a girl like
Arya, who looked thirteen to her actual sixteen. Dancers and their small frames
were ideal jailbait. Arya smiles at him and laughs at his concern Jaime wonders
if that is a smile reserved for this young man alone, or her true face amongst
friends.
“Good to see you again. I was getting worried you gained some self-
preservation."
Arya rolls her eyes, but Gendry becomes more concerned. He's probably
unfamiliar with the extent of his girlfriend's hobby. “Three hour performance,”
she reveals. “Nothing too serious.”
Jaime sighs, wondering when it'll get to the point that a broken arm is no big
deal as long as she could still be the lead. His father use to say that the
best part of Arya is that she thinks she's the best, and she probably is.
But Jaime really doesn't want to think about his father.
“You know the drill,” Jaime orders her, much to the young man's surprise. “What
compelled you to come this time?”
Arya hops on the bed, and as always, brings up her feet for speculation. She's
not wearing her pointe shoes, so he isn't too concerned about the damage. When
Jaime takes her sneakers off, Gendry speaks again.
“I brought her in here as soon as she started to walk funny-what the hell is
that?” He stares in awe at the complete ruin of Arya's foot. “I know you said
you had ugly feet but fuck, that's a--”
“Gendry!” Arya shrieks indignantly, a little put off by his behavior. It's the
most childish reaction she's ever seen him have. She playfully attacks the
older boy who blocks it with laughter. Jaime watches in fascination, and when
Arya notices, she stops hastily.
“Gendry, can you wait in the lobby?” Arya asks, trying not to make a big deal
of it.
Gendry frowns. "You're not going to try and run away again? Right?" 
He's not an idiot, Jaime will give him that. It must have been hell getting her
here. He imagines a ferocious kitten clawing up its owner's arm to the vet.
Arya promises to be a good girl and strokes his arm, affectionately definitely,
sensually almost. When he leaves, Arya watches him go with a unique spark.
Jaime doesn't taunt her with Gendry's presence, but Arya explains anyways.
“He's a friend.”
Jaime arches an eyebrow, and recalls the boy's muscled arms, attractive face,
and riffraff manner. He's working class at best, and definitely not the type of
guy Arya would meet at her posh public school. “Just a friend?”
“Sometimes more,” Arya coolly responds. “Would you like details?”
Jaime bristles at the offer. He doesn't bet against Arya to give him actual
details. She still waiting for the moment he pisses her off enough where she
explains how much his father liked her flexibility. “He's a bit below you,
isn't he? Is someone keeping a little secret from mummy and daddy?”
"I'm not the one with the daddy issues," Arya retorts.
Jaime does not falter. "Still, out this late at night and with a man that looks
like that. One would think you were hiding something."
"Well, Gendry is easy to hide behind. He's so big and strong," Arya smiles. "He
takes after his father."
And the lion is chased into the trap: a den filled with torches and spears with
wolves growling at the entrance."
"And who is his father?"
“Funny you should ask. See, remember the man your sister married because she
got knocked up, and then years later, you realized he didn't stop fucking other
women? Well, dun dun dun. Gentry is Robert's son. He's seven months older than
Joffrey.”
Arya never pulled her punches, physically or verbally. The girl could take it
as good as she could give it out, and Jaime can't help but marvel at the pure
ruthlessness she possessed. He returns to inspecting her foot.
“Well, it's not the worst thing you came here with,” Jaime Lannister concludes.
He checks for swelling and asks her to move it as well she can. There is not
pain when she does, and aside from the cracked and blacken toe nail, there
seems to be very little damage. “There might be an infection. Either way, we'll
have to remove the nail.”
“Surgically?” Arya asks, her voice slightly above a panic. She must not want
her parents here. Jaime is almost tempted to say yes in order to spite her.
“It's almost completely off. I think the mixture will do just fine,” Jaime
informs calmly. He leaves the room for a few minutes to get the necessary
materials. After ten minutes or so, Jaime arrives with the removal liquid.
“Shouldn't there be a doctor doing this?” Arya asks dryly. She puts out her
feet anyways, use to the ritual by now. Arya can't even find it in herself to
be grossed out. “I think I'd feel safer with a doctor.”
“He's lighting a fag outside,” Jaime informs with a smirk gracing his handsome
face. His scrubs are surprisingly prim and proper. Arya does feel regretful
that she never had a chance with him intimately. She didn't even notice when he
speaks up again. “You're stuck with me.”
Arya sighs, “Why are you always on duty?”
“Because I take the night shift when Brienne out of town and when Brienne is
out of town, you happen to get hurt.”
“Brienne's not here?” Arya asks curiously. “Where is she?”
“London, working with Renly,” Jaime recounts bitterly. Arya giggles at his
obvious distaste. His girlfriend's first love is as gay as pineapple and
currently engaged to the football player, Loras Tyrell. He still didn't like
it. “Apparently, her trip to Japan has made her his new favorite. He insists on
having his favorite assistant every where he goes.”
“What happened in Japan?”
"A photographer took a picture of her and demanded she come in for a
photoshoot."
"I didn't know she modeled." 
“She doesn't,” Jaime answers, “But apparently the androgynous look is popular
there.”
“Good for her,” Arya says sincerely. Jaime prays that the Stark girl leaves it
at that. He's not willing to talk about it further but knows that Arya will
try. The stubborn brunette never left anything well enough alone. Especially
things that weren't good for her. Especially men, the dark side of his mind
whispers hatefully. “Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
Arya asks him anyways, her feet dangling around to prolong her stay there. He
tries to grab onto the injured foot but Arya never stills. “You never liked me,
did you?”
Jaime stares at her, wondering how she will react to the truth, wondering if
there's a way to throw her off his scent. “I'm not fond of anybody, to be
fair.”
“Oh, we both know that's not true,” Arya acknowledges. Jaime hides his
expression well, but she could always see through such masks. “You joined the
military to protect, you became a nurse to heal. You don't hate people, Jaime.
Not even close. But you don't like me.”
Jaime looks into her catlike eyes, a enigmatic gleam that reminds him of his
dark past. Arya is a clever girl, but she enjoys playing with fire, even after
her fingers burn off. He finally manages to catch her foot and gets ready to
paste the mixture on. Knowing she would act up, Jaime says the one thing he
knows will silence her.
“You remind me of my sister.”
When Arya's smirk falters and no words escape her mouth, Jaime thinks he's won
for once. He thinks the girl will be quiet, allow him to fix her wounds in
peace. The process is almost finished when Arya speaks up.
“That's what your father said.”
Jaime nearly takes her toe off.
"That hurt, didn't it?"
In all honesty, Arya is surprised there wasn't an accident. She should be
grateful by how stable he is. He bandages her feet and finishes up the job
flawlessly. Despite his work ethic, there is definite resentment raging through
that body. Arya wonders if she should be worried. It's a touchy subject for the
Lannisters twins, and their relationship to Tywin Lannister is one of great
turmoil and regret.
"If it's any consolation, I don't think about him, and I'm sure he doesn't
think about me." she explains. "We had nothing."
"You had something," Jaime whisper bitterly. "He treated you with more care
than he ever did his children."
"He wanted something from me and I needed something from him. There's no love
between us."
Then explain why he did what he did, Jaime thinks. "There was something."
"There was affection, and respect."
"That's more than he gave us."
Arya sighs, more than a bit tired of their familial drama. "You know what
Jaime?"
Jaime raises an eyebrow.
“You like to play games. I do, too. So let's agree never play a game you aren't
ready to lose." She looks at his arm. "You've lost so many."
They both remain silent. When Jaime finishes, Arya steps off the bed and walks
out the doors as if nothing happened. She will either forget this night ever
happen, or hold a grudge that will last decades. The girl has a will that
rivals all his siblings, and Jaime wonders if that's what caught his father's
eye in the first place.
Gendry drives her home instead of his place. The ride is painfully quiet, the
silence only being broken by the call from her cousin. The news that Jon will
be visiting for the summer made her happy enough not to criticize him for
staying with his boyfriend instead of them.
Finally, Gendry stops in front of the Stark Estate. He stops across the street,
perhaps fearful of the impossibly high gates and ominous air. Despite the
reputation of the Starks, he never felt safe around it, only wonder. He cannot
believe anybody could be raised in such a cold environment. He waits for Arya
to get out. He doesn't look at her; he doesn't even say goodbye.
Arya will not have it.
“What's the matter with you?”
Gendry keeps his mouth shut.
“Are you serious?"
Gendry looks straight ahead.
“Stop being such a girl, Gendry,” Arya snaps.
No answer.
Arya makes a noise of aggravation. She angrily shifts the gear to park, undoes
her seat belt, and crawls over to Gendry's lap. “What are you--?”
He doesn't finish his sentence before Arya kisses him. It's rough, a mess of
uncontrollable lips and tongue. Gendry tries not to react, but Gendry's never
been able to resist Arya for long. He grips her waist, kisses her madly,
deeply, as if they are in love. Sucks on her neck and bites into her skin.
Grabs her ass and digs bruises into her flesh.
When they part, Arya smirks in victory, and Gendry feels more like a tool than
ever. She kisses him again, softly this time. He turns away. “Get off Arya.”
“Don't tell me what to do.” She giggles and kisses his neck.
Gendry groans and tries to push her off. Arya tightens her thighs around him,
both turning him on and making him even more frustrated. She's stronger than
most girls, Gendry knows that she can take down a man twice her size with
little effort. He seen her do worst. “Get off,” he orders, keeping his voice
firm.
Arya actually laughs, as if amused he could say no to her when no else has. Not
really. She's a Stark. People listen to the Starks like there word was law. She
goes back to the passenger seat and places her legs on top of the dashboard but
doesn't get out of the car. It's intentionally seductive and Gendry wonders how
she could cause such a reaction within him. He's known her since they were
children. He was sleeping with university girls before she even had her first
kiss. “I'm not leaving until you tell me why you're acting like this.”
Gendry sighs in frustration. “How did you know that nurse?”
Arya doesn't hesitate to answer. “I'm in the hospital a lot. I know a lot of
nurses.”
“You know a lot of dangerous men, too,” Gendry accuses.
“Is that suppose to offend me?”
Arya has never been ashamed about her promiscuity. Gendry respects that about
her. He remembered a time when he used to like that she never wanted a
relationship and never wanted to be anything more than friends. She was the
only girl he considered a real friend, anyways.
“I'm worried about you,” Gendry says instead. “You're the type to peel off a
scab just to see it bleed again.”
Arya becomes strangely quiet, and Gendry wonders if he step on one of Arya's
landmines. He's knows she has quite a few, some of which he's been the victim
of. Arya is open about a lot of things, but there are some wounds she carefully
stitches up for no one to see.
“He's Cersei Lannister's brother,” Arya admits suddenly. “That's why I wanted
you out.”
The confession startles him, but it helps Gendry get the picture. Arya had told
him her suspicions after finding her father's old school pictures with Robert
Baratheon. They did the DNA test as a joke, and then the two found themselves
solving the lost mystery of Gendry's father.
It was so anticlimactic, he laughed.
“Is that it?” Gendry asks. He does not buy the excuse entirely, but he's more
forgiving now.
“No,” Arya tells him, “But it's all I'm telling you.” Arya finally gets out of
the car. Gendry doesn't stop her, but he regrets not saying anything back. To
his surprise, she stays a few minutes longer. “Can we hang out tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Gendry agrees. “I can pick you up after work.”
Arya smiles, and kisses him on the cheek. “See you later.”
Gendry sighs and bangs his head against the wheel. Lommy and Hot Pie were
right. He is so whipped.
When Arya arrives at the home, she is nearly run over by her mother's storming
figure. The red haired matriarch almost doesn't see her when she rushes to her
bedroom, but stops to give her a kiss goodnight and congradulate her for her
performance. She's sure it was stunning even if Arya didn't want her to come.
Arya tries not to feel bad during the guilt trip but she fails. Arya can tell
that she's extremely angry about something. When she leaves, Nymeria pounces on
her, causing Arya to giggle when she feels the wet greetings. Her father
follows shortly after, and welcomes her home.
“How was your performance?”
“I got a standing ovation,” Arya offers, she fiddles her feet, trying her best
not to show any discomfort. She wants to hurry and get her shoes off so her
feet could breath. “What's up with mum?”
“My friend Robert is coming.”
Arya can't help the frown that arrives on her face. She composes herself easily
enough, though. “I guess me and Gendry have something to talk about tomorrow.”
The statement makes her father more uneasy.
“Is there anything else I should know?” Arya asks.
“Another friend is coming to stay, and so is Robb's boyfriend.”
Boyfriend? “They need more women at that school." Ned has to laugh at that. She
tries to smile but earlier events made it forced. “Whose your friend?”
“We were in the army together. His name is Howland Reed.”
The bells are ringing in Arya's head. “The one with the son? Jordan?"
"Jojen," he corrects. 
"That's the one whose caused that court case. The one about Bran?" The one you
never told us about.
Her father nods.
"No wonder mum's bent out of shape.”
Arya doesn't know the details (only her mother, father, and Sansa were privy to
that incident). She was away the entire year and all she knows is that when she
came back, the name 'Reed' had been banned from their household. “Are you ever
going to tell me what happened?”
Ned is reluctant. “I want you to draw your own judgments. The Reeds are good
people.”
“Cause history proves I have the best of that,” Arya sarcastically mumbles. She
picks up her bag and heads to her quarters. “I'm way too tired to have this
talk so I'll just be off to bed. See you at breakfast,” Arya informs. She gives
him a kiss on the cheek before heading for her bed. Nymeria follows
accordingly.
Ned loves his daughter, but he fears for his life if Arya turns out to be the
reasonable one.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter came a little later than usual. Sorry! ;( I'm officially
     behind on all my stories. This story suddenly took a darker turn.
     There's going to be a lot of light and dark moments in between the
     sexy times. Jaqen was suppose to appear in this chapter but he
     didn't. He will. Eventually. Arya story arc has a lot of
     'relationships' or in the words of Dane Cook, 'relationshits'
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ned doesn't go to bed until 3:00 in the morning, when he is absolutely sure his
wife was asleep. He strips down to his boxers and enters. Despite the risk of
startling her, he wraps her arms around her, which she subconsciously allows.
After accomplishing his goal, he rests his eyes and eventually falls asleep. He
wakes up 6:00, earlier than normal on his day off, and finds his bed empty and
cold. Catelyn is angry with him, and even a night alone to her thoughts could
not change that. Ned isn't surprised. Only a fool would think that time alone
heals a wound.
He goes downstairs to find her in the kitchen but she isn't formally dressed.
She is wearing the same blue nightgown she wore to sleep while her red hair is
held in a loose braid. The maids are nowhere in sight, leaving the two of them
alone. He sees her on her knees, rummaging through the refrigerator, trying to
find something.
Ned watches by the doorway the whole time. He loves watching her little
expressions, how she would have this little furrow in her brow when she was
upset, to her little smirks of victory. His wife was adorable.
Ned walks up to her, his steps virtually unheard of. He used to be called the
quiet wolf for his silent nature, coupled in with his ability to sneak up on
anybody and everybody. It made it damn near impossible for Lyanna (and of
course Brandon) to not get caught in their teenage years, not when their
brother was on watch, waiting in the shadows like some creeper. Their father
said their mother had the same power.
“Cat?” Ned murmurs softly.
Catelyn jumps and bangs her head against one of the refrigerator shelves. She
lets out a string of curses that makes Ned flustered. He hastily heads over to
her side to check for injuries.
“Are you alright?” Ned asks. He begins to investigate but Catelyn is clutching
her head, covering the area that needs to be checked.
“I'm fine,” she tells him. She drops her hand, and though Ned can see a minor
bump, there is no bleeding. He sighs in relief. He kisses it. Once the worst is
over, he sees that she got more dessert. This time, it's ginger snaps, potato
candy, and chocolate mint brownies. She sees his gaze, and blushes furiously.
“I was getting a snack,” Catelyn defends herself weakly. She looks down at her
food selections and seems to contemplate putting one back to save her honor.
There's nothing she doesn't like, though, and so she stares. They keep their
drawers well stocked with treats of all kinds. The Tully sweet tooth was
genetic, and almost every single one of his children have it. 
Ned Stark doesn't know what to say to make his lovely wife feel better (he's
never been good with words), so he brings a brownie to her lips. Catelyn
flushes but opens her mouth regardless. They share a look, and Catelyn can see
the guilt in Ned's puppy eyes.
“I'm sorry,” he tells her sincerely. “I should have asked you first."
Yes, you should have. Catelyn wants to keep fighting, but being mad at Ned is
hard since all his wrongdoings come from a good place. She settle for being
content with his apology. “You have a good heart.” Too good, really. It's why
he does stupid things like invite his friends into their home. “It's why I love
you,” Catelyn reminds him, and herself. She couldn't have been one of those
pathetic little things that ignored their boyfriend's cheating and tried to
change them. Nope, she just had to be proactive. It's why she left Brandon.
It's why she choose Ned. 
Ned continues to feed her the rest of the brownie, and smiles when she lets
him. Once she is finished, there are traces of crumbs all over her lips. He
makes a move to wipe them away, and unintentionally slips a finger into her
lips.
At first, it was just a few gentle sucks, teasing little motions to get the
chocolate off. But then Cateyn took the fingertips into her mouth up to the
first knuckle. She ran her tongue over the pads of skin, looking up to her
husband as she took more of the fingers into her mouth.
Without warning, Ned retracts them back with force causing Catelyn to whimper.
Before she could ask why, he drags her over to his lap, making a mess of the
desserts on the floor. He brings her down to meet his lips and grinds her into
his lap. They kiss passionately, with Ned's hands roughly lacing through her
braid and sending the band across the room.
Catelyn barely has enough time to pull down his boxers before he rips off her
panties and throws it across the room. Catelyn makes a shrill noise of
approval. She loves it when Ned loses control. It reminds her of their first
time together, after countless days of 'accidental' touches and flirtatious
little winks, she finally had him taking her like an animal in their living
room floor, the woods, the basement, Brandon's bedroom.
Her thoughts become lost when she feels his unbelievably hard cock rubbing
against her slit. It takes a little longer to get as wet as she used to, but
once there's a drip, Cateyn presses against him to get him to go further.
“It might hurt,” Ned grunts out.
Catelyn nods frantically. “Yes it will, now hurry up and come inside!"
"Cat, we should slow down."
"I've been taking your cock for twenty years," Catelyn moans. "If you don't
shove your dick inside me now, it's not the only thing that's going to hurt!”
Ned heeds her warning, and enters her in a single motion. Catelyn's moans ring
throughout the kitchen, and she prays that no one hears her. She holds onto Ned
like a lifeline and pants directly into his ear.
“I love your voice,” Ned gasps out as he starts to thrust. He pumps into her
eagerly, listening to her cries of pleasure spurring him on. He uses his wet
fingers to play with her clit and elicit more moans from that beautiful mouth
he loves. She's breasts are bouncing in front of him, one escaping the
protection of her dress. Ned quickly takes it into her mouth and suckles on it
like babe.
Because of their love making, neither of them heard the upcoming footsteps or
the sound of a chair wheeling its way to the kitchen. The two were so lost in
each other that as they were getting close to completion, it took a second for
them to realize that the door was opening.
"Cover their eyes!” Osha's shriek is heard as she pushes Hodor aside to cover
Rickon's view.
Hodor is knocked out of the way before he could do the same for Bran. The poor
boy is stunned silent as he watches his parents frantically try to compose
themselves. He literally watches his father's cock slip out of his mother and
feels the bile forming in his throat. Oh Gods, there's liquid. Gross. Gross.
Gross. And there's food all over the place. Even more gross cause that means
there was something kinky happening.
Osha is busy taking Rickon away from the mess (like the good nanny she is), and
Hodor seems desperately deliberating whether he should wheel Brandon away or
not. The man looks so confused that Catelyn feels sorry for him. But she has
other problems to worry about, like how Bran is now staring at them with his
mouth open and his eyes as big as balloons.
Silence beat through the kitchen. Long and hard and cold. Catelyn can't look.
She's staring at the floor like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
She'll probably have to clean because she just had sex with her husband on it
and her son caught her and Catelyn really needs to just stop thinking.
"I thought you were camping,” Ned begins, more calmly than she ever could.
"There was an accident or something," Bran replies. “The rangers evacuated
everybody.”
Fuck the rangers and their woods. “Well, you probably want a bath right now,”
Catelyn suggest weakly.
Bran nods, frozen and stiff like a zombie made of ice.
Ned agrees, “Yes, I'm sure it got rather dirty-”
Bran goes white.
“From the woods! Because the woods are dirty, not sex-” Ned rectifies.
Bran looks ready to heave.
“Because sex is not dirty-”
Bran stares at the smashed desserts on the ground and on their bodies. Catelyn
thought his eyes couldn't bulge any further, but he proves her wrong. Ned
follows his gaze.
“Well, this time it was. But normally-”
Oh gods, they did it more than once? Bran was so blissfully happy believing
that his parents have only had sex five times in their whole marriage.
“Well, normally we're not in the kitchen. Sometimes we are but most-”
“Be quiet, Ned!” Catleyn hisses, her face growing redder than her hair. “What
your father is trying to say is-”
"I'm going!" Bran promises. He grabs Hodor's arm, signaling that they have to
get the hell out of there as soon as possible. "I'll take that bath and… and…
you can continue, or whatever! Come on, Hodor!"
“Hodor,” Hodor agrees innocently.
"We'll be back later. Lots later,” Bran informs them, though he seems more than
reluctant to see them again.
"Be back for breakfast!" Catelyn shouts, reverting back to maternal phase.
Bran nods his head so fast that Ned thinks his head would fall off. The boy is
wheeled away in at an alarming speed.
They waited until the door slams shut. Catelyn sinks her head into her
husband's shoulder, mortified.
"Oh my God," Catelyn says, when she could speak again. "We've scarred him for
life."
Ned gently pats Catelyn's shoulder. “He'll get over it. We'll have to talk to
them about it though.”
“You and your talking was what got us into this mess,” Catelyn reminds with
touch of bitterness and amusement. Then they look at each other and both bursts
into hysterical laughter.
Breakfast is a ridiculously awkward affair. Judging by the lovey-dovey nature
of her parents, she knew it wasn't because of their fight last night, and from
the mortified expression on Bran's face and the confusion on Rickon's, she
could easily guessed what went down.
Bran finally caught them having sex.
Well, it's about damn time.
Arya thinks it's cute how many of her siblings are in denial about their
parents' sex life. Especially considering how active the two were. She's seen
the tale tell signs of a mysteriously broken vase, and the suspicious marks on
their bodies where they hope none of the children could see. It's not rocket
science, and Arya is surprised it took so long for her younger siblings.
Robb caught them when he was twelve, underneath the bleachers of his football
game.
Sansa was fourteen when Catelyn was receiving head in the living room.
Jon had said he'd seen them in their car when he was ten, but didn't think too
much of it (his mother was Lyanna Stark after all).
Arya had also been ten and she was going to ignore it, but she really needed to
get her ballet flats. So she just walked in and walked out without confronting
either of them.
Uncle Benjen told her that he was fifteen and it was the garden. Aunt Lyanna
said she was eighteen and it was in Brandon's bed (she also gave her a slew of
curses towards her mother that Arya will not repeat).
The point being, Arya really doesn't get why everybody is freaking out over
nothing. Taking the proactive, concerned sister approach, she decides to
confront the problem head on. God forbid he thinks sex is a bad thing.
"Do you have any questions, Bran?"

Her parents' squeak of “Arya!” is followed up by Bran's face palming "Oh my
god, why?"

Arya delicately places her mother's delicious poached egg on one of her whole
wheat toasts and sprinkles it with black pepper. During her performance season,
Arya got fairly obsessive about her diet. She always ate a lot, but nothing too
fatty or oily that could damage her figure. "You're obviously upset. I don't
want you to get the wrong impression about sex.”

"Oh my god," Bran repeats dramatically. His face has yet to rise from it's
place on the dining room table, and he seems hell bent on keeping it there.
Ned, however, takes Arya's words to heart. He rewards Arya with a nod of
approval. “Your sister is right. We should talk about what happened.”

"There is no amount of talking," Bran mutters through the table, "that will
make any of this okay. No amount of talking will remove that image from my
mind!”
“What a drama queen,” Arya complains under her breath. Bran finally gets up to
shoot his sister a dirty look.
Catelyn tells her to hush before turning to Bran. “It's just that we're worried
about you. I know that sex seems like a far off experience, but we want you to
be prepared when the time comes.”
“That means use protection,” Arya quips. “And no babymama drama, alright?”
“Arya!” Catelyn gasps.
“What? I'm not the one caught humping my husband on the kitchen floor."
“Arya!” Ned orders her more forcibly. He tries to get back into control. “Bran,
what do you want to know?”
“What?” Bran asks, horrified. They are seriously not having this talk now, are
they?
Ned looks at him grimly. “About sex. There must be some questions you have
about our love making. We will try to answer you as truthfully and as honestly
as possible. Please keep in mind, though, that while your mother has had
multiple partners in the past-” Catelyn makes a choking noise. “I have only
been with your mother. Also, you should note that the both of us are solely
familiar with the mechanics of heterosexual sex-”
"Are you serious?!" Bran shrieks. This is so not happening.
“Yes, I have yet to feel urges towards members of my own sex. Therefore, I can
not provide you with that sort of information.” Ned looks unbelievably serious.
“There are clinics though, and we can go get the pamphlets together.”
Ned gazes calmly at his son, as if he had not seen his father's penis in his
mother this morning. In the kitchen. Where his mother made his meals. Bran
looks down at his food and suddenly feels very sick.
"Sex is a perfectly natural part of a relationship, especially in a marriage,"
Ned says, not noticing his son's diminishing health. "Sex, though not exactly
necessary to be happy, is a common way to show affection. Your mother and I
love each a lot, and we like to show it by having sex.”
Bran might have thought that was lovely way of putting things, if he had not
seen them going at it like bunnies this morning. Such thoughts made him think
about where he was conceived, like a couch or the garden, and oh my god, he's
slept on the couch and in the garden!
“Please stop,” Bran begs.
“Dad, you forgot that Jon and Robb are currently in sexual relationships with
their boyfriends. Bran could get advice from them if he starts to feel urges!”
“Shut up, Arya!” Bran complains before thinking 'did Robb go through all the
women in the world already?' “I don't need your advice!”
Arya rolls her eyes, and gets up, bringing her breakfast with her. “I was just
trying to help. Now, if you excuse me, this looks like it's going to be one
very awkward sex talk that I don't want to be apart of.”
She ushers Rickon out of the room, whose attention span had no chance against
such a topic.
Ned, however, seems to truly contemplate such a suggestion. “Arya has a point.
How about we hold this discussion until Robb returns for the summer?”

"Yes, please," Bran agrees fervently. Salvation at last! He manages to force
down a bite of sausage (dear god, why is he eating sausage of all things?)
before Ned looks at him with a thoughtful frown.

“You know what, Bran? I don't think it's too inappropriate for you to learn
about protection now. Both homosexual and heterosexual people use condoms and
it's good that you think about the sizes and the quality-”

There was a loud crash as Bran slides all the way to the floor.
When Sansa comes home, freshly fucked but still dolled up to look innocent, she
sees Bran wheeling lifelessly around in the living room. She goes up to him in
concern, but Arya stops her.
“What happened to Bran?” She asks worriedly.
“He saw mom and dad doing it."
Sansa sighs. “Where?”
“Kitchen floor.”
“No!” The poor thing must be traumatized. “Did they...?”
“Yep, they even brought out our birth videos and showed them 'The Banana
Trick.'” Sansa looks rightfully horrified.
"So they...?"
"Yep."
“And wrapped it around the....?”
"Uh-huh."
"And father talked about how he and Uncle Brandon once grabbed a whole bundle
and just..."
"And mom was telling him that's normal so he should be prepared or stay
single."
Sansa shakes her head. Her little brother will die a virgin.
Chapter End Notes
     Next Chapter: Everybody gets together!
     Officially, the story is going to happen in the next chapter. When I
     say 'happen,' I mean that there is actually a plot involved and
     everybody meets and there is chaos and sexiness and torture. Some
     darkness. I have no idea where anything is going.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Starks are an old family, and as a result, they have a great deal of family
heirlooms. Amongst Robb's favorite is a silver ring with his family sigil on
it: a large wolf with the words 'winter is coming' engraved on the inside. It's
not particularly expensive, but filled with the richness of his ancestor's
tales and the unparalleled spirit of determination that made the Starks who
they were today. These were the stories that Robb used to hear growing up from
his tutor, Luwin.
Despite its meaning, Robb has never thought about using it. For one, it has
been in his family for millenniums, and he can only imagine the throttling
he'll receive if he gives it away. Secondly, he's a romantic, not an idiot, and
he knows that no girl wants a 10,000 year old ring worth less than the down
payment on a truck. It's an heirloom, a device for storytelling if anything at
all.
Then, he met Jon, and suddenly the ring that has collected dust for thousands
of years looks all the more appealing.
Robb has fallen in 'love' a lot, but some part of him has always been aware
that it wasn't true love. He spends most of his relationships trying to fit
each girl into that image of a perfect life, and tends to forget who the woman
was in the end. Jon is special, because there is no need to fit him into that
boxed in image. He wanted to fit that image around Jon. He came to the
understanding that Jon and him may not always be together, and even soul mates
could be separated.
That's why he wanted to make it official.
The ring is resting in his father's den, under lock and key. It will take some
convincing, but Ned is a good man who believes in the value of love, and Robb
is sure he can convince his father to give it to him. Besides, once his father
realizes how amazing Jon is, Ned will begging Robb to make Jon his son in law.
Robb spends most of the train ride planning the proposal, the engagement and
the wedding. A small, logical part in his mind starts to seep through and
reminds him that Jon hasn't even said yes, yet. That he may never say yes, and
break up with him before Robb even gets the chance. The infection called doubt
wrecks his brain with other scenarios, such as his parents disapproving and Jon
leaving him. It freaks him out to the point that Robb has made four (illegal)
cigarette breaks in the last hour.
On the fifth one, Jon finally acknowledges that he needs to confront Robb about
his unexplained stress, and to do so before one of the conductors discovers
Robb's smoking habit and kicks him off the train. Before catching him, though,
Jon decides to confront the only person who might know what's happening.
“What's up with Robb?”
Theon peers up at him from his magazine, before returning to his reading
material. “Aren't you his boyfriend? Shouldn't you know why he's upset?”
I would, was the unspoken message. Jon glares at his boyfriend's best friend,
who is eating up Robb's distress like half starved cat. Jon knows what a home
wrecker looks like (his mother used to be the reigning queen of that practice)
and he could spot Theon's tricks a mile away. The nipple slips and pouty lips
may win over some men, but Jon knew how to keep a guy's attention from trollops
like him.
“He's hiding something from me,” Jon concludes, trying his best not to sound
worried. “I thought that, you, being his friend, would know what. But I forgot
that you're just a friend.”
Theon bristles at the insult. “I'm not the one getting dumped,” Theon mutters,
clear enough that Jon could hear him.
The bastard boy snaps up at the accusation. “Fuck you, you jealous prat!”
“I'm not lying!” Theon growls, “Why else do you think Robb's acting like a
lunatic? He's been freaking out about it since last week. He doesn't want to
hurt your feelings,” he mocks.
“We've only been together for three weeks!” Jon protests. "We've move in
together already. He's not going to break up with me right after that.
“Yeah, and now the chase is over,” Theon smirks, knowing his words are getting
to Jon. The boy had more abandonment issues than he did. “When he met you, you
were this sexy, unobtainable challenge. Now he's had you, he's probably bored
to pieces.”
Being an asshole doesn't make a person less convincing, and Jon finds himself
swallowing every word of it.
“If he was going to break up with me, why would he introduce me to his family?”
Jon retorts weakly, the insecurity making its way home.
“Because he'll have an easier time doing it when he realizes his family doesn't
approve,” Theon deduces, “Do you seriously believe Robb's posh little family is
going to accept the fact that their perfect son is dating a guy who has almost
no future? Whose teenage mother got pregnant by some guy she doesn't even
know?”
The words hit close to home, and Jon angrily storms out of the room. Theon
almost feels guilty at the hurt expression on Jon's face. He quickly tells
himself that Jon deserves it. If he didn't want people like Theon to know about
his past, he shouldn't be so brazen about it. The bastard could afford a little
shame.
Jon searches the train toilets for Robb. When he catches the barest whiff of
tobacco smoke in the cubicles, he gently taps on the door. “Robb?” he whispers
softly. He can hear some brief shuffling, before the door opens up to a smokey
compartment and a severely panicked Stark.
Jon steps into the tiny area without question, and Robb closes the door to
avoid getting caught. There is silence between them, and Jon begins to look
around their confined space. He glances at the fags on the counter, and notices
the one still in Robb's hand.
"Did you disarm the smoke alarms?"
Robb shrug like some disobedient schoolboy. "They're fairly easy to
dismantle." 
Fucking engineers and genius college kids. "Isn't that dangerous?" 
"I'll fix it before we get off." He takes a drag from his cigarette. 
“Those things will kill you,” Jon informs casually. There's no real bite to his
words. Robb is in wonderful health, and his workload is probably going to kill
him faster than a cigarette ever will.
Robb chuckles, and its husky appeal sounds absolutely pornographic. The younger
man simply brings the stick back into his mouth and inhales. When he blows the
smoke out, Jon is pretty sure he just got an erection. He's staring Jon with
those intense bedroom eyes, and Jon feels himself growing a bit breathless.
Robb obviously notices and beckons him closer.
“Come here,” Robb orders. “Open your mouth.”
Jon obeys and parts his lips as Robb takes another deep drag of the cigarette.
He keeps it in as long as he can, before moving closer to Jon, pressing their
lips together, and exhaling into his mouth.
Jon gasps when Robb slips his tongue inside, and there's something so arousing
about the way Robb's breath heats up Jon's lungs with smoke. The taste is
bitter and burnt, and Jon wants so much more. Jon wraps his arms around Robb,
while Robb sneaks one hand around Jon's waist. Before they knew it, they are
kissing each other passionately.
Their panting mouths are dry when they separate. Robb releases himself to take
another drag, and to Jon's surprise, places his cigarette into Jon's mouth. Jon
puts the tobacco to his lips, and inhales slowly. It's not the first time he's
smoke (though it's certainly less illegal than those times). Robb watches him
take another breath like it's the most erotic thing in the world, before
leaning forwards and pressing his lips to Jon. Jon exhales, pushing the smoke
into Robb's lungs this time. They do not part; Robb breathes the smoke out of
his nose and they try to catch their breath in between harsh kisses.
When the air becomes too scarce to continue, Robb lets go, much to Jon's
dismay. He takes back his fag and takes a drag. “You'd rather smoke than kiss
me?” Jon asks in an accusatory tone.
Robb laughs breathlessly. “Trust me, there's nothing I'd rather do than kiss
you.”
Jon pouts his pretty lips, and looks up at Robb through his lashes in an
attempt to be sultry. “Then, why'd you stop?” He brings his fingers down to the
hem Robb's trousers, suggesting a very nice reward if Robb answers correctly.
“A man needs to breathe,” Robb jokes, though his voice grows harsh as Jon
begins to palm his crotch.
"That's ironic," Jon says, fiddling with the buckle.
Robb pulls Jon into another kiss. Jon grounds their hips together, causing Robb
to groan. “I can't keep this up if you keep doing that.”
“You will if you want my mouth around your cock,” Jon threatens, kissing him
more roughly this time. When they part, Jon is cornering Robb against the wall,
and sucks his neck while talking. “Can you feel how hot it is? It's not that
wet but I bet you can fix that if you put it in me. I'll be drooling all over
that delicious dick.”
Robb uses one hand to grab onto Jon's hair and throw him down on the floor
while the other one crushes the butt of his cigarette. Jon almost laughs at the
fact that it's still lit, but then Robb knocks Jon against the zipper of pants,
giving him a forceful reminder of what he wants.
Jon wants to take his time, but Robb will have none of that. He practically
rips his pants open, before shoving his cock into Jon's mouth. Robb, eyes
lidded, feels the validity of Jon's words. His mouth is hot from the cigarette
smoke and it provides a sauna like sensation around his dick. It's also drier
than usual, but Robb can feel the saliva pushing through to soak his cock.
Always aiming to please, Jon is. It'll take a while for it to be fully
drenched, and Robb doesn't have that long to wait.
“Fuck,” Robb grunts. “Your mouth isn't wet enough. Maybe deeper…”
Jon thighs rub together, trying to get off on his own terms. Robb won't have it
and pushes his head up. “No love, you're gonna get off from me pounding this
hole, or not at all.”
Jon chokes his response and attempts to swallow. “Good boy,” Robb murmurs
proudly. He fucks his cock into Jon's mouth until his tip is at his throat,
then pushes inside it, his eyes rolling back at the slick tightness around his
dick. Jon continues to swallow as Robb pushes further down.
Robb takes one last drag before crushing his cigarette against the wall and
focusing completely on Jon. He places the now free hand against Jon's throat
and squeezes. The tightened grip causes convulsions around his cock and Robb
can feel Jon's neck bulge to accommodate his shaft.
“Yeah, that’s better,” Robb pants out. He still isn’t all the way in, but stops
where he is about to pull in and out. “Fuck,” he moans, drawing the word out.
“Gonna pound it in so hard, love, but make sure you keep quiet or else someone
will come check on us. Okay?”
Jon would scoff if he could. If they haven't checked on Robb's smoking
escapades, they probably didn't care, or didn't want to piss off one of the
richest men on the train. Jon swallows hard nonetheless, coupled with Robb's
firm grip around his throat. As a result, his muscles are milking Robb's cock
in an exquisite massage.
After this, Robb lets loose, hips flying, ravaging Jon’s throat with rough,
noisy thrusts. Jon is confident that everyone can hear the way Robb's balls
slap against Jon's face. Jon keeps his mouth open wide, letting Robb use his
hole however he wants. Robb concentrates on how his cock visibly stretches
Jon's throat every time it thrusts in, a few solid inches distending on his
neck. “So fucking hot,” he mutters. “You take my cock so good, love.”
Robb drags this out as long as he can, but his stamina has a limit. His balls
are heavy and aching to release his load into Jon. “You ready to drink my cum
down, pet?” Robb asks.
Jon moans and sucks him in hard. Robb hips provide a few more jerky thrusts,
and finally lets himself cum. His cock twitches where it is deep seated. Thick
globs of cum is released down Jon's throat in large spurts, and goes straight
into his stomach. As he slides out of Jon's mouth, there is still some being
released, and he keeps the tip in for Jon to clean.
“Oh Gods, Jon,” Robb grunts when it is over. He pulls his freshly licked dick
out of Jon's mouth. “You were amazing.”
I better be, Jon thinks to himself, swallowing the remains in his mouth. Robb
looks so satisfied that Jon is sure he'll be thinking about it until the end of
their summer.
“You okay?” Robb asks, shifting his mood from horny to concern. “I can help you
out if you'd like...”
Jon looks down to his deflated cock and smiles playfully. “I think you helped
just fine.”
Robb tries to hide his proud grin, but fails miserably. Not every man can make
his lover cum from receiving a blow job alone. “Next time, I'll return the
favor,” he promises.
Jon shrugs. He gets up and buttons Robb's pants for him. “I rather you just pay
lots of attention to me.” Instead of acting like a nervous wreck, Jon complains
to himself. He removes such thoughts by kissing Robb again.
Robb smiles into the kiss, and pulls away. “Did you come in here just for
that?” He doesn't sound angry or confused. In fact, he seems flattered. Jon
already knows he's not going to tell the truth, which runs along the lies of 'I
heard from Theon that you were breaking up with me and I wanted to convince you
otherwise.' Nope, never going to happen.
Robb is still waiting for an answer, though, and Jon decides to rely on the
truths he is willing to share.
“I got worried,” Jon confesses. “You normally don't smoke that much.”
Robb flushes at being caught, but his heart begins to flutter at Jon's concern.
Gods, how could he ever believe that Jon would say no? “I was just preoccupied
with something. It's no problem, now.”
Jon visibly relaxes. Then, another possibility hit Jon, and he wonders if his
own actions have caused Robb to realize that maybe having an oversexed
boyfriend wasn't a good idea and that he was sure he wanted to end it. “What
were you preoccupied about?” He pushes.
Robb hesitates before answering. “I...was just thinking about my family.”
Jon's heart speeds up. “Do you think they won't like me?” Don't sound sad.
Don't sound worried. Be calm.
Robb eyes widen. “No! Of course not! They'll love you, Jon. I swear it.”
“How about you?” Jon stares into Robb's eyes seriously. “You do love me, don't
you?”
Robb almost looks offended that he asked. “Of course I love you! Haven't I made
that clear everyday?”
Yes, you do, Jon remembers. He blushes shamefully. He was such an idiot for
letting Theon poison his mind. The conclusion made him angrier just thinking
about it, and before he knew it, he was storming off to give Theon a beating.
He ignores Robb's demands to come back, and rolls up his sleeves to avoid
blood.
Jon is so busy with his revenge, he didn't even notice his phone vibrating
furiously.
“Ugh!” Arya almost throws her cell phone out of the car in frustration. From
the rear view mirror, Ned looks at her in amusement.
“Is there something the matter, Arya?”
Arya groans, “Jon isn't answering any of my calls!”
“Maybe he's busy?” Ned suggests, “He's seems quite taken with his new
boyfriend.”
Arya glares, “Did he tell you that?” She cannot believe that traitor decided to
actually settle down with some prat he's just met. “You know, the guy is
probably a serial killer. Why else would you ask the bloke you've been dating
for three weeks to move in with you?”
Ned chuckles at his daughter's jealously, “Robb asks his boyfriend to move in
together after three weeks.”
Arya scoffs, “But that's Robb! Jon has more sense than that!”
“You should be happy for him,” Catelyn advises, “Jon is such a sweet boy. It's
nice that he finally found someone special instead of whoring himself out like
some people.”
That type of bitterness is reserved for one person. Ned holds his tongue from
defending his sister in front of their children (less it leads to a very heated
argument), but makes a note to talk to his wife later.
Arya throws her hands up in frustration, “No one ever understands what I'm
going through!”
Ned and Catelyn share an amused look. They decide to change topics by
addressing their other daughter, who was currently having a relationship with
her phone. Catelyn sees the occasion blush and the tightening of thighs, and
immediately steps in.
“Are you excited to see your brother again?” Catelyn asks hastily.
Sansa looks up for the briefest of moments, smiles sweetly through her flush
face, and answers her with a curt “yes” before looking back down.
“What do you Robb's boyfriend will be like?” She tries again.
“Same as always,” Sansa replies. She seems both irritated at her mother's
interruption and thankful for a distraction. “They'll be completely different
from the last one, and Robb will be madly convinced that this one is 'the
one.'” She finally puts down her phone and places it in her handbag for
protection (against her siblings).
“Maybe he's right this time,” Bran quietly defends. They all (with the
exception of Ned who was driving) turn to the second youngest in the car,
riding in the backseat with his younger brother and shyly backing away from all
the attention. “Wasn't mum his age when she found dad?"
"That was a very different situation," Catelyn denies promptly.
"Weren't you living together?"
"Only for the winter," Catelyn points out. And I was getting engaged to your
uncle at the time, was left unsaid. No need to bring out old skeletons.
"Well, isn't Robb's boyfriend staying with us for the summer? Besides, this is
the first time Robb is inviting someone to stay over for a whole season. He's
never done that before, right?"
"Maybe he's trying to emulate mother and father's romance?" Sansa supposes. "Or
show this mystery man what's awaiting him if they last?"
"Then, he has to be serious, right?"
It's observations like that, that make Ned a proud father. Bran has always had
an 'old soul,' and when he spoke out loud, it was like enlightenment had fallen
on them all. Ned uses his free hand to take Catelyn's and smiles. “Maybe,” he
agrees. Bran smiles in contentment at the reaction. The rest of their drive is
spent relatively peacefully, with a few stray arguments here and there between
siblings.
“Freedom at last!” Theon shouts joyfully, sucking in the fresh air after being
confined in a train's cabin for hours. Robb agrees readily, and the two boys
began weird, inhaling rituals that drew far too much attention. Jon, having
been practically raised in airports and private jets, paid no heed to the
transportation. He merely checked his phone, and found several missed calls
from Arya.
“I have to make a call to my cousin,” Jon tells Robb, “Tell them I've arrived.”
The younger man nods, and kisses him in front of the entire station, drawing
much attention. Jon tries his best to pull away, but Robb's tongue began to
work its magic and Jon finds himself falling. When they finally separated, all
the voyeurs (including Theon) hustle themselves away.
“Meet us at Platform Seven, alright?”
Jon agrees and attempts to find a quiet area amongst the bustling individuals.
He sees a corner in between a phone booth and a convenience shop, and heads
over there quickly. Once there, he attempts to call his cousin to no luck.
Either she was too busy, couldn't hear her mobile, or was ignoring him for
ignoring her on the train. He hopes it isn't the latter. He knows Arya was a
bit upset when he told her he had a boyfriend. She claimed he was falling into
the trap of heteronormativity.
After a third voice mail message, Jon gave up, his mood seriously depleted. He
detaches the phone from his ear, and Jon can finally listen to the sounds
around him, including the cheerful barks of a very familiar canine.
Osha had ridden in a separate vehicle from the rest of the Starks, and her car
carried Grey Wind and Ghost. It was supposed to hold the luggage. Osha doesn't
know why they needed to bring the dogs, but Catelyn was adamant in her
decision. She didn't mind all that much. Grey Wind was ridiculously well
behaved and heeded all commands given by a trusted family member. The only
problem was that ever since Ghost came (his owner, Jon, had to leave him at the
Stark residency until he found a flat that accepted dogs), Grey Wind has yet to
leave his side. She even caught them fornicating once or twice in the gardens.
He also rarely let anybody near Ghost, and stalked him possessively.
It was practically incest. And kind of gross.
“Sorry bout that,” Osha apologizes calmly, not recognizing the victim. “He's
usually not this friendly.” Ghost did not feel the same, however, and continued
lapping at his owner's face.
“Osha?” She hears a familiar voice question. Once the large dog stopped his wet
attacks, Osha could finally see the man's face.
“Jon?”
Jon laughs in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking up the king,” Osha reveals, playing on Robb's former nickname. “He
just came back from Edinburgh, all educated. How bout you?”
“Meeting my boyfriend's family,” Jon admits sheepishly. “We've
been...uh...living together.”
“Congratulations,” Osha responds with a smirk. “I remember when I first settled
down.” Jon isn't sure if she's sincere or not, but there's always a minor
amount of sarcasm whenever Osha said something. Jon doesn't dwell on it,
though, when Grey Wind sneaks up on him.
Jon hasn't seen the other wolves since he dropped Ghost off, but he can't help
but be surprised by how large Grey Wind has gotten. The beast was about the
size of a real wolf. It made him believe the rescue rangers' tales of their
puppies being wolf hybrids. The creature nudges his nose into Jon's hand to
receive confirmation. After getting it, Grey Wind promptly heads over to guard
Ghost's side.
Jon cuddles them both regardless. “So where are the others now?”
“At Platform 7, waiting for Robb.”
“Brilliant, I'm heading there to meet my boyfriend.”
Robb met up with his family with little hassle. The train had been on time for
once, and his parents were too, so there was little wait or searching. Upon his
entrance in the platform, he was immediately assaulted with kisses and hugs
from his mother. So far, the day back home had started off great.
“Jon's making a call to his cousin to tell them that he's here,” Robb explains
for his boyfriend's lack of presence. He just finished hugging the last of his
siblings (Rickon), and couldn't wait to be home again.
“Perfect,” Catelyn exclaims, trying her best not to sound apprehensive of
meeting Robb's boyfriend. She didn't think she'd feel so nervous but suddenly,
the mysterious lover is becoming real. “Osha is trying to find parking. She
brought Grey Wind.”
Robb brightens up even further at the mention of his companion. “You are aces,
mum.” He kisses his mother on both cheeks shamelessly. Catelyn grins with
pride. Most boys were ashamed to show affection to their mothers, but not Robb.
She still remembers the envious gazes of the other mothers who had to deal with
their own beastly teenagers growing up. While everyone is enjoying Robb's
presence, Arya's mind caught a hold of something else.
“Wait, your boyfriend's name is Jon?”
Robb, who Arya swears has a switch for these kinds of conversations, nods
enthusiastically. “Yeah, it's a lovely name, isn't it?”
“It's our cousin's name,” Arya emphasizes. She sees everybody looking at her
strangely, and she wonders how everyone could possibly be so oblivious.
“It's a very common name, Arya,” Sansa smart mouths.
“I got that, Sansa,” Arya grits out. “But Jon told me his boyfriend's name is
Robb, and that he's an engineering student at Edinburgh. Like Robb.”
Half of the family visibly blanches at the information. Catelyn is the first to
attack.
“Did you meet him at uni?”
Perplexed by the sudden interrogation, Robb answers. “No, he doesn't go to
school.”
“What about his family?” Ned questions, and Arya sighs. Of course, father would
ask about that first.
“No siblings, but he's great with children.”
“Single mother?” Ned pushes. “Travels a lot because of her job?”
Robb looks almost hurt. “Yes, but are you seriously planning to judge him on
that?”
Arya interrupts. “You said he was calling his cousins?”
“Yes.”
Arya frantically digs into her purse to check her phone.
Three missed calls.
All from Jon.
Shit.
Before they could break the news to a highly confused Robb, the 'pitter patter'
of paws were heard. Grey Wind obediently came forth to be piled on with
affection from his master. Behind him, a familiar, curly hair twenty-one year
old made his presence known to his boyfriend.
“You're so good with animals,” Jon praises fondly. He went straight to Robb
upon seeing him, and did not noticed the other people on the platform. In other
words, he hasn't noticed their horrified faces yet.
“I have a gift,” Robb claims playfully, “I can show you quite a few of them
now,” he says suggestively, before pulling Jon into a searing hot kiss. Jon
allows it this time, having his limit on PDA increase after seeing how sexy
Robb looks with his cousin's dog. Instead, he focuses on meshing their eager
tongues together and placing those wandering hands on where it mattered.
When they separated, Theon is the happiest person in the world and their
immediate family is staring at them like they just admitted to massacring a
litter of puppies.
Chapter End Notes
     I've been obsessing over Richard Madden and Kit Harrington pics, and
     while I don't like smoking (ironically for all the reasons but
     health), I am not one to deny that Richard Madden is one sexy smoker.
     Hence, I make Robb a smoker, because being perfect is hard work. And
     my heart CAN NOT HANDLE IT. On another note, I realized that I have
     developed a problem writing 'Richard' instead of 'Robb.' For some
     reason, I don't have this problem with Jon but it freaks me.
     BTW, is it possible to write too many blow jobs for Robb/Jon? Cause
     this is my second one. I wonder if they'll get tiring any time soon.
     :( Oh well, this is last one in awhile. I've got to write more SanSan
     smut or maybe Bran/Jojen or something.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jon did not take the news very well. His reaction was fairly typical, and no
one was surprised when he ripped himself away from Robb, refused all forms of
eye contact, and ran out of the station, face white as a sheet.
Robb, on the other hand, is taking it too well.
“I'm not breaking up with him,” Robb announces once they're on the road, much
to his family's chagrin (and Theon's). “I refuse to let something like a little
blood relation ruin the most meaningful relationship in my life!”
Ned sighs, knowing this was coming all along. He's just grateful that Jon (who
had the sense to ride with Osha and Arya) will probably disagree. The boy
looked absolutely horrified by the revelation, and almost ran into a wall
trying to get away. “Robb...” He clears his throat. He has to be delicate about
this, knowing how dramatic his son could get.
“Robb, you're cousins,” Catelyn snaps, stopping Ned before he could even start.
She refuses to let him sugarcoat this. “When you two were younger, everyone
thought you were twins. Some people even believed Ned had an affair.”
“You're not seeing the bigger picture,” Robb accuses, “All weekend, I was
worried about you not liking him, and now that he's family, I know that you
love him! Besides, you once told me that he was like a son to you.”
“I said he was like a daughter to me,” Catelyn corrects, “And that's because
he's the only one who bothered to learn how to cook.”
All her children had given up before actually trying, and it didn't help that
Ned had actively encouraged them to find a partner who will do it for them (the
Stark way). Catelyn is definitely going to rub it in Ned's face when they get
home. Look at what happens when your children follow your advice; they end up
dating their cousins!
“Exactly! Don't you want me to be well fed? Being with Jon means never having
to resort to fast food again!” Robb leans over into the driver seat to meet his
mother's eyes. “Mother, if it weren't for Jon, I'd be fat...and hungry.”
Bran and Rickon snicker in the back, while Sansa rolls her eyes. Even Ned
couldn't fight a smile from coming onto his lips. Theon and Catelyn are far
from amused though.
Theon groans in frustration and brutally drags Robb back to his side. “Listen
to me, Robb! What you have with Jon isn't real. It's just a product of your
subconscious making friends with your penis. All that love you gave him was
just you missing your family.”
To Theon's immense irritation, Robb actually has the nerve to snort. “Trust me,
the loving I've given to him is not something I give to family.”
"Robb!" Catelyn shrieks, scandalized. She checks on Rickon to make sure he
didn't understand. Once she is confirmed that he's too engrossed with his video
games, she returns back to the fight.
Ned's throat makes this strain, choking noise and almost swerves into a
different lane. At this point, Sansa decides to put her two cents in. “Robb,
it's not right. Jon isn't some third cousin twice removed who we never see.
He's Jon. We used to build pillow forts together, and force him to make us
homemade ice cream. He might as well be our brother.”
"It's not the same!" Robb protests.
The oldest Stark sibling tries to find an adequate response but his mind
remains blank. As the outnumbered criticism begins to overwhelm his positivity
and damper his reassurances of love, Bran speaks up in his defense. “If that's
the case, then why are we trying to break them up? If they stay together,
doesn't that mean Jon will live with us after Robb graduates? It'll be like
having the whole family back again!"
Theon resists the urge to throttle the brat. Robb, however, brightens up. If
Bran wasn't in the backseat, he would kiss him for being such a wise, open
minded young man. “Bran has the right idea. It's almost as if you're trying to
push Jon away when really, we need to keep him in.”
“That's not true,” Ned immediately defends. “We love Jon.”
“Really? I couldn't tell,” Robb bites back sarcastically. At this point, Ned
sends him a warning look, saying that while he'll entertain the opportunity for
an argument, he isn't going to let disrespect slide. Robb crosses his arms in
petulance, but keeps his tone even. “Besides, he's only my cousin.”
“Right...” Ned trails off, wondering where this is going.
“So you have your twin siblings, then your regular siblings, than your half
siblings, and then you have your cousins, followed by your second cousins, and
then we move onto-”
“That's so not right,” Sansa argues. She knew she should have went with Arya
and Jon. Now, she has to deal with the first circle of hell.
Robb looks scandalized, “It's completely right. Not to mention legal, in almost
every single country on Earth.”
“She means, it's notproper,” Catelyn clarifies, while silently thanking the
Gods for her reasonable daughter.
“The Targaryens' do it all the time!” Robb justifies, though is fully aware of
how weak his argument is. That family is twenty tons of crazy in a small size
Ziploc bag.
“You're not Targaryens!”
"How do you know? We don't know who Jon's father is!"
The final line sets the stage for another argument. The excessive yelling
eventually led to Ned swerving into a few different lanes, and getting an
excessive amount of cussing thrown at the car. From behind them, Osha, Jon, and
Arya could all see the screaming motions of their mouths and the over the top
hand gestures.
Arya only hopes that they get it out of their system before they come home.
Ghost and Grey Wind are sleeping in the back, unmoved by the earlier
declaration. She turns to her Jon, who is currently brooding on the side,
staring outside the window like a puppy about to be euthanize. It's cute, in an
incredibly pathetic way. Grabbing his arm, she manages to get his attention on
her.
“Okay, in order to avoid...that,” Arya motions to her parents' car. “Let me be
clear. I don't care who you fuck, and even if I did, it's not my place to judge
you. All I want to know is how the hell could you not know?”
Jon groans in despair, but is grateful for Arya's understanding. He sinks his
head into his hands in dejection, trying his best to avoid the Stark's eyes.
Even his curls look gloomy, Arya muses. She hears the curls mutter something
she can't hear. “Care to repeat that?”
“It just never came up,” Jon manages out.
Arya calls bullshit. “This is Robb. Family always comes up.”
“Yeah, but he didn't give me any names. He just told me he was the oldest of
four siblings, and when he talked about them, he just said 'my brother
this...my sister that...' There are a lot of girls who perform, and a lot of
boys who are handicapped. I just never found a reason to put two and two.”
“The average family in the UK has 1.7 children,” Arya points out. Osha throws
her a look through the rear view mirror which she ignores. “Are you seriously
telling me this didn't ring any bells to you?”
“I was a nanny. My last employer had eight children, so no, it didn't,” Jon
retorts, agitated
Arya knows when to back off, and then focuses on another clue. “What about
names? I can get why he overlooked yours-I still don't know why Aunt Lyanna
changed your last name-but Robb Stark?"
“In my defense, I didn't know that 'Robb' was short for 'Robert,'” Jon
explains. “I just thought that spelling his name with two B's was cute.”
“And the Stark?” Arya asks dryly.
“When I was in America, I met tons of 'Starks.' It didn't mean they were all
related.”
It was a fairly sound argument. There was one thing that unnerved Arya, though.
“So he didn't talk about you at all?” Arya raises an eyebrow. “I swear, one ex-
girlfriend actually broke up with him because of that reason alone.”
Jon flushes a deep red, which makes Arya bite her tongue to keep from teasing
him. “Yeah...he talked about me, it was just...he was so...”
“So what?”
“So...sweet,” Jon actually looks embarrassed. “It was like he was talking about
his first love. Whenever he reminisce about something we did together, he would
just go completely off topic.”
“Like what?” Arya asks curiously.
“He would remember these minute details, like how red my lips were after eating
cherries or how adorable I looked in my green sweater or the way a bruise would
form on my elbow after falling off a sled. Fuck, he was obsessive back then.”
Jon doesn't mention that he, too, was becoming increasingly jealous over
himself. That was just too pathetic. "I always got so irritated that I'd change
the topic."
Arya sighs, and leans on his shoulder. It's a small gesture, but it causes Jon
to relax a bit. “If it's any consolation, I don't care if you want to stay with
Robb after this. I mean, I was a little hurt when you decided to get a real
boyfriend, because I thought we were together on that, but you have my support.
And if you decide to leave him, just do it gently. He's a delicate little
teacup,” Arya jokes lightly. She really does want Jon to be kind, though. Robb
is her older brother, and she loves him.
“Thanks, Arya,” Jon smiles in spite of his poor mood. “So let's move on to a
less incestuous topic. What's going on in your life?”
Arya shrugs, but there's a change in her body language that screams excitement.
“I got an audition with the Faceless Men.”
Jon's expression immediately shifts to one of happiness. “Congratulations!” He
praises before pulling Arya into a lively hug. The Faceless Men was a
contemporary dance troupe that Arya has wanted to join since she decided she
wanted to be a professional dancer. “When's your audition?”
“Next month, so I have to be very careful not to damage anything. Oh, and be
prepared for lots of evil glares and temper tantrums because with my new diet,
I'm going to be a bitch.”
Jon laughs mirthfully. “So don't get on your bad side and make sure you don't
overwork yourself. Anything else? Do you want me to keep anyone off your back,
or provide a distraction?”
Arya is reminded again of how much she loves her cousin. Jon never coddles her
or tries to make her out to be somebody she's not. If he sees her pushing
herself too hard or being too critical, he simply finds a way to get her to
relax without forcing it on her. He knows that when she's stressed out or
excited, the best thing was to give her space and let her come to him. Arya
could understand why Robb was so infatuated with him (and slowly fights the
jealousy seeping into her gut, the thing that makes her hate her youth and how
Jon will never look at her like a woman).
“You know, when I get in, I'll be their youngest performer in history,” Arya
mentions offhandedly.
Jon smiles sincerely. “Even better, your parents will be so proud."
“It also means I won't attend sixth form,” Arya confides. The car suddenly
makes an sudden motion, almost lifting them out of their seats. It is obvious
that Osha heard. Arya was less worried than she should be; snitches get
stitches and Osah knew the honor code well.
“I'm guessing you didn't tell your parents yet,” Jon states, sharing a look
with Osha, who is already foreshadowing the disaster.
“I was going to wait until I get in,” Arya reveals. She is going to make it,
though. Failure isn't even a possibility. “They won't be happy.”
“It'd be a different story if your grades were poor. I heard your marks were
spot on this year?”
“Am I to be blamed for the British government making their tests easier?” Arya
complains. Both she and Jon smirk at the irony. Arya, despite her roughness,
had a sharp mind and a talent with academics when she choose to use it.
“Well, know that I'm on your side the entire time,” Jon vows. “If you need
anything, I'm here.”
“Just being with me is enough,” Arya admits, before clutching onto his hand and
laying a soft kiss on his cheeks.
“Hey! There's too much of that going on!” Osha complains loudly. The two
cousins pull away immediately, before bursting out into giggles. Arya turns
slightly to catch Jon's cheery expression and remembers how much she prefers
this to his mopiness.
Before they get home, they make Osha swear not to tell Arya' parents. Osha is
many things, but she isn't a snitch and promises to keep their secret. She
does, however, warn Arya not to throw her into the line of fire when they find
out. She loves her job and isn't going to risk it for Arya's hide.
Robb and the rest get back before the three of them, having lost them at a red
light. Arya can hear that they are still arguing.
“Jon is sleeping in my room, like he's been doing for the last three weeks,”
Robb orders, which has little effect on his mother.
“I wouldn't have let him do that before I found out you were cousins; do you
honestly think I'm going to let that happen now?” Catelyn retorts. To his
irritation, she tells one of the maids to ignore Robb's complaints and clean up
Jon's old room.
Before Robb can ground out another refusal, Jon steps in. “I'm good staying in
my old room. I think I'd prefer it.”
Robb looks crushed while Catelyn smiles victoriously. “It'll be ready in a
moment,” she tells her nephew sweetly, ignoring the glower from her son. “Are
you joining us for dinner?”
Jon says yes, and tries to avoid his boyfriend's betrayed expression. “I just
have to wash up.”
“You can get ready in the guest room we prepared for...Robb's boyfriend. One of
the maids will show you where it is,” Catelyn motions one of the girls to get
Jon.
Robb immediately dives in to give Jon a goodbye kiss before he leaves. Just as
he is about to lean in to capture that beautiful mouth, Jon sidesteps and
maneuvers him into a hug. It's awkward and forced, and when Jon rips himself
away, he's looking down and fidgeting. “I'll...um...see you at dinner.”
When Jon heads up the stairs, Robb is visibly traumatized. He stands like that
for a good number of minutes, just staring at the invisible footsteps Jon left
behind. After snapping out of it, he promptly turns to glare at his parents for
their cruelty against him. “If we break up, it's all your fault!” He accuses,
before rushing up the stairs to either follow Jon or sulk.
Theon, who is practically jumping for joy at Jon's negative reaction, pounces
on the opportunity. “I'm going to 'talk' to Robb for a bit. Don't worry, Mrs.
Stark, you're definitely doing the right thing. Robb's a resilient young man,
he'll get over it,” he reassures before dashing after his unrequited love.
Catelyn sighs, knowing something is wrong if Theon approves. She is well aware
that the blonde has been more involved in Robb's breakups than the boy himself,
and is more than a little horrified by her apparent assistance.
“Great, why don't you just gift wrap him to the nearest slag?” Arya quips while
rolling her eyes. Ned looks horrified by her language, and she leaves for her
room before her father could berate her on it.
Catelyn rests a hand on Ned's shoulder. Arya's scolding could wait; she wants
to have a talk with her husband now. Bran has already been ushered by Osha to
the elevator, while Rickon looks around.
“Sansa, could you be a dear and-”
“Already on it!” Sansa chirps, making sure to keep a composed face for her
sibling. She takes her eleven year old brother by the hand and leads him up to
his room for her parents' 'talk.' When they get inside his room, she hears his
questions.
“Sansa?”
“Yes?”
"Is Jon a bad person?" Rickon asks casually. It's a startling question, and
Sansa wonders what brought it up.
"Of course not. Jon is absolutely wonderful," Sansa denies.
“Then why does everyone want him and Robb to break up?”
Sansa sighs, detesting the conversation already. “Because it's weird, Rickon.”
She hopes he leaves it at that.
“But why?” Rickon pouts. “Mum and Dad always tells me that love is love.”
“It's like me dating Robb, or you dating Arya,” Sansa explains, she smiles a
bit when she sees Rickon crinkle his nose in disgust. “Jon's like a brother to
us, and Robb should know that.”
“But I thought Robb doesn't see Jon as a brother. That's why they're dating,
'member?” Rickon actually looks a bit insulted. “If you see Jon as a brother,
than you don't date him.”
“Yes, but...” Sansa hates it when she finds herself outsmarted. Especially by
an eleven year old. “You'll understand when you get older,” she says instead.
Rickon actually growls, and Sansa recalls that it is the same sound she heard
right before he bit something. The red haired maiden hastily puts her fingers
away.
“People only say that when they can't think of a good comeback,” Rickon snarls.
Sansa actually looks surprised. “Where did you hear that?”
“I heard Arya say it to you,” Rickon smirks. “And it's true!”
Sansa really needs to have a talk with her younger sister on her poor manners.
Look at what she's teaching their younger brother! “Nonetheless, when you fall
in love, you'll see.”
“I'm already in love,” Rickon declares.
“Oh?” Sansa raises an eyebrow in curiosity. “What's this special girl's name?”
“Dunno,” Rickon mutters shyly. It's the most adorable expression she's ever
seen on him in a long time. “But she moved into the house next door with her
family.”
Sansa purses her lips. That means she's rich. The closest house near the estate
(that wasn't apart of it in the first place) was a mansion of smaller means,
but still large in comparison to most houses.
“How old is she?”
Rickon frowns, “I don't know that either, but she's super pretty and has this
large gray scar on her face which is so cool. I was just staring at her, and
she smiled at me.”
Grey scar...Sansa briefly recalls encountering a mousy little thing hiding
behind Uncle Robert's younger brother at a dinner function in London. She's
never been good with names and connections (that's more of Arya's thing,
strangely enough), but if they're the same person, it would make her around
Bran's age. An older woman, already.
“Is that all it takes to win your heart?” Sansa teases. “A pretty face and a
cool scar? Should I be worried about another Robb in the family?”
“Whatever,” Rickon pouts. “I already decided that I'm going to marry her. And
I'll do it the wildling way.”
“Wildling way?” Sansa inquires, amused. She knows that Rickon loves their
family history, of the raids and the lords and the wars and the Kings in the
North.
“I'm going to throw her over my shoulder and whisk her away into my village to
become my wife.”
“Oh, you have a village now?”
“We'll start our own village!” Rickon declares seriously. “It'll be a zombie
village and I'll be the cannibalistic leader while she'll rule with her heart
of gray.”
He looks so serious, that Sansa can't help but feel for him. “Good luck with
that,” Sansa encourages, trying not to laugh. She hears a startling noise in
her purse and checks her phone. There, she sees a text message from Sandor,
telling her to call him back. “Be down in time for supper, okay?”
Rickon agrees. With that settled, Sansa dashes to her room to call her
boyfriend. She barely has to wait for a ring before he picks up.
“Hey?” Sandor gruffly answers.
“It's me,” Sansa responds, playing with her hair flirtatiously, even though he
couldn't see. “Sorry I couldn't get to you sooner. The whole day has just been
one hot mess after the other.”
“Sounds rough,” Sandor consoles, “Everything alright with you? How's your
brother and his new boy toy?”
Sansa giggles at the word choice. She adores that Sandor actually remembers and
cares to ask whereas other guys would, at best, forget. “Oh nothing much,
except the boy toy happens to be our cousin and now my parents are literally
downstairs discussing ways to keep them apart. Also, my little brother fell in
love with some older girl he wants to kidnap.”
There is silence over the phone, and Sansa is worried that she told him too
much, that perhaps the information scared him off. She is about to apologize,
try to take everything back, before Sandor speaks up again.
“So this summer, your cousin and brother are playing Romeo and Juliet incest
version, and your younger brother is going to become a criminal?”
“That's it in a nutshell,” Sansa agrees, a little less humor in her tone. It
sounds so much less entertaining when he says it. Sandor always had a way to
bring her down to reality with his 'this shit is getting weird, better get out
while I still can' tones and looks.
“I guess this is a bad time, then,” Sandor announces suddenly. He almost sounds
guilty.
“For what?” Sansa asks, concerned.
“It's nothing...but a...business associate of mine is staying over and I really
appreciate it if you don't drop by for a while.”
Sansa bites her lip, more annoyed than disappointed. “How long?”
“A week or so,” Sandor replies calmly. “Just until I can repay my debt and kick
her ass out.”
Sansa is not naïve enough to dismiss the 'her' comment. “It's a woman?”
Sandor sighs, but he doesn't seem offended by her questioning. “I owe her a
favor. Trust me, I wouldn't touch the bitch if you paid me.”
“I know,” Sansa responds calmly. They've been together for over a year now, and
she knows that Sandor would never lie or cheat on her. A healthy relationship
is based on trust, after all. “Okay, but you better call me when she leaves.
We'll have a lot to catch up on,” she tells him suggestively.
“It's the first thing on my mind,” Sandor promises. After a few moments, he
speaks. “I love you.”
Sansa smiles, content with the declaration. “I love you, too.”
Sandor hangs up, a little less agitated after talking to his girlfriend. He
slips the mobile back into his back pocket, making sure it's secure and grabs a
glass of wine for his guest. It's the most expensive thing he owns, and he
doesn't care how much the bitch complains. If she doesn't like it, she can buy
her own liquor.
He realizes, as he steps into his living room, that no amount of alcohol can
make the smirking face of Cersei Lannister look any better.
Chapter End Notes
     I promised some people that I would post this on Friday so I was
     desperately trying to get this chapter finished by 11:59 pm. (I live
     in Hawaii which goes by Pacific time, and is actually the slowest
     time in the world). That means that if the world is suppose to end at
     a specific time, I'll be the last to die. Anyways, I didn't complete
     my goal until...12: 45. My fingers hurt so badly but I finished.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sandor doesn't like Cersei Lannister.
He doesn't like how the woman's entire vocabulary consists of backhanded
compliments, or how she makes the rules and expects everyone to abide by them.
No ones' opinions matter but her own and yet she still expects everyone to seek
her approval for everything. Her toxicity spreads so that everyone within a
five meter distance is sentenced to a lifetime of manipulation, and she has
these inane bouts of paranoia in which she believes that everyone is out to get
her. She coddles her eldest son, a vile piece of shit if there was ever one,
and openly bribed his way out of jail time. And lastly, everything bad that
happens to her is never her fault.
Naturally, Sandor would be the best judge. His family has worked under hers for
decades now, starting with his father to her grandfather and his brother to her
father and him for her. They're not friends by any means, but he's been there
for her during her teenage pregnancy, her shotgun wedding, her divorce all the
way to Joffrey's sentence, and Myrcella's accident.
Honestly, he shouldn't even be surprised when she shows up at his doorstep
unannounced. Instead of indulging her as he's done for countless years, Sandor
promptly slams the door in her face. That should remind her that her shit does
stink.
Much to his bewilderment, he hears no further argument. No threats of eviction
or death or whatever the Lannisters have up their sleeves. It is almost
frightening how silent the world becomes. Sandor chooses to count his blessings
instead of foreshadow curses, and he heads to the kitchen to get a beer.
He contemplates calling Sansa for a second, finding comfort in her voice alone.
They've been together for a little over a year now, and were still at the stage
where calling each other just to say 'I love you' was acceptable.
It isn't until he walks back to his living room does he realize why Cersei did
not put off a fight.
“I thought I'd give you the opportunity to be a courteous host. I guess such
responsibility is wasted on a dog like yourself,” Cersei states offhandedly,
lounging on the couch like she owned it.
“How the fuck did you get in?” Sandor snarls without even listening to her
bullshit.
Cersei smirks, an ugly expression on her otherwise flawless face. She holds up
a copy of his key. ”You live in an apartment filled with crooks and you don't
expect your landlord to sell you out for a couple of pounds? Really Sandor, I
expected better of you.”
Sandor growls. “Get out.”
“Make me,” Cersei challenges. Sandor is tempted to grab his gun, not to
actually shoot her but to scare her a little. Only it wouldn't work since
Cersei knows Sandor. Knows that no matter how much he despises her, he wouldn't
blow out the brains of one of his top client's daughters. Besides, there's too
much history for him to hurt her.
“Why are you even here?” Sandor relents, taking a swig of his beer while a
getting a twinge of pleasure watching Cersei's eyes follow the bottle with
envy.
“Oh you haven't heard?” Cersei wonders sarcastically. “My cunt of an ex-husband
has finally decided to be a father for once and has kidnapped my children to
his best friend's home for the summer.”
“The fat bastard did what?” Sandor questions incredulously. For as long as he's
known Robert, fatherly is the least of his descriptions. The old drunkard
hasn't spoken with his kids in over eight years since the divorce, longer by
Cersei's accounts.
“Well according to Lancel,” Cersei's cousin who currently interns at Baratheon
Inc. (a decision not made on his own accord), “His godfather just died and it
made him 'rethink his life choices' which in turned, reminded him of what a
shitty father he's been. So he's taken Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen with him
North for the summer.
“And you just let him?” Sandor asks in disbelief.
Cersei glares furiously. “No, I didn't just let him. Believe it or not, the
Baratheons have lawyers as well. To argue with Robert again meant going through
a long awaited custody battle and I'm not going to risk that.”
“Why? It's not like you'll lose,” Sandor concludes. Cersei, for all her mental
issues and smothering nature, is the only parent her children have known.
Robert may have his charms, but he is a known adulterer and drunk, and has more
than one domestic abuse report against him (though Cersei had decided to drop
them all, the record was still there).
Cersei groans in frustration, as if Sandor is a child who could not understand
simple maths. “A custody battle takes time, no matter how obvious the result
will be, and I am not putting my children through that. Myrcella has auditions
this summer for her performing arts school, and Joffrey has been doing so well
in therapy. Who knows how horribly this could affect his psyche?”
“I think his 'psyche' is fucked up enough without the custody battle,” Sandor
quips.
Cersei practically hisses for his blood at this point. “My son was damaged. He
needed help,” Cersei denies.
“He needed to stop being such an abusive cunt,” Sandor retorts. He still
remembered Sansa sobbing into his arms when Joffrey backhanded her that day. It
took all his strength not to pulverize the little shit.
“Where do you think he learned that from?” Cersei counters back.
Sandor actually keeps his mouth shut at that instance, and Cersei simmers off
on the couch. He, unlike the rest of the Lannisters and their employees, wasn't
blind to the signs Cersei exhibited. He knows that when Robert got drunk, he
got rough. He could see the swollen cheeks and bruised wrists when Robert held
a little too hard. Cersei denied it for a good number of years, mostly to her
father and to her friends, trying to play the perfect socialite. She would
never admit that her life was anything less than spectacular, anything less
than something to be envied. Robert never went far enough to send Cersei to the
hospital, but Sandor could see it was only a matter of time before it went
there. Cersei was a bitch, and she's done some pretty horrible things, but no
one deserved to be a punching bag for their husband.
“Why me?” Sandor asks at last. “Does your brother live near here?”
“Living with Jaime means accepting the fact that he's dating that monstrous
woman," Cersei pouts.
“How about a hotel?”
Cersei mood visibly darkens, “My father has forbidden me from interfering. He's
running for Prime Minister and when he saw how the polls jumped after Joffrey's
public rehabilitation, he wants to continue the redemption PR. The hotels only
take credit cards which my father can track. As far as he's concern, I'm
seething in Sweden. Besides, you owe me.”
Sandor actually snorts. “I don't owe you a damn thing.”
“Fine,” Cersei agrees pleasantly, a startling concession that Sandor doesn't
believe Cersei is capable of. “Then, I'll just call Catelyn and Ned Stark and
tell them that their teenage daughter is seeing one of my ex-employees, and
I'll let them fill the blanks on what you did for me.”
The urge to pummel Cersei rises again, but he keeps his cool for Sansa. “I have
no idea what you're talking about,” Sandor lies smoothly. “But fuck you if you
think I'm going to fall for an empty threat like that.”
“I saw you, Sandor,” Cersei reveals confidently. “The night Joffrey attacked
Sansa, I saw how she ran into your arms.”
“Sansa wanted to get as far away from Joffrey as possible. She would have ran
straight into a crocodile's jaws if it meant protection.”
“Joffrey apologized to Sansa four months ago, and as far as I was concern, the
two of them were on...neutral terms,” Even Cersei wouldn't call their
relationship 'okay.' Sandor remembers that day. Joffrey had been given an
assignment by his therapist to make a list of people to apologize for his
crimes. Sansa had been seventh on the list, after his family. Sandor almost
crushed his skull for putting Sansa so low. “Care to explain to me what she
needed protection from when she ran into your arms last week?”
Sandor is about to accuse her of spying on him before he realizes that Cersei
probably had a few of his neighbors on payroll by default.
“How long?” He grits out to Cersei's pleasure.
“A week, maybe two.”
“One week.”
“I don't know, I like the number two. Maybe even three,” Cersei teases
viciously.
“One,” Sandor growls out, like an angry dog.
Cersei stares, as if contemplating whether or not she should push him on this
matter. Then, she realizes there was no point. Her children will be here in a
week, and that will be plenty of time to guilt Ned Stark into allowing her to
stay with them during the summer. Besides, she doesn't think she could hide
from her father longer than the time given.
“Fine,” Cersei agrees. “I trust you have a guest room in this disgusting flat?”
Ironically, he did. While Sandor is not a man privy to guests, he had one just
in case of 'emergencies.' He's been in the business long enough to know that an
extra bed was a godsend when someone was bleeding out on your new sheets.
“Good, now I feel this calls for a celebration. You do have some good wine?
Don't you?”
Sandor bites back a response. Instead, he grabs his phone and heads to the
kitchen. If Cersei will be staying, he needed to make sure Sansa stayed the
fuck away from his apartment at all cost. Like hell was he letting the harpy
sink her talons into his bird.
Meanwhile Cersei was not the only Lannister woman having a hard time finding
decent living conditions. Myrcella has been replaying the same piece on her
cello for the last hour, trying to get it right to no anvil. Her oldest brother
and father have been arguing nonstop since they arrived in London. Myrcella has
to give it to Robert. She knows Joffrey was purposely baiting their father to
hit him so that he'd have a reason to call the police and leave the place. He
blamed Robert for everything, his violent outbursts to his criminal activities.
She loves her brother but even she found his behavior tiresome.
After screwing it up for the umpteenth time, Myrcella had enough. She doesn't
even know how Tommen could sleep through such a ruckus but she was having none
of it.
Coming out the room, Myrcella pounded on the wall as hard as she could to get
their attention. She barely hears the minor thumps and prays that it is loud
enough to catch their attention. Both Joffrey and Robert (she still can't find
it in her to call him father) turn to her.
I can't hear myself play with all the noise, Myrcella signs.
Joffrey seems more annoyed by Myrcella's interruption than angry, a huge
improvement from his past behavior.
I'll stop yelling when he stops being an arse, Joffrey signs back. Why are you
playing so late at night, anyways?
I have to practice,Myrcella defends. Why are you fighting so late at night?
Can't we just buy your way to the school? Joffrey retorts, ignoring her
question. Myrcella rolls her eyes. Before she could respond, Robert speaks up.
“What the hell are the two of you doing?” Robert demands raucously. His voice
echoed through the halls, and Myrcella can hear her right ear ringing. A flash
of feral crosses over Joffrey's face and Myrcella is reminded of the old
Joffrey all over again.
“You fucking wanker, your daughter can't hear and you don't bother to learn how
to sign!” Joffrey shrieks, almost identical to their mother right before she
and Uncle Tyrion fought.
“You little twat, how dare you speak to me that way? I didn't know she was that
fucking deaf!”
Hard of hearing, Myrcella corrects dryly in her head. Only one of my ears can't
hear. She doesn't bother to sign it, knowing that Joffrey wouldn't bother
reading and Robert couldn't read.
Either way, she was putting on her earmuffs and blocking the noise completely.
She could practice early tomorrow morning, when they were both knocked out. She
still can't believe her mother agreed to let them go. Sure, she liked the
thought of heading up North and revisiting her old crush (Robb Stark) and
spending time with the girl she's idolized for quite some time (Sansa Stark),
but she couldn't bear the thought of having to deal with this for a whole
summer.
Chapter End Notes
     This is a really short chapter. Sorry for that. Sorry about the lack
     of Starks (they will be the center of the next chapter, though). Also
     sorry for the long update! I was being super lazy but now I'm back on
     track. I've actually decided to focus solely on this story for a
     while which means the next chapter will be updated earlier than
     usual. So yay! More chapters more often! My only other story will be
     put on a temporary hiatus. Hope you are all okay with that.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jon’s old room is two rooms down from Sansa, on the right of Arya’s and on the
left of Bran’s, across the hall and one room down from Rickon’s, and directly
across of Robb’s. The guest room he changed in was at the end of the hall. Jon
looks back on his decision and he realizes that he should have taken that room,
lack of familiarity be damned. At least he wouldn’t be sneaking through the
halls like some cat burglar.
Eventually, he has to talk to Robb. They’re going to have to discuss the
parameters of their new found 'relationship' and then discuss what’s going to
happen. In Jon’s mind, that means breaking up and Jon is not ready for that. He
is not ready to leave someone he cares about (loves) and respects and wants so
desperately to be with it, it hurts. So fuck it, he’s avoiding Robb.
Each step is made with caution. Somewhere in his mind, there is a voice that
shrieks at him to stop this nonsense. It’s the same voice that used to feed him
odd little notes like “wow, your boyfriend and your cousin share basically the
same lifestyle and family history, you bloody buffoon.” Jon ignores it as
always, especially now, when it’s saying “you will be living in the same
fucking house for the next couple of months so stop acting like an idiot and
walk normally.”
Jon doesn’t listen again. He reaches his quarters without any confrontations
from Robb, and for that he is grateful. He hastily enters his room and locks
the door before Robb can catch him. He breathes a sigh of relief as his
forehead presses against the door. He is safe.
Then, he feels Robb’s arms wrap around him and realizes that this is a trap.
“I was waiting for you,” Robb whispers, his lips grazing Jon’s ear before
biting the top. He begins to suck that one spot on Jon’s neck that drives him
absolutely crazy before unbuttoning Jon’s jeans. Jon didn’t catch on it
immediately, but Robb is only in his boxers, shirtless, and is obviously
expecting to get some.
That cheeky bastard! Jon fumes silently, before removing Robb’s arms and
turning to face him. He’s ready to chew him out for coming to him like a dog in
heat before Robb attacks him with intense, open mouth kisses.
“Robb-,” Jon is cut off again by a rather determined tongue. “Robb, we need to
talk-“
“We don’t have much time!” Robb warns. Jon sees that his shirt is already off,
and he’s pretty sure that all Robb did was look at it.
“For what?” Jon pulls off him. He attempts to get on the other side of the
room, but Robb simply follows him and even manages to drag him onto the bed.
He’s also working on Jon’s jeans.
Robb explains without stopping. “We’ve only got enough time for a quickie
before one of the maids hear us and reports to mother. Don’t worry, I’ll be
fast.” And the kissing resumes. Robb throws Jon’s trousers to the side. Again,
Jon does not remember any of this. He can't even recall lifting up his legs to
remove the incredibly, far too tight jeans. 
"Robb, we need to stop--!"
"No time, god, why are you so fit--?"
"Robb--let's talk--"
"No time, talk later. I can be fast--"
“If that was the case, we’d never be together!” Jon kicks Robb off and the
eldest Stark boy goes tumbling on the ground like a rejected puppy. He tries to
get up, before Jon stops him.
“Stay,” Jon commands.
Robb stills. Jon backs up as far away from Robb as the bed would allow.
Hopefully, the barrier of elevation will deter Robb. If not, then Jon’s temper
will have to do.
“Good, now sit,” Jon demands firmly. Robb sits. “First off, what the hell do
you think you’re doing?”
“I’m trying to have sex with you,” Robb answers bluntly. “You’re making it very
hard.”
Jon almost bangs his head against the wall. “We can’t,” Jon reasons.
Robb pouts petulantly. “Why not?”
“Because of a little thing called a bloodline.”
Robb, still on his knees, walks over to Jon’s place on the bed. He hasn’t risen
from the floor, but is instead rubbing against Jon’s bare leg affectionately.
He runs a few kisses down the limb, bringing a shiver to Jon’s spine. “It
doesn’t matter,” Robb persuades. He looks up into Jon’s eyes confidently. “It
doesn’t matter because I love you.”
Jon falters for a second and Robb pounces.
Jon is backed up against the wall as Robb traps him between his thighs. They
are still kissing when Robb cups his face and releases his lips.
“You’re so beautiful,” Robb tells him. He’s stroking Jon’s face with an intense
expression. Jon’s breathing grows heavy, and he heats up (in embarrassment?
Pleasure?) Robb looks ready to say something else before Jon pulls him into
another kiss. If he couldn’t stop this (wouldn’t), Jon wants to focus this on
the sex. He and Robb don’t belong together. They don’t really know each other.
They have great sex but a relationship can’t be built on that alone.
They’re both hard as rocks and Robb takes out both their cocks in response. Jon
knows that Robb has fantasized about this; about taking Jon apart slowly while
his parents were in the house, risking exposure. Instead, now the fantasy has
become warped and Jon is not sure he can risk anything anymore. Robb has him
behaving like an animal, rubbing up on him in his childhood room.
It’s kind of hot.
Robb rolls his hips against Jon’s and Jon subconsciously matches him, hips
jolting. Jon’s breathing is erratic; fingers clutching Robb’s hips hard enough
that they’ll be all bruised. Their cocks are rubbing against each other, pre-
cum dowsing the cocks. The friction is light, and Robb forcibly rubs them
against each other to get them to cum.
“I’m gonna –” Jon whines, and he tries to look away before Robb catches him
into another kiss. Robb begins to fuck both their cocks into his wonderful
hands, not caring about the mess on his fingers. Thrust. Squeeze. Rub. Robb and
Jon came together, coming into Robb’s hand. Jon’s eyes roll into the back of
his head during their orgasm.
“God!” Jon gasps as he slopes against the wall. Robb follows suite, only he
rests against Jon’s exhausted body. Instead of lying down quietly, however,
Robb uses his remaining strength to lick the sweat off Jon’s chest. When he
feels Jon relaxing against him, Robb latches onto a nipple, sucking and biting
it lightly.
He did not expect the leg coming up to his chest to kick him off. While still
in shock, Robb watches as Jon struggles to put on his trousers.
“Wait!” Robb calls out desperately. He tries to get up from his spot on the
bed, but Jon quickly backs away from Robb and his penis.
“No, no! No more waiting and no more sex and no more-,” He makes a motion
between the two of them. “-of this! God, Robb! What were you thinking?”
Robb looks a cross between torn, and almost offended. “I’m trying to save our
relationship!”
Jon chokes out a laugh, though it sounded far from humorous. “Our relationship?
Our relationship? We don’t have a relationship, Robb! We may have never had
one! We have sex! Great sex, I’ll give you that but that’s it! That’s no reason
to break your family’s heart over! Fuck, Robb, have some bloody sense! We
didn’t even know enough about each other to tell that we were cousins!”
Robb tries to defend himself, only to see that Jon has already grabbed a shirt
off the floor and is moving towards the door. “Where are you going?” Robb asks
instead.
“To your mother!” Jon shouts out before slamming the door. He hurries down the
stairs, knowing that he only had a few minutes before Robb ran after him. He
tries to find his Aunt Cat but stops in his tracks when he hears shouting.
“How could you even suggest such a thing?!”
Sneaking a glance into the kitchen, he sees Aunt Cat preparing the vegetables
while nestling on the verge of a screaming match with his uncle.
Uncle Ned is sighing, looking as if he aged a decade in the last couple of
hours. “They’re both adults. They can make their own decisions-“
“And they’ll make the wrong one! Or at least, Robb will. Jon knows the
consequences of bad decisions, he was raised, and I use that term liberally, by
your sister after all. Robb is a boy. He doesn’t understand these things. You
know how he is when he puts his mind to something.”
“I know that neither you nor I can stop him when he does,” Ned pushes, and his
eyes narrow at the jab at Lyanna. “And I appreciate it if you stop talking
about Jon’s mother like that while he’s staying here.”
Catelyn huffs, and if Jon didn’t hear just as many horrible things about Aunt
Cat from his mother, he might have been offended. Fortunately, Uncle Ned is
there to feel it for him.
“That’s my sister, Cat,” Ned says in a warning tone. “And Jon’s mother.”
Catelyn snarls, and settles on chopping the vegetables in a heat of rage. Jon
became a bit worried she might cut herself. “Yes, and she does such a wonderful
job at being both, doesn’t she?” Catelyn bites back sarcastically.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Ned asks, both angry and confused by the
sudden declaration. Catelyn ignores him and continues chopping her onions. Ned
forcibly takes it from her hands and tosses it to the side. He drags her
attention to him and glares. “What is that supposed to mean?” he repeats.
Catelyn, in an amazing feat of strength, looks Ned straight in the eye and
speaks. “I mean, maybe if Lyanna stopped thinking about herself for a change,
and thought about Jon’s well being, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Jon waits for Ned to blow up, but instead, he looks sad, almost resilient. “I
thought we weren’t going to talk about this. Especially not with Jon in the
house.” As if on cue, Ned looks around to see if there were any eavesdroppers.
Jon hastily hides himself further behind the wall, even if his uncle couldn’t
see him either way. When Ned turns back to Catelyn, Jon returns to his previous
position.
“Why not? It’s too late to do anything now.”
“I don’t want Jon to-“
“To what?” Catelyn questions, now exasperated rather than upset. “Know that all
of this could have been avoided if Lyanna had let us adopt him like we
originally planned?”
Jon freezes. What is Aunt Cat talking about? He leans in closer to hear more.
“Cat, be reasonable. We were asking her to give up her child.”
“No,” Catelyn disagrees. “We were asking her to think about her child. She was
sixteen years old with no plans and no one to help her but her family. And we
did. Jon should have been raised with Robb as brothers. We already had
everything prepared. I bought the crib, the clothes, I even picked out a name…”
Catelyn trails off, stopping herself before she could cry.
Jon closes his eyes, taking in the words deeply. All of a sudden, Jon is
reminded of how little he knew of his life. On the other side, Catelyn begins
to compose herself. Ned makes a move to hug her but she shakes him off. She
doesn’t want to cry over spilled milk, especially a carton from twenty years
ago. She returns to her vegetables. “So what are we going to do about Robb and
Jon? Ignore it until it goes away?” Because it won’t, she thinks to herself.
Feelings just don’t ‘go away.’
“I’ll talk to Robb,” Ned offers, knowing that his original plan to ‘be and let’
is faulty at best. “But I’m sure they’ll settle down once they both realize
that they are in over their heads.”
How would you know? You were Robb’s age when you married Aunt Cat, Jon accuses
in his mind. The look on Catelyn’s face said she was thinking the same thing.
The tension between them still lingered, but eventually Ned worked up the
courage to kiss his wife, who didn’t reject him this time. She offhandedly
tells him that dinner will be ready in an hour, having been delayed by their
fight.
Uncle Ned heads outside the kitchen, which startles Jon. The curly haired boy
runs back to the stairs to make himself appear as if he were just coming down.
He pretends to bump into his uncle, who appears none the wiser.
“Hey,” Jon greets sheepishly. “I know it’s a bit late but uh…does...uh…Aunt Cat
need any help with supper?”
Ned grimaces, but he tries to look normal for Jon, not knowing that the boy
heard their fight. “You’d have to ask her, but I’m sure she’ll be grateful for
the help.” He gruffly (affectionately, Jon reminds himself) pats Jon’s shoulder
before moving out of the way.
Jon enters the kitchen with no small amount of hesitation. He knocks on the
door just to be polite. Catelyn smiles falsely at his presence
“Jon,” she addresses. She grabs a bag of spinach and a large bowl for mixing.
“Could you chop up the onions and turnips for the soup?”
“Sure,” Jon agrees, rolling up his sleeves. He grabs the ingredients without
hesitation and begins chopping. “What are you making?”
“Strawberry spinach salad, Scotch broth, and cedar planked salmon. I need you
to work on the soup. The maids are preheating the grill so I have to head over
there after I make the salad. Do you remember how to make it?” Catelyn requests
politely.
“Yeah, it’s one of Robb’s favorites.”
An awkward silence comes between them.
Jon has to use all the power in his being not to stab himself with the knife.
As if their entire conversation wasn’t awkward enough, he just had to remind
his aunt that he has been living and banging with her son for the last couple
of weeks.
Jon returns to make the soup. He never meets Aunt Cat’s eyes after that, and
proceeds to get the rest of the ingredients out of the refrigerator. Ten
minutes past without a word, and Jon has already prepared the pot and the lamb
when Catelyn speaks again.
“When you’re done with the soup, get a few of the maids to help you prepare the
dishes. They should already be done with the table by then. Oh, but don’t
bother Palla. She’s in charge of getting the blaeberry pies ready.”
Jon nods obediently. Catelyn takes off her apron. She glances at Jon for a
second, and then her gaze lingers. Jon tenses, wondering what he did wrong this
time.
“Jon, you should consider changing your shirt. It’s absolutely filthy,” Catelyn
suggests (demands, he thinks to himself). Jon looks down at his shirt, trying
to find the stains she was talking about. Before he could question her on it,
he glances up and all he can see is the tightness in her smile and the bitter
gleam in her eyes.
She leaves. After he is left alone for a few minutes, Arya stops by.
“Just wanted to check on the damage,” Arya reveals. “How was it?”
Jon releases his knife and heaves a heavy sigh. “Well, I’m not dead.”
“Of course not, you’re too adorable to die,” Arya teases, even stepping forward
to mockingly squeeze his cheeks. Jon brushes her off. “So you still staying
with us?”
Jon groans, “Sure, but I don’t know how long. You’re mom’s still upset and I
can’t look her or Robb in the eye. I think she hates me.”
Arya scoffs, “She doesn’t hate you. If she hated you, you’d know it.”
“She hates my shirt,” Jon pouts. It sounded pathetic out loud and he wishes he
could take them back.
Arya actually laughs. “No she doesn’t.”
“She called it absolutely filthy.”
“Trust me, she loves that shirt.”
Jon glares at her. “How do you know?”
“Because she bought it for Robb two months ago.”
Chapter End Notes
     After quitting one of my jobs (that I absolutely hated), I finally
     have time to write again! Yay. I'm terribly sorry for the long
     update, but I also understand that you guys don't want apologies, but
     actual chapters. So they will be coming. No promises for an update
     time because I lied last time. And the time before that. ;(
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Dinnertime amongst the Starks is always active.
Robb could spend hours cooing over his new girlfriend. Sansa never shuts up
about her ah-so-mazing social life. Arya has some sort of sick obsession
messing with her parents, Bran is there to provide a philosophical argument or
psychological analysis, and Rickon’s overactive imagination usually led to some
interesting discussions.
Thus, a quiet dinner is the first indicator that something is terribly wrong in
the Stark household.
Ned clears his throat. As the patriarch of the Stark family, the task of
revitalization befalls on him. Though never much of talker, he has observed his
family long enough and at some points, even participated in a few
conversations, to understand the gist of instigation. He can do this. He may
not have his wife's charm or his siblings' charm or any charm at all, but he
can do this. “Robb,” he addresses, “How has university been?”
“Fine,” Robb answers curtly. He passes the strawberries around. Prior to the
salad, the eldest son inhaled the soup once he realized it was made by Jon.
Robb's bitterness is evident through the sharp glares and lingering glowers he
sends his mother and father. Ned, though he will not go against his wife,--he
can only imagine how hard it would be for his nephew to handle--will equally
not protest if the boys continue their romance. To be petulant, Ned does not
understand why he's getting punished.
“How have your grades been?” Ned asks gruffly.
“Good.”
“Define ‘good’,” Ned orders. Never one for conversation, the middle child has
always had a gift for making small talk seem like an interrogation. Catelyn
rolls her eyes. She takes a dainty bite into her salmon.
“Three A’s, one B, one C.”
“That’s a bit of drop from last time,” Ned injects immediately, “Do you think
you've had too many distractions this semester?”
Robb clenches his fork in his hand. The other people at the table look at each
other. There's nervousness and amusement and horror keeping people silent. The
worst part is that Ned is not even trying to be malicious. He simply cannot not
read a mood to save his life.
“It was a hard semester. I’ll do better next time,” Robb promises. He bites
into a half-cut strawberry miserably. Some juice trickles down his lip, causing
Jon to blush. He imagines licking it off and has to will his erection away.
“Perhaps you should take a break from rugby,” Ned suggests. “Sports take up a
lot of time, especially time that could be used studying.”
Sansa groans at her father’s behavior. Catelyn chokes a bit on her salmon. The
Stark patriarch acknowledges their reaction with confusion. What did he say
wrong? He thought he was offering a reasonable suggestion.
“Rugby is not a problem. I’m not distracted. The classes are just getting
harder,” Robb clarifies. He stabs his spinach. Get to the point, he thinks. He
knows his father was attempting to deviate the situation into talking about
their relationship. He’s preparing for an attack. Robb is not falling for it,
though. He can read between the lines.
Truth be told, Ned does not want to delve into their relationship. In fact,
Ned’s primary concern is focusing on his son’s education. Other matters could
be dealt with later, the solemn man deliberates. Right now, he needs to
interpret what Robb is trying to say to him.
“I trust you to stop if it gets too much.” He knows Robb emulates him, at least
enough to take the measures he did for his education. He wants to let his son
know that he won’t be disappointed if the boy decides to take a break from
rugby next year to focus on his grades. Just because Ned was on his
university's rugby team doesn't mean Robb had to be. And his son is the
captain, no less!
To Robb, this is a clear suggestion for him to abandon Jon before the situation
got worst. “I can handle it,” Robb assures. He and Jon are meant to be. They
could handle anything his parents threw at him.
Ned nods. So Robb believes he can handle it. Good, Ned thinks. His son is so
talented.
“Hmm…” Ned ponders on his next statement. He wants to be reassuring. Robb is
surely stressed out right now. He thinks of a compliment. “You’ve always been a
good student.”
“Thank you,” Robb accepts suspiciously. He wonders if Ned is complimenting him
for sake of lessening the future blow. Focusing on his studies was a strange
move, but an efficient one. Try as he might, Robb cannot help the joy brought
on by his father’s approval.
“Engineering involves a lot of maths, right? It’s never been your best
subject.”
Oh, so his father was trying to tell him that he fell in love too often?
Relationships were never his best subject, despite his countless experiences.
Robb isn't going to fall for it. What he has with Jon isn't a simple
relationship. It is pure, unadulterated, love.
“Yes, but I’m getting better. My professors say I’ll be getting top marks in no
time.”
That is good news. Robb has always struggled with the topic (not like Arya, Ned
muses proudly) but if he’s able to say it with such confidence, it must be
going well. Robb would never lie to him--but just in case, Ned continues his
questioning.
“Science is always changing, too. The smallest thing can change a whole outlook
on life.”
So things change and people do, too. Is that what he’s trying to say? Robb
cannot believe his father is using such an underhanded method to imply that his
relationship with Jon is weaker now that he knows they’re cousins.
“I’ve always been good at science,” Robb grits out.
True, Ned thinks to himself. He’d forgotten about that.
“And you’re taking the course with management?”
This one was easy. How can Robb expect to manage his life when he could not
even manage the love of his life?
“Mechanical engineering with management.”
“That’s good for the company.” He was surprised when Robb suggested it at
first; he'd thought the boy would major in computer science or something of the
like. Yet as Robb explained several years ago, he didn't need to learn computer
science. He aspired to improve himself and the company. Ned agreed. The
decision would benefit them in the long run. Stark Industries focused mostly on
security systems and Robb’s decision to study both the bones and organs of his
company made Ned proud to be his father.
“That was the intention,” Robb retorts. He’s on edge, waiting for a derogative
comment towards himself or Jon. They’ve been skating around the issue since
they arrived at dinner.
“Do you think you’re overworking yourself?” To Ned, he meant the course load.
For Robb, his father meant Jon and him together. The boy was nothing if not
dedicated.
“No.”
With that done, Ned ventures onto a different subject. “How is your personal
life?”
There it was.
“It was good,” Robb emphasizes the past tense. “I’ve been very happy since Jon
came into my life.” He sends Jon a hopeful look.
Jon averts his eyes. Robb’s confidence falters.
Ned does not get the message. He thinks he’s found a good way to stir up a
conversation. “You’ve always been a sensitive child. Don’t you agree, Jon?”
Jon drops his fork in surprise. “What?”
“You must have noticed while…being with him,” Ned finishes strangely. It will
be hard to get around this with Rickon at the table. “His grades always took a
drop around a bad break up. Did anything happen during exams?”
Jon almost chokes. “Nothing that I was aware of.”
“Were you together at the time?"
“Uh…yeah. We were.”
“Were you being overly intimate? Or perhaps,” Ned coughs. "not intimate enough?
Were you pleased by his performance? I know he was pleased by yours."
“Dad!” Robb protests. “It was hard!”
Ned gives him a strange look. “I know it was. Keep in mind that Rickon is
here,” Ned warns cautiously, sparing a glance at the tiniest red head.
Jon turns red with embarrassment. “Uncle Ned--"
“It’s not that I’m not proud of Robb, I am. But his mother gets worried because
he really can’t do anything by himself and we considered hiring a maid, but we
want to teach him responsibility--"
“Dad!”
“But that’s the Stark in him. No cooking or cleaning. Ever. So now, we just
hope he focuses on his studies. You understand why I’m asking, right?”
“Gods, everything isfine! Do you know how hard engineering is?”
Jon struggles with his words. “He seemed fine, I…um…try my best to help out the
house so he can study.”
“Yes, you’ve been living with him,” Ned takes that in. “That’s good of you. I
know he doesn’t make it easy. With the, um, intimacy. He has a lot of demands.”
“Oh dear God,” Bran mutters shamefully, just imagining the ‘intimacy.’ “Make it
stop.”
“We try to get him to control it, but he has a big problem with that issue.”
“Issue?” Jon gulps silently.
“The sex,” Ned whispers, hoping to avoid Rickon’s ears. The youngest Stark
rolls his eyes. He’s eleven, not four. “Don’t worry, we know you’ve done it. It
can’t be avoided. It’s Robb.”
“Please,” Sansa grounds out. “Stop.”
“But I really hope whatever happens this summer does not affect his grades for
next year.”
“I’m doing fine!” Robb screams out. Ned looks at him sharply. Robb, red-faced
and ashamed, composes himself. “Everything is fine. I’m just getting used to
the new material.”
He opens his mouth to offer another suggestion but fortunately for Robb and
Jon, Catelyn cuts in. “Speaking of grades, Arya received wonderful marks this
year. Sansa’s report is also exemplary. The teachers reported that they have
high hopes for a good university.”
“I’m more concerned with Robb. He has a lot riding on his shoulders after he
graduates,” Ned justifies. “And this is a very serious situation,” Ned adds on,
hoping that his wife sees the danger in letting Robb continue depressed. He
wonders if his family understands how important it was for Ned to get this
point across. Robb needs his support. He is worried, damn it.
Robb stifles the urge to stab himself with the fork. Jon stops himself from
interfering. This is the last place he wants to bring attention to himself.
“Harsh, dad,” Arya dryly comments. Neither of the girls is that insulted, but
Arya needs to stop this heavy interrogation. At this point, she might have been
the only one willing to deal with her father’s social awkwardness.
Ned interpret her words to mean she was offended. “I meant that Robb is going
to inherit the company one day, he should be more focused,” Ned rectifies
quickly. “I’m very proud of the two of you.”
Arya shrugs and takes a bite of her own meal. “Hmm…is that why you miss my last
performance?” She puts on a hurt face.
Everyone but Jon looks at each other, guilt-stricken. Jon knows her well enough
to know that Arya doesn’t give two shits who comes to her performance as long
as those watching knew she was the best. Out of all the highly irregular and
interesting people in the world, he can honestly say that he’s never met anyone
tougher than Arya. This is the girl who danced on a broken leg, in front Tywin
Lannister, on the same day her fellow dancers desecrated her costume with the
word ‘whore.’ This is the girl who did a two hour show after getting her feet
mutilated with glass. Arya is a warrior not a princess.
"I do have some news to announce," Arya reveals. “Mind you, it’s not as
interesting as incestuous cousins,” Arya continues, enjoying the power trip of
her older brother’s discomfort, “but I think it has some value.”
Jon stares at his cousin as if she grew another head. Was Arya seriously
considering telling her parents now, of all times? “Arya, maybe you should wait
for a better moment-“
“--My dance troupe is performing in London.”
Jon bites his tongue. He can taste the blood.
“Well, not all of my dance troupe. I’ll be the lead, either way,” Arya
supplements casually. “Syrio says it’s a great opportunity for all of us and we
start training in two weeks.” She throws a wink at Jon. “Who knows? Maybe a lot
of important people will be there.”
The table floods with excitement. The two boys are momentarily forgotten as the
attention focuses on Arya. And this is why Arya is now his favorite cousin.
“That’s fantastic, Arya!” Sansa is the first to praise. Inwardly, Sansa’s
insides are fluttering in delight and envy. Oh, how she adores London! Her
sister must be absolutely ecstatic.
Catelyn smiles warmly. While it still took her some time to get used to the
idea of Arya as a professional dancer, she tried her best to be supportive.
There are worst alternatives, after all. “Oh, I’m so happy for you! Is there
anything you need us to do?”
“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Ned asks seriously.
Arya laughs lightly. “It was just so exciting, I didn’t want to damper the
mood,” she says in airy, dry tone. “I just need parental permission. There were
some legal complications last time that Syrio does not want to repeat.”
“What last time?” Cat and Ned repeat in unison.
Arya ignores her parents. “You guys are all invited, of course, but that’s a
formality. Only Jon’s welcomed, unless he gets back with Robb, and then no. No
monogamous, happy couples allowed. I don’t think they can handle it.”
“What/why can’t we handle it?” Catelyn and Ned ask together. In the background,
Robb groans out that “they haven’t broken up!” Everyone ignores him.
“The play is explicit.”
She could already see her parents sweat. “The performance is about a passionate
love affair between a young girl and this foreign stranger,” Arya begins. “He
supposed to be her teacher, both…intimately,” she throws a mischievous look at
her father, “...and in the metaphoric sense. Her accumulation in skill is
supposed to reflect in her dancing.”
Her family remains silent.
“That sounds…interesting,” Catelyn finally musters out.
“It gets better.”
Jon lets out his first laugh of the evening. It is horribly out of place, but
it lightens the mood considerably for him.
Arya continues, lost in her storytelling. “Overtime, she gets bored with this
man. He’s not fulfilling her desires so she begins to look for other partners.
She accrues more talent as she begins dancing with other people. There’s even
this wonderful solo scene. It’s supposed to get to the point where she
eventually surpasses the teacher, and they have this amazing, epic dance
sequence in the end where they just dance until they both die. Le petite mort.
Death by a little death.”
The image was not welcomed for anybody.
“Oh,” Catelyn lets out breathlessly. “Aren’t you a bit young to be doing
something like that?”
“I believe my skill as a dancer surpasses such limitations,” Arya states
proudly. Besides, Arya muses, I have more than enough experience in both
fields.
“And this was performed…last week?”
“Yeah, but we did the PG version that Syrio had to edit because the hall
wouldn’t let us perform otherwise,” Arya recounts bitterly. She brightens up.
“This time, however, our audience is more age appropriate. And,” Arya
practically beams at this news. “One of the Faceless Men saw the performance
and heard about the original. He asked Syrio if he could adapt the performance
with his select performers and him in the role of the foreigner. Those who get
selected are going to be allowed to audition for the troupe at the end of the
summer.”
Arya does not let it slip that she’s already been chosen and the performance
was just a formality to see if all their candidates could actually dance
alongside the Faceless Men. She looks at Jon and motions that she’ll explain
later.
A long time ago, Ned and Catelyn would have had a thousand questions and a
thousand more concerns. They may have even attempted to prevent such a
performance from going on. After the events last year, the Stark leaders have
decided that Arya was better left dancing to beat of her own drum. Arya loves
them both dearly, but regardless of their permission or approval, Arya does
what she wants.
“Be safe,” Catelyn offers, almost in defeat. Ned nods in agreement. “It’ll be a
good experience for you.”
Arya smiles, sending Jon a look of triumph. He tips his glass to her.
“So…” Catelyn starts as she looks around the table. “What is everybody else
doing this summer?”
No one answers at first. After a long pause, the sight of her father caused
Sansa to speak. She smiles demurely, “I’ll be spending time with friends.”
“Kidnapping my princess,” Rickon answers offhandedly.
“Nothing,” Bran replies. He stabs angrily into his piece of salmon. Normally,
this is the time Bran went rode horses or camped in the woods with his friends.
A few nights ago, the park he used for such recreations closed down because of
a mudslide and his specialized saddle was broken. It would take a few weeks to
get a new one custom made. With his wheelchair, his options were severely
limited.
It did not help that Bran’s friends had been slowly decreasing since his
accident and ever since the events of last year…well, things did not look so
well for Bran this summer, or the summer after that. The dinner table once
again turns sour.
Catelyn smiles in spite of the circumstances. She’ll be damned if her son
spends his entire summer at home while he was here. “We’ll find you something
to do. Perhaps you can volunteer at the reserves. That’s what you’ wanted to do
last summer, right?”
The whole table stares at her skeptically. “I thought you said the reserves are
too dangerous,” Bran questions suspiciously. The reserves were something of a
pet project of the Starks. The old family has donated billions of dollars over
the years to protecting endangered species and promoting indigenous species.
“That’s why I wasn’t allowed last year.”
“Things change,” Catelyn lies. The idea of her son volunteering amongst those
wild animals still scares her half to death. It is, however, the lesser evil.
“You are older now, and we have Osha. I think you’ve proven yourself, right
Ned?”
Ned recognizes the cue. Unlike his wife, Ned has never had a problem with Bran
helping out at the reserves. Robb started volunteering around his age and the
boy always looked up to his older brother. Plus, Bran has a gift with animals.
“It will be a good learning experience.”
Bran brightens up. Catelyn feels as if she has bit the bullet this time. With
Bran out of the house, the chances of him running into the Reed boy slimmed
down even further. The matter should have been settled. She forgot about Arya.
“It’s such a shame that Bran will be busy. I heard we will be having some
interesting guests this summer,” Arya remarks. She sucks on her strawberry
languidly.
Catelyn could kill the girl.
“Arya,” Catelyn hisses. “We can talk about that later.”
Arya blinks her eyes innocently. “But I thought it’d be important to know.
Bran--"
“Arya--!” Catelyn snaps.
“--Uncle Robert will be coming this summer,” Arya clarifies. Catelyn chokes on
her own words. Arya is smirking much to the red-haired woman's chagrin. Arya,
in response, sends her distressed mother a playful look. “Can you imagine all
the funny, drunken shenanigans you’ll be missing? I swear, if he starts
streaking, I’m taking pictures.”
Her mother shakes her head and palms her face with her hand. She doesn’t know
what she did to deserve such a child, but by the Gods, she’s sorry.
Bran smiles meekly. “I think I’ll pass. Why’s he coming?”
The question never occurred to Arya, it seems. She turns to her father. “Why is
darling Uncle Robert coming? I know it's not to visit Gendry."
Ned sends a look to his wife. This is where it gets tricky.
Arya hates Joffrey Lannister. Hates him with the passion of a thousand erupting
volcanoes. Hates him to a point that if she saw him get run over by a car, she
would literally maim the person who tries to call for help. At one time in
their lives, she’s attacked him. It wasn’t a kid’s attack, either. She grabbed
her pocket knife and tried to stab him with it.
That’s how much she hated him.
No one can pinpoint where or when this intense hatred started, but no one
questioned it. Joffrey Lannister was a little shit, and one could wonder how
Sansa managed to date him for so long. She was young, though, and so naive back
then…Catelyn almost shudders at the thought. Deep inside, she wonders how far
he had to go for Sansa to realize the truth.
“Robert will be bringing his children,” Ned explains. “He asks me to house them
for the summer--"
“No.”
The response is immediate. The frightening thing about it is that Arya did not
seem angry. She had a fierce calm to her that was more terrifying than rage.
“He’s not staying here,” Arya tells them as if she’s giving Ned an explanation.
“I won’t allow it.”
This is where Ned puts his foot down. He loves his daughter dearly but he would
be lying if he said he didn’t spoil her. There are times when Arya acted as if
she was entitled to things she did not deserve. Disrespect is one of them.
“This is our house, Arya. We do not need your permission. Robert is my friend
and he’s staying here for the summer.”
Arya’s eyes narrow. “You are letting a monster stay in your house?”
“Arya, please,” Sansa pleads. She knows where this conversation is going and it
is not one she wants to share with her family. “Joffrey has gotten a lot
better-“
“You of all people should be supporting me on this.” Arya repeats. “He’s a
monster.”
Sansa looks away in shame.
Arya turns to the rest of the table. “What about you all?” Jon, who has never
failed to back her up, agrees. He’s seen Arya worked up like this before and he
knows to trust the ballerina's instincts.
“If Arya feels strongly about it, I think we should listen to her,” Jon
supplements.
Robb shrugs. “I never liked the little shit.”
Ned glares at both of them. Bran casts a watchful eye on the scene but keeps
his vote silent. Rickon remains in the dark.
“Joffrey has had a lot of problems in the past," Ned explains. Arya has a
rebuttal that is cut off. “But he’s working on them. Robert has assured me that
he will be on his best behavior.”
“Oh, and he’s the model of self-control,” Arya laughs humorlessly. “Just
because he’s paid a shrink a fucking fortune to say he’s cured doesn’t mean he
is.”
“Do not use that language in my house,” Now it was Ned’s turn to be angry. Arya
falters for a second before coming back in full force.
“Joffery's a cunt.”
“Arya!” This protest came from Sansa. “Arya, please, just let it go.”
Arya turns to her, furious. “How can you defend him after what he did to you?”
Sansa could not tolerate it anymore. She stands up, furious. “That is not any
of your business.”
Arya looks at Sansa as if she just slapped her in the face. Finally, she bites
her lip and gets out of her seat. “I’m going to my room. You can call me when
you get back some fucking sense!”
Ned is in between emotions. He has no patience for disrespect, but he does not
believe Arya is entirely unjustified in her sentiments. He does not know what
happened between Sansa and Joffrey, but he can only assume the best and imagine
the worst. He just wish he knew.
“Sansa--"
“I am not talking about it,” Sansa interrupts. “Arya is just making a big deal
about nothing.”
In the background, Jon chokes on his wine. How the hell did such a harmless
comment turn into a disaster? It made his relationship with Robb seem like the
bottom of Pandora’s Box in comparison. He will have to talk to Arya later.
Catelyn seems to be holding something in. She glances at Ned, before turning to
Sansa. “Arya is just worried about you.”
Sansa shakes her head. “She’s worried about nothing. Joffrey and I are…fine.
We’ve moved on.”
“It’s good that you’re willing to forgive Joffrey. I’m proud of you,” Ned tells
her honestly. Now is as good as time as any. “You’ve always had a wonderful
heart.”
Sansa smiles at the compliment. Yet, all her Stark instincts scream at her that
something is wrong. "Thank you."
“That’s why I think you can handle what we’re about to tell you, and hope you
can find it in your heart to forgive as well.”
Catelyn stares at the wall in defiance. Ned places a hand on hers as a sign of
comfort. Whatever Ned is about to tell her has definitely upset her mother. The
Stark CEO presses the button to call in Osha. Within a few moments, the Stark’s
nanny is coming through the doors.
“I would like you to take Bran and Rickon to the living room.”
Osha agrees with a raised brow. The look on Ned Stark face told her to make
sure they were not just sent away, but kept there. She begins hustling the
children.
“But we haven’t even gotten dessert yet!” Rickon protests.
“You can have it after I talk to Sansa.”
“How come Jon and Robb get to stay?” Bran asks, almost a bit too calmly. If
anything, he seems suspicious.
“Robb and Jon are adults, you two are children,” Catelyn borderline snaps.
“Bran, leave.”
Bran opens his mouth again but then nods. He holds onto Rickon’s hands as he
leaves the room.
He wants to eavesdrop but Osha’s face says she’s not having it tonight.
“Jojen Reed is staying here," Catelyn blurts out before Ned could settle into
it. She has given Osha more than enough time to wheel the youngest boys away.
Sansa is slack-jawed and the expression ruins her pretty face. They wait for
her reaction. On the sides, Robb's eyes twitch with recognition but nothing
emotional. He must not know the details either. Jon watches with cautious
curiosity. Sansa says nothing.
“Howland Reed is a good friend of mine and he’s in a very bad situation right
now.”
Sansa’s expression is replaced with something unreadable.
“They will be located on the other side of the estate and we will limit all
forms of interaction between Bran and Jojen.”
Sansa takes a sip of her water.
“I’m not happy about it either,” Catelyn amends. “I--"
“Then you should do something.” Sansa snaps. She takes another sip of water.
There is more silence before the Stark beauty sighs in defeat. Instead of
arguing, she gets out of her seat. “I understand. Excuse me.”
Cately tries to stop her before she leaves. “Sansa--"
“I am not Arya,” Sansa says suddenly. She faces her parents. “I won’t fight
when I know things are not going to change. All I want you to know is that I
was the one who found out first,” the red head spits out viciously. “And I want
you to remember why.”
The guilt on their faces is evident. They allow Sansa to return to her room
without further protest.
The only people left are the last people who want to be facing Catelyn and Ned
Stark together. Jon and Robb have been sitting across from each other all
night, not saying a word to each other. Jon wants to ask about Joffrey or the
Reeds, but knows that it is the last thing to question about. He’ll get all the
answers from Arya. Robb wants to talk about their relationship, and he’ll do it
in a language Jon understands.
Robb takes the initiative. “Jon--" I want to make this work-!
“I got a job with Stannis Baratheon,” Jon informs his uncle and aunt before
Robb can finish his sentence. “He wants me to be his nanny again.”
“Were you his nanny before?” Catelyn asks, interested in this relatively
harmless news.
“When he just got married. I quit when I moved to Scotland but I guess he’s
been pretty overwhelmed.”
“With all those stepchildren, I bet,” Ned chuckles for the first time that
night. “You should bring Rickon along with you. He seems pretty infatuate with
their daughter. He couldn’t stop staring at her at the park." He does not
mention that Stannis almost threw a fit, believing Rickon's stare to be that of
disgust. When Rickon called her scar beautiful, Stannis almost popped a vein
for an entirely different reason.
Jon smiles fondly. “Oh, Shireen’s a real cutie. He’ll fall harder when he meets
her. She’s Bran’s age, though. I wonder if they’ll have anything in common.”
“I just want him interacting with normal children for once,” Catelyn confesses.
“His teachers are saying that he has a hard time getting along with the other
children.”
“How un-Stark-like of him,” Jon teases. “I thought you were all natural born
leaders.”
“Oh, he’s a leader, alright,” Catelyn groans in frustration and amusement. “But
according to Mrs. Dubois, he’s taken to bossing the other kids around, and of
course, they’re too terrified to disobey. He even has the older kids following
orders.”
The conversation is at its lightest all evening. Robb is the first to dissent
from this behavior. He was tired of being so utterly removed from the
conversation and from Jon's life. These are things he should be discussing with
him, his boyfriend, not Robb's parents!
“How much time do you plan on spending over there?”
Jon glares at his (ex/not-so ex/maybe even current) boyfriend. “We talked about
this on the train.”
“You said it was part time. I think you’re going back on your word. How many
hours will you be gone?”
Jon holds his ground. “We haven’t talked about it yet.”
“But I’ll bet you’ll take the full load, won’t you?” Robb insinuates viciously.
“Tell me, will you be a live-in like last time?”
Jon face clouds with outrage. “Maybe I will,” Jon retorts. “I don’t have
anything more important to stay for.”
“You have your family.”
“Oh, so we’re family now?”
“We’ve always been family.” Robb slips a hand on Jon’s thigh. “Sometimes more.”
He tightens his grip.
Jon roughly removes it. Fuck Robb. “Let’s not do this.”
“You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
“Not here, not in front of your parents," Jon hisses.
“They’re the ones who started this. We wouldn’t be having this argument if they
didn’t disapproved.”
Jon growls at his accusations. “Anyone with a decent moral compass would
disapprove.”
Robb slams the table. “You are being unreasonable.”
“No, you are,” Jon deflects. “In fact, you are so unreasonable that I can’t
have this conversation with you anymore,” He stands up from his seat. “God, I
didn’t even know you could be like this.”
Following Jon’s stride, Robb shouts out. “I guess you can mark this up on your
list of ‘why I can’t fuck my cousin!’”
“That’s not a list, it’s a reason!”
“Semantics!”
“No, it’s not Robb!”
The fighting continues the entire way. It stops when they hear two doors
slamming.
Ned and Catelyn look at their empty dining room. Making a silent agreement to
leave, the two are interrupted in their stride to bed when they heard light
footsteps from the stairs. Theon Greyjoy stares at the dining room.
“What the hell did I miss?” Theon cried frustratingly. You take one bathroom
trip, and suddenly miss the entire show!
Chapter End Notes
     I am a horrible person. I am sorry for not responding to your
     wonderful comments and basically ignoring all the amazing people who
     went out of their way to show their appreciation. I have made
     complaints about nonreviewers in the past and yet I ignore my own bad
     behavior. I want to apologize for the lack of updates and all the
     fears that this story has been abandoned. That is not true. Truth is,
     I’m just trying to get my shit together and it’s been hard. I am
     really grateful for all those who have stuck by me and the Game of
     Thrones. Thank you so much. I am going to try to update as much as I
     possibly can. For the past year, I’ve been putting off writing and
     forgetting how much I absolutely love it. So right now, I’m trying to
     remember the feeling. Thank you for being with me and I hope you’ve
     enjoyed this chapter.
     So, let me clarify some things about Edinburgh University’s grading
     scale. A (70-100), B (60-70), C (50-59), D (40-49), E (30-39), F (20-
     29), etc. This is the Scottish-American translation: A=A, B=A-, C=B+,
     B=D, D=B-, E=C, F=D/F. The pass mark is 40% and it is relatively rare
     for students to regularly achieve marks of 70% or above (in fact,
     only 10% of students receive marks this high). Most Edinburgh
     students would be happy with marks in the 60s (55% of students
     receive marks between 60-69%). I tried to make Robb’s grades as
     realistic as possible. Engineering is a fucking hard degree. One of
     the most brilliant people I know is an engineering major, and has to
     work her ass off just to get a C in some classes.
     In other words, Robb’s grades are equivalent to an American three
     A’s, one A-, and one B+. I actually think these grades are too good,
     especially for someone who does sports, too. Oh well.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Theon has been in love with Robb since he was fourteen years old.
They first met in high school, when Robb had just entered Year 7. It was not on
good terms. While Robb had established himself as an honorable, well mannered
heir of Stark Industries, Theon had made a name for himself as the unwanted
third son of Balon Greyjoy, the boss of the Iron Islands, a community of crooks
located primarily in the Isle of Wight but have their hands all over the
England as illegal traders. The Greyjoys, who had distinct ties to nobility,
were the outcasts of modern day England and looked down upon by most, even
commoners.
The former island dweller had been sent to Yorkshire to live with his uncle, an
equally despicable human being with a perchance for loose women and gambling.
For verbatim, his dad felt he was becoming too much of a pussy and couldn't
stand to look at him. Even as a child, Theon had already learned to pretend
that his dad’s words didn't hurt. Why did he care about what his old man
thought? He was a shit dad anyways, Theon told himself. And if his brothers
bullied him for being a pansy, they were just jealous. He was their mother's
favorite after all.
With those reassurances as an anchor, Theon attempted to make the best of his
situation while grumbling the entire time. He made up for his time at his
bourgeois, all boys school by making everyone as miserable as he was. He got
into fights, spent half his days higher than a kite and drunk the other half.
He partied with college kids and went skinny dipping in the lake with the older
girls. He messed around with some guys, too. He was cool. He was a bad boy. He
wanted to prove himself so desperately it hurt. Every time they called his
uncle in was another victory against his father.
When he first saw Robb, all he could see was an easy target. Total rich kid (so
was he, but he was a cool one. He wasn’t some spoiled prat like this guy
obviously was). Sheltered and well loved by his mommy and daddy. Theon stared
down his perfect attire and combed back hair; his eyes narrowed at the way the
teachers cooed at the younger’s good behavior, the way he smiled humbly when he
was praised.
Theon had to fuck him up.
He and his lackeys did the usual. Pushed him around in the hallways, slammed
his books against the floor. Sure, sometimes he pushed a little too hard and
went a bit rougher than necessary. Sometimes, there were bruises. He wanted the
kid to cry. When that didn't work, they got a bit more serious. They started
stealing his stuff, calling him names and tried bullying him to submission.
Robb never lost his composure and that pissed him off even more. In fact, more
people started speaking out against the self-proclaimed bad boy.
Theon never listened to those posers. They never cared about bullying when it
was some other kid. It was only Robb when people started giving a damn. Theon
remembered the sick satisfaction he got from seeing Robb clenched his fist in
anger, or the way his eyes darkened just the slightest or how his nostrils
flared. He was so close to a reaction, he could taste it. Still, Robb turned
the other cheek when he saw Theon. Grades were still perfect, and he even
started to join clubs.
Out of nowhere, a little serendipity struck. It was a regular school day when
Theon had decided to skip his geography class, lounging around the halls, and
overheard someone at the staircase. They were talking animatedly in whispers,
which either meant it was one of those psycho freaks with the imaginary friends
or someone was on their cell phone. The fact that they were doing it in the
staircase instead of one of the safer locations meant that they were
underclassman or new. None of the younger kids knew any of the good hiding
spots.
“It’s okay. I told my teachers I was going to the bathroom. I’ll just tell them
I got lost if they ask.”
This was going to be fun, Theon mused.
Theon lived for these situations. It was so easy to convince an innocent Year 7
or blubbering Year 8 to hand over their belongings with the threat of telling
their professors on them. Their school was painfully strict about those things.
At best, he could squeeze out a new phone and a couple pounds from some over-
privileged brat.
“You’re worth the risk. You’re all that matters to me, Jon. ”
Theon almost wept in joy when he recognized who that voice belonged to.
Little Robb was oblivious to the Ironborn male creeping up on him. Theon’s
malice started to vibrate off the walls and his figure cast a shadow over
Robb's smaller frame. Normally, the boy had a much better guard than this, but
Theon supposed his boytoy on the phone might be a distraction. The implication
annoyed Theon but the older teen shrugged it off. Whatever. Who cared if Robb
liked taking it in the ass? By the time Robb noticed the elder’s presence, it
was too late. Theon snatched the cellular device out of his hands and held it
above his head. Tantalizing him with his stolen good.
“What do we have here? Little golden boy skipping class to talk to his
boyfriend?” He mocked.
Robb growled. “Give it back, Theon.”
Ooh, so the little bitch had a bite to him. Time for the push, Theon smirked
maliciously. “You know, our school has a very strict policy on attendance, and
an even stricter one on electronic devices used outside of education. Damn,
that’s two rules broken in one. Maybe I should call the professor here?”
Robb lips trembled just the slightest but his gaze was defiant. “You’ll get in
trouble, too, Theon. You’re not supposed to be skipping class, either.”
Theon scoffed. “Like I care about that.”
At that moment, the phone started vibrating again. It’s Jon. He saw Robb’s eyes
widen at the name on the screen and the desperation in his eyes turned to
pleading. Suddenly, Theon has the fucking greatest idea.
“You know, if you love your little boyfriend so much, how bout I show him some
real fun?” Theon suggested, already filling the message box with memorized
profanities. “How about ‘hey jon, when i see u again, i cant wait to have ur
lips on my cock.’”
Robb blubbered like a fish. “No, you can’t put that!”
“Oh, right, bet you’re still a virgin. Maybe that’s too much for you. Oh look,
I already sent it.” Theon announced innocently. Robb’s face burns in anger and
indignation.
“Ooh! I bet you like to give orders, you little freak. Here, how about ‘im so
hard rite now. Send me a pic of ur cock.”
Robb watched helplessly as Theon pressed the send button.
Hours later, when the two are taken to the headmaster’s office, Robb will claim
that he wasn't sure what happened. All he knew was that Theon, devil incarnate,
was texting his Jon. Jon, who left last year to live with his mother in Peru,
Brazil, Germany, Italy and wherever his mother needed him. Jon, whose ebony
curls can still be remembered bouncing on his bed. Jon, his best friend, his
companion for life, his.
Theon was on the floor in seconds.
The fight was one of the shortest in Theon’s life and ended in the younger
boy’s complete victory. Turns out that Robb wasn't afraid of Theon and his
friends. He was fucking holding back. Robb was strong for his age, and
resilient as fuck when getting revenge. The boy wrestled the phone out of
Theon’s grasp in seconds and sat on top of his hips for the remaining time.
Whenever Theon tried to get up, Robb simply grinded on him (who the fuck taught
him that was an adequate means of self-defense?) and ordered Theon to sit
still. While he desperately tried to text Jon to clear up the misunderstanding,
Theon noticed that the boy was not. Getting. Up. Theon almost shouted on him to
stop being such a homo, only to receive a hand over his mouth.
“Stay. Hush.” Robb commanded offhandedly. He said the same things to his dogs
and they understood perfectly.
Theon, who would deny it to this day, got hard. Rock hard.
“What is going on here?”
Both of them stiffen at the familiar voice. One promising excruciating pain and
crushed dreams.
If Theon thought the day could get any worse, he was wrong. At the headmaster’s
office, they were effectively getting their asses reamed. Robb looked like he
was ready to throw up in shame. His mother had arrived and any jokes the could
have been made about the MILF in front of him were effectively dismissed upon
seeing the enraged redhead. The woman was glaring daggers at him.
He sunk further into his seat.
“Really, I expect this type of behavior from Mr. Greyjoy but you, Mr. Stark,
are better than this.”
Way to keep himself unbiased, Theon thought bitterly. Nonetheless, Headmaster
Cassel had every reason to assume the worst of him. The man continued his
tirade of disappointment before settling on their punishments. Greyjoy rolled
his eyes. What was it this time? A warning for first offenders, so Robb was
probably going to be fine while Theon was expecting chores, maybe a suspension?
God, his father was going to be so pissed…
“…expulsion seems to be the only choice you've left me.”
Theon jolted in his seat.
“What?”
Theon realized that the exclamation didn't come from him. Robb stood up
immediately, aghast at the punishment. Everyone was bewildered by the negative
response
“Headmaster Cassel, with all due respect, you cannot be serious. Expulsion is
not the right punishment for something as petty as skipping class!”
“…you do realize he attacked you, Robb?” Resorting to first name basis, Theon
noted. How close were these people? He should have known when Robb’s mom came
in, hollering Rodrick at the top of her lungs. He guessed posh people tend to
stick together.
“I attacked him, Headmaster Cassel, and it was I who decided to skip class to
call Jon-"
“Ah Jon, how is the young chap doing these days?” Cassel asked, slightly
distracted.
Robb practically beamed. It was absolutely disgusting how the simplest mention
of Robb’s boyfriend seemed to bring out an entire different person in him.
“He’s doing great! Aunt Lyanna has just gotten a job in Brazil so they will be
going there next week.”
Oh? Like a dog to a bone, Theon perked up at the word 'Aunt.' So Jon was his
cousin...Jon who Robb had been cooing over, risking his immaculate record and
sweet reputation, was a relative. That made Theon more happy than it should
have.
Headmaster Cassel nodded knowingly, annoying Theon to no end. He’s even more
confused by Robb’s abnormal behavior. If he had the headmaster as a family
friend, he would be getting into trouble even more so, knowing he could get a
free pass.
“Irregardless of the the circumstances of the fight, this is not the first time
Theon has gotten into trouble nor is it his first incident of violence. I’m
afraid we can no longer let him off with a mere suspension.”
Robb seemed torn. His honor refused to let this go. “I am afraid, Headmaster
Cassel, that I cannot let this go. Theon was the victim in this whole incident,
though not entirely innocent, but still a victim. I must implore that you find
another solution!”
Who the hell talks like that anymore? Theon wondered, even his thoughts mocked
the all too proper boy.
Headmaster Cassel looked to the future criminal and his star pupil before
heaving a sigh. For a second, Theon thought he’ll be getting off the hook.
Maybe the prat wasn’t so bad after all?
“If anything, allow him to be under my tutelage and care, Headmaster Cassel. I
shall whip him into shape!”
That little bitch.
Both the Stark matriarch and Headmaster Cassel were taken back at the
suggestion. Theon was horrified. Then, a wicked smile appeared the aging
educators’ face. The outcast knew he was in deep shit now. A thousand ideas
must be running through the old man’s face to get him that happy. He loved
causing Theon misery.
“I see…” Cassel noted thoughtfully. Robb was glowing with hope. “Well, normally
I like to avoid allowing the victims to give punishments to the offenders…”
Theon sighed in relief.
“But given your exemplary school record, I cannot see why not. I trust you will
be a good influence on Greyjoy, Robb! He will placed under your disciplinary
care until the next break.”
“What?!” Mrs. Stark and Theon exclaimed at the same time.
“My son does not have the leisure to discipline delinquents, Rodrick!” Mrs.
Stark announced. Her stink eye was particularly venomous. "Especially to an
older boy whose...influence could harm my son."
“If it is what Robb wants, Catelyn, I cannot see a reason to deny him. Besides,
Robb has shown great maturity outside of this incident and has proven to be
able to take care of himself.”
Theon blushed in embarrassment. He does not need to be reminded that he got
beaten up by a kid.
“Mother, Headmaster Cassel is right. I was the one who got into trouble and I
cannot let another student throw his life away for my mistake. I will take this
as a punishment as well as an opportunity to better myself and a fellow
student.” Robb declared courageously.
Fucking hell, Theon knew from the look in his eye and the sincerity in his
voice that he absolutely meant it.
Robb got out of his seat and faced Theon. Tilting his face up in what could be
perceived as intimate, Robb told him the truth. “I will definitely not go easy
on you, Theon Greyjoy.”
Theon popped his second boner of the day.
Years passed, and the two developed a strange and unorthodox friendship. Robb,
true to his word, whipped Theon up to shape, badly. He had forced the older boy
to attend all of his classes, do all his assignments, and forced a study regime
for his exams. He was given Theon’s entire schedule, and seeing all his free
time, actually forced him to join a club. Robb had chosen Home Economics.
It was a surprisingly perfect fit.
To top of all off, Theon was forbidden from seeing his friends. According to
Robb, they were a bad influence. He couldn't stop Theon from smoking, and
overtime (and to some sick satisfaction of Theon), got Robb into the habit of
taking a fag or two after school. Robb, whose calls to Jon were lessening by
every week (no reception, letters took forever, and all the other problems of a
long-distance relationship), sought Theon out for companionship. Before either
of the two knew it, Robb had managed to convince Theon into applying for
university, with Robb promising to trail behind him.
Since then, Robb has called Theon his best mate and Theon agreed. Of course,
whenever he called him a friend, it was halfhearted at least. Robb wasn't his
friend.
He was Theon’s boyfriend.
He just didn’t know it yet.
When Robb started dating, it was like a slap in the face. Why was Robb looking
at other girls when the love of his life was right there in front of him? Theon
decided that until Robb recognized his sexuality and his love for him, everyone
had to go-pronto. Setting a foolproof plan, Theon launched a crusade against
Robb’s girlfriends.
Theon has always been a lot smarter than other people gave him credit for-
including Robb (of course, Theon liked to keep it that way). He wasn’t proud of
his skills of manipulation (except he totally was), but he knew how to get
people to trust him when they shouldn't. Robb dated a variety of girls, but the
two he happened to attract were easily placed into the only two categories that
matter: the ones who wanted to get married and the ones who didn’t.
Theon worked accordingly to this rule.
For both types of girls, Theon knew it was important to develop some sort of
relationship with them, not a friendship per say, but a level of communication
that would encourage them to entrust their concerns about Robb to him. He would
talk to them often about their problems and would build their trust, making
them believe he was on their side. At the beginning, he was the supportive best
friend that only wanted to make Robb happy and not the conniving shrew that
aimed to tear them apart, bit by bit. When their relationship started breaking
down, he would give a little push in the wrong direction. Watch them break into
apart until finally, said girlfriend could not take it any longer.
The ones who didn’t want to get married were easy. He played on their fears and
Robb’s overbearing nature (which Theon thought was absolutely adorable). He
reminded them of Robb’s desire to have children, how much he wanted a wife who
would stay by his side and cater to him like his mother to his father, and then
went on and on about how Robb was so adoring and kind hearted and so fucking
ecstatic to have a girlfriend that felt the same way.
It was cake.
The career girls, the ones like Daenerys and Dacey, defaulted immediately. They
had their speech down, one that Theon helped them make, with the basic “it’s
not you, it’s me. I don’t want to be where you are right now, etc. etc.” These
were the girls who left Robb like a punch in the face-a clear message that was
fast and ruthless. The other girls, the good girls raised to be kind hearted
beings that would never play with a person’s heartstrings, became overwrought
with guilt. Girls like Talisa and Meera. Robb was a good man, and none of them
could ever dream of leading Robb on like that. They broke it off immediately,
leading to several weeks of heartbreak for Robb until he found his new
girlfriend. These were the ones that remained friends.
Then, there were the ones who wanted to get married: the gold-diggers and con
artists, or the occasional ones who believed that true love didn’t wait. These
girls were the hardest. Here, Theon had to adapt and attack. For girls like
Roslin, who was essentially a nice girl, just a little traditional and
misguided, it was simply a matter of delving her attention elsewhere. She was
Robb’s ideal woman to a tee-but lacked anything of substance. All it took was
some convincing (and a very timely visit by Robb’s uncle), and Roslin started
reconsidering her options. Robb actually cried on his shoulder when the
invitations to Roslin and his uncle’s wedding came out.
It was magical.
Sometimes, things got hard. Dealing with Margaery Tyrell was liked dealing with
a hurricane. You could prepare all you want but in the end, you still had to
run for cover and recuperate your losses. It took almost two months get rid of
her, and Theon had to employ some of his greatest tactics to do so. But Theon
won when Margaery realized that Theon was not going to go anytime soon, and
Joffery Baratheon had just gotten out of rehab. Margaery was the type that
hunted the weak.
Theon still took credit for that break up.
While the girls were adamant on keeping Robb taken (sluts, Theon thought, all
of them). The relationships became shorter and shorter. It got to the point
that the very last girlfriend Robb had only lasted a week before she climbed
out of a bathroom window in her pub because her little replacement never showed
up.
Theon made sure of that.
After her, Theon had sworn that he was finally going to make Robb his-
officially. No one was going to get in his way. He was going to remind Robb
that women were nothing but trouble and after slyly placing a hand on his lap,
suggest Robb try out different vendors for pleasure. Surely, there were a lot
of fish in the sea but maybe he should try hunting with Theon. After a few
shots of whiskey, they would scramble onto his bed in a flurry of limbs, sweat
and lust.
But Theon never got the call from the bartender that night, was never asked to
pick Robb up in his melancholic state. As he waited for the phone call that
could be the catalyst to everything he’s ever wanted, he was instead greeted
with a five A.M. call from Robb stating that he’s found the one-another one.
A male one.
Everything would have gone according to plan if not for Jon fucking Snow.
Theon threw a fucking fit.
Women, Theon could take care of. Women, Theon was used to. Women were nothing
as far as Theon was concerned.
But another man? Another man who has managed to sink his claws in his Robb? And
take advantage of the fruits of his labors? Fuck no, Theon was not going to let
this go. Theon turned Robb gay. There was no way he was going to let another
man enjoy his fruits.
These irrational thoughts and obsessive schemes with no meticulous planning was
what, in the long shot, ruined Theon. Everything he learned about getting rid
of women was never used in his attack against Jon. The first thing that went
wrong was their initial meeting. With all the other girls, Theon would layer on
the charm and sweet nothings, showering compliments galore on the girl. Jon and
Theon never liked each other from the start. You always had to get the girl to
like you, Theon would tell himself as he took note of a girl’s dress and her
‘oh so cute shoes’ that were clearly last season. That’s how he got them to
trust him-to tell him their secrets and insecurities. Except, Theon couldn’t go
through with that with Jon.
His second mistake was not fixing his first mistake. After gaining the girl’s
trust, all Theon had to do was start plant the seeds of doubt in both of their
hearts. Open up the flaws in their budding relationship so that the confidant
gains more power to use it against them. Robb was shit at fixing relationships.
If Theon told Robb what his girlfriend wanted to fix (which she didn’t), Robb
would go to the extremes to do it.
Jon never revealed a thing to him.
They loathed each other to their very cores. Jon never attempted to break their
friendship up (not like some girls) but he never encouraged it, either. At the
start of their trip to Yorkshire, Jon and Robb had only been together for a
month, moving in together two weeks prior. Jon kept Theon and Robb time
separate from Robb and Jon time, making their clandestine relationship a secret
between the two of them. It was more intimate than any of Robb’s relationships
and according to Robb’s retelling, it was the closest thing Jon has ever had as
well. Theon was absolutely sickened, but no matter how hard he tried, nothing
seemed to break them apart.
Until God decided to smile upon, and all his wishes were granted with a kiss.
Theon cheerfully brings up some booze to Robb’s room, the perfect addition for
some late night comfort. The plan was a month overdue, but he supposed true
love is better late than never. He opens the room without knocking, expecting a
drowsy eyed, woe beaten young man; a scene that Theon has familiarize himself
over the years. Instead, Theon is introduced to the sight of Robb obsessively
hunched over a wall full of papers and red strings, muttering to himself about
nonsense.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Theon exclaimed.
Robb turned over his shoulders with wild, red eyes. “I’m going to win Jon
back.”
Not this again, Theon thought. Robb was supposed to be a depressed, sulking
mess, ready to rely on Theon for his sage advice on love and reconciliation. He
was not supposed to be putting on his battle armor, preparing for a war against
his family.
Theon inwardly growls. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” He asks
through gritted teeth, not able to form a full smile yet. "He's your cousin."
Robb nods, not really looking at Theon as he stares longingly at a photo of him
and Jon together, moving into their new apartment.
It should have been their apartment, Theon thought darkly.
“I know he still loves me. Jon…he’s…he’s the person I meant to be with for the
rest of my life.” Robb sighs, as if frustrated by his own words. “I know I said
this before, but I’m not going by the book here. I can’t just follow him around
like a puppy, hoping he’ll see his senses. I can’t lose him like the others.
He’s too important.”
Theon cannot hide his disgusted expression, but he manages to morph it into
reluctant acceptance. He hopes it comes off as a friend who’s resigned to help
a hopeless cause rather than a jealous admirer.
“Well, you’re an idiot,” Theon jokes, “And Jon’s a slut.” One that needed his
ass reamed and not in a good way. “But I guess have no choice but to help. You
can count on me.” Like hell.
Theon will break them up once and for all, and finally lay claim on Robb’s
perfect ass. Theon drools at the thought of sinking his teeth into that perfect
flesh. Robb can make his little plans for now, but as Theon stares at the wall,
reading the formulations and plots, he knows that this will be the last break
up he has to make happen.
Robb is his.
Chapter End Notes
     All of you who read my stories, I’d like to apologize for my poor
     behavior and would like to rectify my wrongdoings with this chapter
     and any further chapters. I hope to bring you great upcoming joy with
     the power of porn and my general wackiness mixed a tiny bit of
     realism. I’m trying my best to go back to the period of my life where
     all I could think about is writing, writing fanfiction, original
     fiction, music, etc. Thank you for following this story and reminding
     Nonetheless, this is what I'm considering a 'introduction to plot'
     chapter. Jojen/Bran will hopefully come soon, maybe the next chapter
     or the one after that. I just want everything to come together as a
     conclusive plot instead of this story vs. the other story if you get
     what I'm saying.
     Oh and Jon fell asleep in Robb's shirt that night. I was going to
     write it in but thought against it.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“I jacked off to Bran’s picture last night.” Jojen confesses.
The confession is not out of the blue, but it is not expected either. His
psychiatrist does not seem particularly shocked, nor does he appear disgusted.
If anything, the foreigner is heavily amused by the declaration. His gaze
implores Jojen to continue. At least, that’s what Jojen imagines them asking.
His pupils are diluted from his high and he can’t see through the smokiness.
He’s sure the doctor knows what he was doing before session, what he does
before all their sessions, but the man has never reprimanded him for it.
Jojen suspects the man wants him off the deep end, so desperate enough for
intimacy that he will finally do something mad. People like his sister and
father will never see it, people whose lucidity comes as naturally as breathing
can never hear the monsters underneath their beds. The man is despicable for
this, because while Jojen's whole family pushes him towards recovery, the
doctor drives him closer to the ledge. There's a tightrope of sanity that the
doctor trains him to tread, and it is exhilarating. Jojen stays high to keep
himself from going too far. The cloudiness in his head keeps him from thinking
about Bran and the things he'd do to him given the chance. The doctor knows
this, and almost respects him for it. They're playing a game, and Jojen wants
to lose.
“I’m not supposed to have it.”
“Are you talking about the picture?"
“Yeah,” Jojen agrees. “My sister took them all away from me when I got
caught…well you know... She’d kill me if she knew I got my hands on another
one, especially since we’re staying with them this summer. All month, she’s
been telling me ‘you can’t mess this up’ and ‘it’s your last chance to do
right.’ I don’t care about that really.”
“What don’t you care about? Your sister’s judgement? Or your recovery?”
“Either. Neither. All I want is Bran.”
“The boy you love,” the doctor describes for him. His voice is velveteen, like
melted dark chocolate layered on top of a cake. Jojen is suddenly jealous of
the smoothness in his consultant’s speech. He remembers Bran’s admiration of
his own tone, how he softly commented to his older sister on her schoolmate’s
beautiful voice. It's lovely, the enticing nymphet whispered to his eldest
sister. His innocence was delicious.
Sansa had laughed when she heard the praise. He remembered her teasing little
confessions, how she would transfer Bran's approval to him. Careful, she said
slyly, if my brother ever meets you, he'll probably fall in love. Oh Sansa,
poor sweet Sansa. Sansa who slapped and attacked him once she realized the
beast she welcomed into her home, who cried ugly globs of tears when she caught
him that night. 
The doctor's voice takes him away from his daydreams.
“How do you feel about this summer? Knowing you are so close to such temptation
but can never taste what is yours?”
It feels like beetles burrowing beneath his flesh. “It’s for the best.” Jojen
parrots without an ounce of conviction. He’s been practicing it for a year. His
doctor knows the truth. He can see that Jojen is Tantalus, tortured by the
sensation of Bran’s sweetness receding before he can have a taste and the touch
of Bran’s form forever above his grasp. Jojen is starving for him.
His doctor smirks, and instead of highlighting the creases in his skin, it only
made him look more distinguished. “Do you believe it is for the best?”
Jojen shrugs. Says nothing because there’s nothing to say. The answer is
obvious. The doctor pushes anyways.
“Does Bran believe it is for the best? Do you believe that a boy you’ve
worshiped from afar is without the will of forgiveness?”
Jojen leans back on the couch. “Bran doesn’t know about me.”
His doctor raises an eyebrow.
“His parents wanted to keep it quiet. They felt he was too young to understand,
and they wanted him as far away from me as possible,” Jojen scoffs at their
foolishness. “They treat him like a child.”
“Is he not one?”
No, Jojen denies venomously in his head. “He’s more than a kid. Bran…Bran’s
beautiful. Everything about him is beautiful. They belittle him. Castrate his
will until he's a glass doll they can keep on display. He's meant to be a king.
He’s going to change the world through those eyes of his and they…they can’t
see it. Not like I can. His soul is made by angels and they want to burn it to
ashes. He's not happy.”
"Can you make him happy?"
I can set him free. Jojen doesn't answer. 
“You think his parents are stifling him? Limiting the potential you know to be
there.”
Jojen contemplates saying nothing, but concedes that someone needs to hear the
truth. If Jojen can convince one person of what he knows to be fact, he can die
happy.
“When I was watching him, I could see how they treated him. How they all
treated him. Like he was some invalid, a burden. His touch should have been
blessing. I watched them sigh and worry when they should have felt honored to
be in his presence.”
“They didn’t deserve him.”
No one does. “Bran should not be contained in a cage.”
The doctor pauses. He taps his pen on his clipboard once, twice. He thinks back
on Jojen's words. “Were you setting him free the night you got caught?”
Jojen tenses, because this is a sore subject, a vile piece of his history that
he would sooner forget. “That…I couldn’t control myself. Bran was so close and
so…I should have held myself back.” Until Bran was ready.
“You have guilt for your wrongdoings,” the gentlemen claims, his Eastern accent
hiding his disappointment. He's hardly impressed by the proof of conscience.
“You do not, however, regret what you feel.”
Jojen understands that this is a trap, one he’s fallen for numerous times and
has led him from psychiatrist to psychiatrist. Nonetheless, he instinctively
acts. “I will never regret what I feel for Bran.”
"Do you believe that guilt or shame, is proof of your humanity? Do you believe
it to be necessary to being a good person?"
"I think it makes me forgivable." 
The doctor nods. He scribbles a few things in his notebook. It reminds him of
the sketchbook Bran carried around, the one he used to draw mythical birds and
sigils. Bran had so many talents, and Jojen felt remorseful for not divulging
for more information. He remembers his quiet mornings, haunting the hallways
for a glance of the beauty, lounging in the parks for a chance that Bran might
want to visit. His sister is right; he’s a fool, a mad fool.
“How did you get it?” The doctor changes the subject. He makes it a point to
deviate their discussion when Jojen is ready to drift. The man is cleverer than
any psychiatrist Jojen has ever had. He understands Jojen, and Jojen
understands him.
"The picture?"
"Yes."
“My cousin’s boyfriend goes to the same school. They’re in the literature club
together.”
“Is this the cousin that deals drugs? The gang leader who supplies you before
our sessions?”
“That’s the one,” Jojen’s lighthearted attitude turns grim. “He’s older than
me, you know? He’s older than me but he’s dating someone Bran’s age. That’s not
fair, is it? Henry-that’s the boyfriend’s name-is fourteen. I have to take
these sessions with you, not that you’re not doing a splendid job, but he gets
to fuck-“
“Language.”
“-enjoy,” Jojen corrects himself, “his fourteen year old boyfriend while I
can’t even be within two hundred feet of Bran.”
“Until June,” the doctor reminds him. “Your restraining order only lasts until
next month.”
“His family won’t let me near him.”
“They already have.”
“He’s still underage.”
“So is your cousin’s boyfriend. That does not stop them, does it? I simply
advise you not to get caught this time around,” his doctor jokes. “And perhaps
push societal limits when you try.”
Jojen bursts out into giggles. God, any other psychiatrist would be reporting
this by now. Jojen should be arrested. They both should be rotting in prison
for the schemes they come up with in this room. “My cousin told me the same
thing.”
“He encourages you to act.”
“Sometimes, he calls me. Mocks me. He gets off fucking with people’s heads. He
has Henry breathe into the mouthpiece, moaning, screaming. I can hear him
coming and I pretend it’s Bran. Only it doesn’t work. I just want Bran more."
“Do you think what he's doing is wrong?"
"He's disgusting."
"You think he's a pedophile?”
“He’s hedonist,” Jojen clarifies. “He believes that humanity needs to revert
back to its primal instincts, and seek pleasure for the sake of pleasure.
That’s why he loves corrupting children.” Good children, sons of school
administrators and sheriffs, apparently. “Meera hates him. She thinks he’s
corrupting me, and I think she’s right. He’s the worst thing for my
‘recovery.’” Worse than you, goes unsaid. “But I want to listen to him." All
the time, the words grow harder to resist. Jojen relaxes into the chair. 
“You desire the relationship he shares with his lover. It should come of no
surprise that you wish to emulate his actions in hopes of satisfaction.”
Jojen nods, “Last week, when I was picking up another stash, I saw him and
Henry together.”
“Oh?”
Jojen got hard thinking about it. “They were having sex on his couch, in front
of his entire gang. No one seemed to care that a twenty-two year old was
pounding into a teenager like a blow up doll. He didn’t stop when he saw me,
either, just pointed to the weed and told me to enjoy. That’s when he gave me
the picture.”
The doctor could see the erection straining out of his pants. Jojen retains his
calm despite his discomfort. “Would you like some next time? We can light up
together.”
The doctor shakes his head. “I must pass, Jojen. I’m afraid I’ve never
developed a taste for it. I appreciate the offer,” the doctor refuses politely.
“It is a pleasure to know you still retain your manners under the influence.”
“I aim to please.”
“Still, your behavior has put me in a difficult position," the doctor takes a
sip of his tea. His tone teasing and bordering malicious. “With your
restraining order nearing its end, I am supposed to sign off on your
rehabilitation. You’ve done quite well but I’m worried that being in such close
proximity to the object of your obsession will result negatively.”
Jojen grins, “I think you’d like that.”
The gentleman’s lips quick, cold and calculating. “I only want what’s best for
my patients,” the Lithuanian clarifies. “I will sign off on it, regardless of
my concerns. Nonetheless, I will recommend to your father that you come in once
a week to check on your progress.”
“We might not be able to afford that.” The state was paying for these sessions,
and without the looming threat of the court, they no longer needed to dirty
their hands with Jojen.
“We can work something out,” The doctor stood up. He walked over to his desk
without as much as a glance to Jojen. “I’m looking forward to hearing about
your progress with Bran. God forbid you become misguided in your attempts of
reconciliation.”
He grabs a box, neatly wrapped in black paper and red ribbon, sophisticated
with a sliver of masculinity that the man exudes naturally. “I took the liberty
to prepare a treat for this occasion. Your recovery is something to be
celebrated, and I hope your family takes as much pride in it as I have.”
Jojen takes the box. “What is it?”
“Something I caught this weekend.”
Oh, meat. Jojen never refused a gift from the doctor, not when his dishes
resembled courses out of five star restaurants and his family had trouble
putting food on the table. It was almost touching how much the doctor cared,
even if it was for his own, nefarious purposes.
“You didn’t have to wrap it up so nicely.”
“Presentation is success, Jojen. The sight of a jeweled chest overwhelms the
sounds of hissing from within. Remember that when you are with Bran.”
Jojen smiles fondly at the image of his beloved.
“Thank you, Dr. Lecter.”
Chapter End Notes
     So short chapter is short. This chapter got updated a lot faster than
     I thought it would. I was actually going to postpone it for next week
     but felt bad knowing that my other story probably won't be updated
     for a while and I will probably not be able to respond to any of the
     amazing, lovely reviews. You guys are all bosses and I hope you know
     that.
     With that being said, I hope you enjoy the long awaited Bran/Jojen
     preview~! I didn't know if people would get the hints with the new
     tag "guest appearances" and the creepy psychiatrist but for those who
     did: cookies!
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     Here’s how I imagine Arya’s dance at the beginning of this chapter
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfWm_PJdE1Q
See the end of the chapter for more notes
During a performance season, Arya only eats breakfast with her family once a
week. It’s a hassle for the others to wake up when she does, and Arya has to
get up in time for her work out or else she’ll be late for school. It also
helps that her early bird habits keep her from listening to her mother’s
concern about wellbeing. Arya eats a great deal, but before exercising, having
something in her stomach always becomes a nuisance rather than a luxury. In the
summer, she can sleep in until seven. She does warm ups for thirty minutes,
consisting of push-ups, sit-ups, and then some yoga to get her stretching.
Sometimes, to increase her cardiovascular work, she goes swimming in their pool
or bikes around the neighborhood instead.
At the end of her routine, she goes to her family’s studio, a gift from her
father for her prodigal return. Turning the stables into a studio was hardly an
effort for the affluent Starks, and it wasn’t as if they were being used since
they renovated their lands up north, but Arya always feels a twinge of guilt
when she sees it. She knows her father only built it to prevent her from
leaving again.
While her family eats their breakfast, Arya is dancing. Putting in her iPhone,
she listens to see what she’ll be doing today. If it’s a familiar tune, Arya
performs the solo assigned to it. If it’s new, then Arya tries a spontaneous
choreography. The latter never turns out particularly well. She smiles when she
hears the remix of Hansine and Maclomaire’s “Everytime” come through the
speakers.
It was the first contemporary piece that Syrio had made for her when they
talked about her career. Classical ballet was out of the question. Though
Arya’s technique was solid, it was hardly at the technical perfection needed
for the genre. Arya was an artist before a dancer. She was skilled as any
novice professional (though she had years to go), but her passion set her apart
from her peers. Contemporary ballet or dance was the best choice overall. 
Before her ‘sabbatical,’ Syrio told her that there were several companies
already interested in her. In a few years, they would be willing to extend an
audition. The Faceless Men, however, got to her first. Or rather, Jaqen H’ghar
did.
Arya messes up a pirouette thinking about him.
The man is annoyingly cryptic and infuriatingly attractive. Traits that Arya,
for the life of her, cannot resist. When he first entered the Syrio's dance
studio, whispers broke out like a hailstorm. Everyone knew who Jaqen H’ghar
was. He was one of the best dancers in the world and was coming all the way to
dance with them. When he declared he was choosing one of them as the female
lead, the tension trapped the girls in their place. They performed for him, did
their stretches in front of them, and in the end, were lined up like cattle to
be chosen. He tapped the shoulders of the five girls that made it to the final
selection. Arya was not one of the slaughter.
The night after her audition, Arya found him in his hotel. She kissed him when
he opened the door.
"I wanted to do that before you leave," she confessed. He paused, and pulled
her into a kiss.
“The man hopes the girl knows this doesn’t guarantee a part.” He told her when
they parted. "I got the part," Arya said confidently.
"The girl is sure of this?"
Arya took off her coat and tossed it past him and into the hotel. "I got the
part." Arya was not well-endowed nor was she a beauty in any particular way.
Her skin was peppered with bruises and there were cuts on her feet. Jaqen found
her eye-catching, and her confidence was more luring than an aphrodisiac. "I
know I did. You can tell me if I didn't. That won't change what happens
tonight." Jaqen believed her. He confirms her theory when he lifted her up and
pushed her against the wall. There was a certain talent only dancers have in
their bedroom. They paid attention to every detail of their partner's bodies,
could kiss places no one else could reach, spots behind the ear, curves on the
waist, stretched their legs so that they could show off private places no one
else could touch. It was not only their limbs that was nubile and nimble. Jaqen
moves Arya the way he wants her to, and Arya does the same with him. When they
were finished, Jaqen watched with a heightened brow at her movements. She was
leaving to get some water. She was worn, he knew it, but she got up acting as
if he were just another partner in the bedroom or in dance. The notion made him
more upset than he liked.
"The girl possesses much talent in this area."
Arya scoffed. She took his shirt off the ground and dressed herself. “You
weren't so bad yourself.” She drank his water and shook the bottle in his face.
"Do you want any?" He thanked her and she threw him a bottle. She hopped back
in bed with him and pulled his face down to kiss him, ruthless and loveless. He
attempted to kiss her again when they finished only to be shoved onto the bed.
 “The girl is stronger than she looks,” he told her playfully, placing his
uninvited hands on her waist, caressing his fabric on her skin. The sight of
the girl in his shirt was mesmerizing and her face, so determined, so wanting,
was enough to get him hard again. He lifted himself up to kiss her belly
button.
“This girl,” Arya mocked, “would like you to shut up and make your new partner
feel welcomed.”
Jaqen smirked. He grabbed her hips and with flexibility only a dancer could
possessed, and reminded her that she was dancing for him.
Truth be told, Arya is quite fond of the foreigner. Quite fond of his body at
least. The man is a god when he dances, each move so precise, almost inhumanely
perfect. Arya looks forward to every possible lesson under his tutelage. A
position she knows is hers.
She’ll get the part, she always does.
Arya continues her training for another fifteen minutes when she senses the
presence of another. She smiles genuinely at the softness of the wheels trying
to keep still. Only her little bird of a brother would be so polite as to wait
for her to finish.
“What do you need, Bran?” Arya asks. Her tone is not at all harsh, but Bran
flinches instinctively. Bran hates asking for help. He hates being the needy
one in the family.
“Um…” Bran fiddles with his fingers. “Am I interrupting you? If you’re not done
training, I can always come back later.”
“Nope,” Arya shrugs, grabbing a swig of her hydro flask. “I just finished.” As
if he hadn’t been waiting for her to be done this entire time.
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you. You can take a bath if you want. I can wait…”
Bran offers nobly.
Oh, she wonders what this is about. Arya sighs. “Spit it out, Bran.”
Bran gulps, a guilty look approaching his face. Whatever Bran wants her to do
or answer has him shaking. It must be a pretty huge favor for him to be so
nervous. Arya hates turning down Bran’s requests, he gives so little of them.
She hopes it isn’t too bad.
“It’s just…I…” Bran avoids her eyes. “Uh…”
"Yes?" She urges. 
"It's honestly not that big of the deal...I kind of just want to...you know..."
He struggles to find the words. 
Arya rolls her eyes. 
"I mean, I could probably ask someone else..."
“Bran!” Arya snaps, more out of fatigue than frustration. If only Bran could be
a bit more assertive, they wouldn’t be having these problems.
“What if I said I wanted to date?”
Well fuck her, that’s…pretty big. Arya feels a chill run down her spine. Oh
God, her cute, adorable, fourteen year old brother is talking about dating. Her
little baby bird of a sibling, who spends his nights drawing comic book
characters without the big breasts and revealing costumes because their mother
thought it was degrading. No, he thought it was degrading. The Stark family's
little chick of a child who wakes up in the morning to watch the clouds and
play with the dogs...wants to start seeing people. Intimately. And he’s asking
her about it, knowing that Arya is the rebellious one. The one who can’t judge
him because she’s done worst.
Fuck her bad karma.
“Absolutely not.”
Bran’s face is torn between bewilderment and crestfallenness. “But you started
dating when you were my age!”
Younger, Arya grimaces. And I wasn’t exactly ‘dating’ any of them.
“Bran, it’s not about the age.” That’s a lie. It is at least sixty percent
about the age. Bran is simply too young to be dating. “I understand that you’re
a lot more mature than your peers but that’s not the point." Actually, no, that
is the point. Bran, who hardly steps out of his shell for food, cannot be
seeing people. He's a pleaser, he wants people to be happy, and he wants to
make them happy. He believes in justice and reason and not creepy teenager boys
and girls who want to take off his pants and play doctor. Arya once joked that
the best way to play a prank on him was to hide his things in a room full of
people and watch him suffer. "I can’t remember the last time you made friends.
It would be so easy for some sick pervert to take advantage of that."
Especially the kind that go after pretty boys in wheel chairs. "There are
perverts out there, Bran."
“I have friends!” Bran protests weakly. “And it’s one of my friends that wants
to set me up, too!”
“Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait, are you already seeing-“
 “There’s no one!” Bran panics. “I mean…there’s no one yet. I…”
Yet. He said yet. Needless to say, Arya is freaking out.
“Henry, one of my friends,” he emphasizes the word, more than little insulted
at Arya’s previous insinuation. “Has a boyfriend-“
“And you thought that justified you to jump on someone’s dick?” It's a bit
crude, but if Bran can't handle that kind of language, he shouldn't be dating,
Arya justifies.
“NO!” Bran shouts, aghast. “I, just, he has a boyfriend whose cousin-“
“No,” Arya repeats.
“You didn’t let me finish!”
“I didn’t have to. How old is Henry’s boyfriend exactly? And how old is Henry?”
Bran shifts his eyes nervously. Arya finds herself tapping her foot the same
way her mother does before one of them would confess to a household crime.
“Henry’s my age. He’s in my English class. He writes, I draw. We're making a
comic book together. His mother is our headmistress and his other mom works
with Uncle Benjen. She's a cop.”
Okay, good to know where she can find the smartass kid corrupting her baby
brother.
“And…?”
“His boyfriend is…well…hemightbetwentytwoyearsold.”
Arya can feel her eyes popping out of skull. Oh, she is so going to get struck
down for her hypocrisy one day but today, she’s a fucking older sister. And
she’s not having it. “So your ‘friend’ wants to set you up with his pedophilic
boyfriend’s cousin because, let me guess, he saw your school picture, the one
you took before you hit puberty, and said ‘I might want to tap that.’”
Bran is positive that’s not the reaction he received. Though, Henry did tell
him that the boy saw his picture and begged for a copy. It could be totally
innocent. Lots of older guys want to keep pictures of younger guys they might
be interested in. Henry told him so. "You're just too pretty, Bran." Henry told
him.
“They’re not the same age. He’s in the same year as Sansa," Bran defends. "And
he seems really nice. We like the same things."
The ballerina rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t make him less creepy.” God, Arya
should just start calling herself kettle. “Listen, I understand you want to
grow up. Mom does keep us on a tighter leash than the dogs.” Arya grabs a towel
and wipes off the sweat building up on her body. She’s working herself up. “But
dating older guys is not the way to do it.”
Yep, she’s going to hell.
The wheelchair bound boy frowns. “It’s not just that I want to be
independent…I…you said I needed to meet new people. Spread my horizons.”
"I said horizons, not legs," Arya retorts. Bran flushes red and it's the cutest
fucking thing Arya has ever seen. “I know what I said and I mean it. But I
meant as friends. Socialize.”
“We could be friends!” He defends.
“Please, you know I mean real friends, not ‘friends.’” Arya explains. Air
quotes included.
“Like your friends?” Bran points out bitterly, hoping to rise some guilt out of
Arya for her behavior. “You said your friends were great. Some of the most
loyal people you know.”
“Exactly like my friends,” Arya announces shamelessly. She’s not playing.
Fuck no. Not like ‘my friends.’ Arya thinks to herself. Never like my friends.
I sleep with my friends. You should not be sleeping with your friends. “Listen
Bran, I may be a hypocrite for telling you this.” May be? She’s the biggest
hypocrite in the world. There’s a special place in hell for people like her.
“But I really think you should hold off on dating. Mom only just let you work
on the reserves. If she finds out you dating behind her back, she might never
let you out of her sight.”
Bran’s face turns white as a sheet. “Please don’t tell mom.”
Message received. “Promise to wait three years and I won’t”
“Fine. Promise,” Bran sulks, looking at his feet dejectedly. He briefly tells
her that Jon is taking them out after lunch. He has a meeting with an old boss
for a job this morning. When he leaves, Arya feels a wave of approval wash over
her. No wonder Sansa likes to be so bossy. It feels good to do good.
Arya is so convinced of her moral achievement that she saunters her way to the
showers without a second thought. She doesn’t see Bran opening his cell phone
and sending a message to his friend, Henry. If she did, Bran would give her a
repeat performance of what happened.
He would tell her that he is sending a message to Henry, telling him not to
give out his number to the mystery guy. He will do this all while looking at
his shoes, guiltily.
Far away, a young man stood his shabby little room, packing his belongings. He
receives a little ‘bing’ on his phone, a ‘gift’ (no such things in his cousin’s
language) from the older boy.
‘Hi! Um, this is Bran. Henry’s friend? I heard we have a lot in common so I was
wondering if you wanted to talk some time. Give me a call or a text! I’m really
looking forward to hearing from you! Have a nice day!’
Though formal for a text message, Jojen can’t stop his heart from skipping a
beat.
Bran is so fucking cute.
‘Hey Bran, it’s Jo. I’m looking forward to this as well. Let’s find time to
chat someday. I have a feeling we’re going to be really close. ;)’
Chapter End Notes
     Short chapter is short. But I figured if I waited any longer, I was
     going to hit the one year mark again and I don’t think anybody wants
     that. For some reason, this story is taking a lot longer to get to
     the actual shenanigans. I’m just all about setting the stages right
     now and I feel like I’ve been doing that for a while. I really do
     need to find a way to merge everybody’s plot lines effectively which
     is my main goal at the moment. Let’s just see what happens.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jon Snow worked for the Baratheons shortly after deciding not to continue onto
sixth form. He was sixteen, a combination of wistful and solemn, and wanted to
have meaning in his person, besides being “Lyanna’s son” or “that bastard.” His
record was not stunning, but there weren't any red flags either. He did fairly
well in school, though was hardly an honors student, volunteered at a nursing
home, and even to this day, considers joining the police academy. It was just
his luck that he ran into a wailing Steffon and an utterly too composed for a
lost ten year old, Shireen, at the grocery store. Quickly subduing their
worries with promises of ice cream, Jon went off in search of their parents. It
did not take long, as Davos practically ran to the cashiers after hearing the
supermarket's speakers announce the presence of two lost children, and Jon
recalls the way his eyes widened at a horde of children following him like
ducklings in the water. During a conversation with Davos, he hinted at needing
a babysitter or a nanny. Jon, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (and
completely one to fall for such an obvious trap), offered his services. Stannis
didn’t like him at first, but like many men, quickly took to Jon’s
talent for dealing with chaos and his ability to soothe his lot of fiery
dragons.
Years later, Stannis Baratheon is just as worn and wired as when Jon
remembered. While Stannis greets him with a curt nod and a professional
handshake, it is Davos that wraps him up in a warm hug and asks him how the
years have been treating him.
“Very good,” Jon replies. He tells them he’s been living in Scotland for a few
months now, and may be considering the police academy—again. Stannis awkwardly
looks around, wondering what the protocol for giving advice is. He’s never been
charming, Stannis that is, blunt and judgmental in a way that clearly stated he
wanted what’s best and not what’s polite. He wants Jon to have a plan. He wants
Jon to make up his mind. He wants him to follow his dreams and be happy, but he
also wants Jon to be his nanny. At the same time, he doesn’t want to upset Jon,
and now he’s in a conflict with his own mind. Is there a subtle way to tell Jon
to get his life together? Can he kindly insinuate that this free-falling
lifestyle of his has no future? Dear god, what if Jon ever finds a partner?
“Don’t mind him, Jon,” Davos remarks, lightness in his voice and twinkling
eyes. “You know how he is. Come in, we had the maids prepare some tea.”
Jon smiles, and Stannis is relieved. Jon even makes a joke about how posh Davos
has become, asking his maids to bring up a spot of tea.
“That’s their job,” Stannis points out. He coughs, realizing it may sound too
harsh. “We pay them for it.”
Jon laughs, though not in a condescending way. “Never get tired of that sense
of humor of yours, Stannis.”
Davos’s chuckles follow. The sound lightens the mood, and Stannis feels better
about himself.
“So where are the other inhabitants of this fine, posh home?”
The children were practically waiting for the cue. Shireen and her little
brothers come down in glorious tornado of tiny limbs, floral and paisley
prints, plaid decorative pants, and an air of absolute joy. “Jon!” Shireen
cried, the most confident of her siblings.
Jon wraps her up in his arms, lifts her and Steffon who is eagerly reaching out
for a hug, and squeezes them tight. “Wow, you guys have gotten so big!”
And they have. It’s been two years since he last saw them, Shireen is already
entering puberty and Steffon has grown at least half a foot. Stannis the
Second, (who was previously just Stannis), is officially entering the realms of
being an awkward teenage. He checks for Devan to no avail.
“Devan is out with some friends,” Davos supplies helpfully. “He says ‘hi.’”
“Teenagers,” Stannis mutters. He wants it to sound affectionate but was afraid
that with his demeanor and tone, it would come off as spiteful. In the end, he
keeps his voice unheard. Davos kisses him on the cheek, finding his behavior
all too adorable.
Jon feels a pang of jealously. He puts his two human carryons down to hug
Stannis the Second, who is shuffling his feet on the side.
After their greetings, Davos tells them to go upstairs and prepare for the day.
“We’re going to the mall today. Stannis returns to work at the end of the
week.” They had taken time off to prepare for the move and also to prepare
their new headquarters of Baratheon Inc, staying that the place stank of
Robert's failure. Stannis tells the children that they still need to talk
business with Jon. The children whine, of course, but Davos shoos them away
with ease. Jon supposed this was why he couldn’t deal with other parents. Davos
ruled with an iron but fair hand, much like Ned. It was…reassuring, for lack of
better words.
Jon and Stannis sip their teas. Davos rubs Stannis’s shoulders, and Jon watches
their interaction, silently and enviously. He sees the quirk of Stannis’s lips,
and the little twitch of his fingers to indicate he’s happy for the touch.
Davos eyes always seemed to be filled with love, and the desire to kiss Stannis
for being alive. Jon knows that they are happy. Knows that like Cat and Ned,
they were meant to find each other in the world. Davos was there for Stannis
after his wife’s tragic miscarriages, after two, horribly complicated divorces,
and the subsequent custody battles that followed. Likewise, Stannis was there
for Davos, through all five years of his wife’s cancer. He paid for the
hospital fees, his son's university fees, and then paid for the funeral.
There was a moment in his employment where Jon suspected an affair beforehand.
Such a theory was vehemently dismissed when a drunken Stannis came home,
carried in Davos’s arms and weeping apologies for his kiss upon Davos when he
was sleeping in his wife’s hospital room.
No, Jon thinks, no affairs. No dishonorable, torrid relations.
Stannis almost immediately goes into wages, and moves onto hours. He tells Jon
it does not need to be full time work, as the older boys will be coming in
sometime this summer. Stannis goes into detail about his freshly made contract
and is almost grinning in joy at its perfection. Meanwhile, Davos chats him up
a bit about family matters. Dale and his wife manage a branch of Baratheon
industries, specializing in shipping. Allard has recently become engaged, and
as Jon judges by Stannis’s dismal expression, he isn’t too happy about it.
"They're too young," he protests. Matthos and Maric are in Liverpool and
Birmingham respectively, earning their degrees. Stannis is incredibly proud of
their hard work, and Jon announces he’s happy for them. Stannis genuinely cared
for Davos’s children, seeing them as an extension of the man he loved. Davos
loves Shireen with all his heart. While the older children refused because of
their age, the younger ones were placed in Stannis’s will and have been legally
adopted since Jon was last under their employment.
“…so due to their eventual return, I’m afraid we can’t offer the same live-in
position as last time. You do have a place to stay, right? If not, we can
provide housing nearby—”
“I’m staying with family,” Jon clarifies.
“Oh.” Stannis pauses. “Is it close? We might have you on call, and we need to
make sure you have the means to get here as soon as possible.”
Jon squirms in his seat. He suddenly feels like he’s about to reveal a big
secret, for better or for worst. “Actually, it’s right next door."
Stannis pauses. "Next door?"
"Yes, um, I’m staying at the Stark’s.”
“Oh."
“Yes.”
 Stannis's throat feels dry. “…And how are you related to the Starks? If you
don’t mind me asking.”
“Uh, well, Eddard Stark is my uncle.”
“Oh.” Stannis looks over to his husband. He seems genuinely conflicted. Jon
wonders about that, because on more than one occasion, he’s heard Stannis
muttering profanities about Catelyn’s “batshit crazy sister”, and “Eddard
Stark’s insufferable security system” though nothing demeaning. Definitely
nothing to get worried about, at least. Perhaps, he’s surprised that Jon
actually came from such means. 
Davos coughs a bit. “Well, that’s good to hear. It means that the children get
to see you more often. Here is your copy of the contract, please look it over
and hopefully we can put you to work by the end of the week. How does that
sound?”
“That sounds great. I look forward to working for you,” Jon responds hastily.
They look over at Stannis, and after a few moments, Jon hears him mutter “…I
knew she was pregnant.”
The phrase snaps up Jon’s attention. “What?”
Stannis quickly composed himself. “Oh, sorry Jon. I was just thinking about it.
You’re…Lyanna’s son, aren’t you? Not Brandon or the other one…”
“Benjen.”
“Yes, that one.” Stannis clears his throat in embarrassment. “I apologize. But
your mother is Lyanna Stark? And if I recall, you’ve only turned twenty-one
this year?”
“Yes,” Jon confesses to both accounts, “Though we changed it to Snow. When my
mother launched her career, she didn’t want to use her name as clutch for her
success. Sorry, I should have told you.”
Stannis waves him off. “It’s none of our business. It’s just…did you know your
mother was engaged to my brother?”
Jon pauses. He has to think about it, because his mother has been engaged to a
great deal of men. “I think…she mentioned a Baratheon,” he says neutrally. She
probably did at least. Then, he finds himself pained to ask. “How far did the
engagement last?”
Stannis sounds almost gleeful when he tells him “All the way to the alter.”
Stannis coughs to hide his suppressed laughter. “See, everyone knew there was
something wrong after she threw up at her brother’s wedding—on your aunt’s
wedding dress to be precise. And well, her father actually had to drag her to
her own mess of a ceremony, but before they could say their vows, she bolted
back down the aisle and no one has ever heard from her again.”
Stannis recounts the day with a certain malicious fondness that Jon didn’t know
he possessed. He hasn’t been this happy since he helped Cersei Lannister with
her divorce and got her fifty percent of Robert’s fortune and cause him to lose
his shares as majority owner. There was something about Robert that brought out
the worst in Stannis. Davos knows this, and tightens his grip on Stannis’s
shoulders, reminding him of their guest.
Stannis composes himself. “Just want you to know that you and your mother are
always welcomed here.”
Jon nods. He looks over the contract briefly, and his cavalier manner seems to
upset Stannis, who then demands that Jon look it over that instant, with
Stannis lending him a helping hand. He gets quite close to Jon, leaning over
his shoulder, his breath tickling his ear. If Jon was interested in being a
homewrecker, he might have made a pass at his fit employer. Yet, he adores the
children (and Davos for that matter) too much to let his libido dictate his
common sense and morals.
“You know, since you don’t have too many activities plan, do you mind if I take
them on trips with my cousins? I think Shireen would just adore the reserve
that the Starks—”
“Not the youngest!” Stannis protests.
Jon raises an eyebrow. “have recently allowed Bran,” he emphasizes, “to
volunteer at. He’s the same age as Shireen and I think it’ll be nice if she has
a friend she knows when she enters school. She is new, after all.”
“Oh.” Stannis’s face heats up. “I’m sorry—”
“What’s wrong with with Rickon?” Jon interrupts, trying not to sound defensive.
Stannis, to his credit, looks uncomfortable and his eyes dart around like a
caged tiger. Davos laughs and claps Jon on the shoulder. “No need to
interrogate my poor husband, Jon. Stannis is just being a bit overprotective.
He caught the boy staring at Shireen at the park the other day.”
“Staring?”
“Rather intensely, if I do say so myself.”
“Oh.” Now it was Jon’s turn to be embarrassed. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean
anything ill by it.”
“Well he means to do something,” Stannis mumbles darkly, his eyes clouding over
with fatherly rage.
Davos sighs in utter fondness. “He’s just being silly, Jon. To be honest,” he
says this in a loud whisper, teasing Stannis with the secretive action but
enjoying the twitch he gets when he plays the game. “Rickon is quite infatuated
with little Shireen. He kept calling her beautiful and literally caught her a
bird in the park as a gift. It was quite romantic if the bird, wasn’t, you
know, struggling to get free.”
Jon can’t help feeling relief. “Rickon will be on his best behavior. I
promise.”
“I don’t want any boys around Shireen.”
On cue, a loud thump could be heard from upstairs. Stannis cries bloody murder
as Shireen yells at him not to touch her underwear. There’s another thump and a
promise of thrashing that will come if he or Stannis uses her kitty tights as
rope ever again.
“It’s a bit late for that,” Davos points out. He turns to Jon. “There shouldn’t
be a problem with them spending time together. Though, I fear Shireen might be
a bit bored being around someone so much younger than her. I’m sure you’ll find
a way for them to have an enjoyable experience.”
Jon gets up to shake both their hands. “Well, I’m taking Bran and Arya to the
mall today. If I see you, we can use it as a test run to see how the children
get along. I think it’ll be fun.”
They agree, Stannis more reluctantly. Davos goes upstairs to check on the
children, while Stannis offers to see Jon out. When they leave the manor,
Stannis corners Jon. He slams his body against the door in a heated manner,
until their faces are mere inches apart.
“Stannis, we talked about this—” Several times, actually. Stannis has mastered
the art of socially inappropriate gestures.
“Listen, I don’t want that beast around my daughter, do you understand?” He
whispers, low and throaty, like a wild animal. God, sex with him must be
amazing when he’s upset and stressed-which Stannis is, all the time. Jon begins
to feel inexplicitly jealous of Davos.
“Rickon really means no harm—”
“He’s boy, which means underneath those ginger curls are seething rage of
hormones ready to rape and pillage innocent young women—”
“He’s eleven!”
Stannis hears none of it. “And I knew your uncle—Brandon not Eddard, Eddard had
no sex appeal, but I knew Brandon and he was a terror. I also know your
cousin—the eldest one, and he had a new girl every season since he was twelve.”
Jon’s frowns at the thought of Robb. “Robb is—”
“Whores, all of them.” Stannis declares. He gingerly clutches onto Jon’s cheek,
and by using a method that could have been seen as brotherly in the middle
ages, his actions become erotic and erratic, and Jon won’t lie—he’s a bit
turned on.
“You’re a good boy, Jon. Take care of my daughter. I don’t want her or you, for
that matter, being corrupted by those sex addicts. Keep your chastity a little
longer—for me.”
A little late for that, but Jon nods, breathless and a little arouse. “Yes
sir.”
Stannis straightens himself up, not the least bit stimulated by his actions.
“We keep this conversation between us, yes?”
“Yes sir,” Jon repeats. Good lord, that sounds hot. All his naughty fantasies
of the naïve babysitter and the strong, dominating father return as Stannis
struts back to his house to his loving husband’s arms. Jon hits himself on the
wall. He is not a homewrecker. He has a boyfriend. Had a boyfriend.
Gods, he is a mess.
Jon supposes he’s lucky Davos is such a trusting partner. If Robb had seen
Stannis and Jon just now, he’s light a fuse and blow up the entire world.
Robb, protected by the secrecy and darkness of his room, shields himself from
the rest of the house. He pretended earlier today to be out with friends, when
in reality, he stayed coped in a basement level room where dozens of computer
screens aligned in a row. He temporarily programed them to keep an eye on the
Baratheon-Seaworth Manor, knowing full well from his father’s documents that
they installed Stark Industries security system days earlier. Lucky him.
Theon walks in; the only one to know about Robb’s secret hobby. They had used
this room in their childhood to plan some of the best pranks in Yorkshire
history, and to keep a healthy eye on any predators after Robb’s girlfriends.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Jon went to visit some old employers today. Stannis Baratheon. Former lawyer,
and now head of Baratheon Industries after his elder brother lost his majority
shares in a highly publicized divorce to socialite, Cersei Lannister.
Previously married to Selyse Florent for five years, then married a Melisandre,
just Melisandre, for a period of two months. Previously a follower of the Red
God. Now married for five years to Davos Seaworth. Including Stannis’s child
from his first marriage and Davos’s previous relationship, they have a total of
eight children. Theon, I think I have a problem.”
“Robb, I know you do.”
“Theon,” Robb warns. “This is serious. Stannis is a threat. Look at this.” Robb
replays the scene from this morning, the grinding and low whispers and threats.
“I think he’s trying to proposition Jon into an extramarital affair. Theon, I
cannot allow this!”
“How did you get access to their cameras?”
“I know all the override codes,” Robb admits. “But Theon, pay attention!”
“That’s super creepy.”
“Theon!”
“What?” Theon walks over to Robb, and wraps his arms around Robb’s shoulder in
what might be perceived as a comforting gesture.
Robb freezes the still on Jon and Stannis together. “Stannis is trying to get
into Jon’s pants. If I’m going to take Jon back, I need to find a way to make
him want me more.”
“And how do you suppose you’re going to do that?” Theon asks, tiredly almost.
“Theon, I need to make him jealous.”
Robb turns around. He clutches Theon in a similar manner to how Stannis was
holding Jon, and stares deep into his eyes. Theon swoons. “Theon, you are my
best friend and greatest companion. I need you to do me a favor. I need you.”
“Anything,” Theon whispers reverently.
“I need you to pretend to be in love with me.”
Chapter End Notes
     Not an excuse, but, I haven’t watched Game of Thrones in a very long
     time. Very long. Like three seasons have passed and I still haven’t
     watched it. Nonetheless, I have kept up with spoilers and will try to
     incorporate what I know of the books and what I will be watching with
     the show. So thank you to all that review. Here are my two chapters.
     And anybody who wants to translate this story, feel free to. As long
     as I get credited for it, I will be completely happy for your effort.
     Thank you!
***** Chapter 15 *****
It is almost impossible for a Targaryean to blend in with a crowd, and Lord
Rhaegar Targaryen was no exception. Despite being hidden by sunglasses, his
vibrant violet eyes sparkle through what the magazines claim to be euphoric
creativity, his platinum blonde hair, tied up and pushed back, casual wear that
harshly contrasts his bespoke suit. Rhaegar Targaryen is subject to every
passerby’s cell phone. Though there is a limited population in the room, it is
enough for Rhaegar to wince at the verbal lashing he’ll receive when he goes
home.
“We should have had someone come instead,” Aegon whines. “Our pictures will be
on every blog and tabloid in the world!” He hesitates to continue when he sees
a girl staring from the corner of his eye. Instead of berating her, he winks
when her friend or sister holds up her 6S. They flush and giggle, returning to
her parents’ side for admonishment.
“That’s quite an exaggeration. There are less than ten people in this room, not
including ourselves.” Rhaegar does not mind the imitation paparazzi. He i never
confident that their disguises would work, but it felt nice to be a little
hopeful. He prays that Elia will not be too angry at him for what he is about
to do.
Seconds after they make their presence known at the art gallery, a man in black
escorts the other guests to another room. Their dealer, a lovely Vanessa
Marianna who is on loan from the Scene Contempo Gallery in New York, arrives
with a grace Rhaegar could have mistaken for royalty.
“Lord Targaryen, it is lovely to finally meet you.” She requests for one of the
aids to bring her some champagne and sparkling water before Rhaegar could
refuse.
“It is lovely to meet you as well.”
Vanessa smiles and gets him comfortable as she directs him to another room,
deeper into the gallery. “We normally don’t give art screenings in advance.
I’ve been told to make an extreme exception with you.” Her tone is playful and
without accusation. 
“I must thank you for your consideration. It is a pity that I won’t be able to
make the actual screening, considering I…” Been banned, forbidden to go,
explicitly demanded to stay no less than two hundred feet away from—” have a
concert during that time. But when I heard that you were in possession of
Lyanna Stark’s work, I knew I had to come.”
Vanessa laughs. “Are you a fan?”
“The biggest,” Rhaegar admits. His son throws him a distasteful look. Ah, he
must have heard the rumors. It's amazing what one can find on the internet
today.
Vanessa says no more as they arrive to their destinatino. She flicks on the
light and awards him with the sight of several unclaimed and unhung treasures,
beautiful photographs in glorious frames with ivy decorations and rose sigils.
Some are covered in white cloths while others depict scenes and images of
hospitality and hearth. “You’re rather fortunate. Lyanna’s work has become
increasingly popular. Her showing next week is expected to have the entire
gallery filled.”
Rhaegar barely listened to the woman. He is too focused on a particular
photograph, three feet tall, depicting an old wooden horse on the ground of
carpeted floor with someone’s hand lifelessly touching it. The figure is not
shown except for his appendages, but the state of his limp form implies
slumber. Soft hands, Lyanna’s hands if not for their apparent masculinity. A
lover?He is jealous. No, too intimate. A child but his large hands implies he’s
much older.Suddenly, Rhaegar Targaryen begins to feel his age—the creeping of
post-forties coming to him as he tries to imagine his youth, his Lyanna with
all of her excitement and frivolousness, her long black hair running through
his fingers and her pink, swollen lips pressed against his.
I’m not your Lyanna, he remembers, a crude memory of rejection follows a sweep
of arousal. I’m not anybody’s Lyanna. I’m my own person, you rich twat.There
was little heat to her words, only pity and a sense of resignation. Go home to
your wife, Rhaegar. Be her Rhaegar.
He allows his finger to brush against the photograph one last time. “This one,”
he says, finally. “This one for sure.”
Vanessa marks it off her list without hesitation. “You’ll have to wait until
after the gallery showing. We won’t sell it but we’re required to have it
there. Miss Snow is very particular about the presentation.”
Rhaegar nods thoughtfully. Then, he pauses when he hears the title. “Miss Snow?
Not Ms. Snow or Mrs. Snow?”
Vanessa Marianna denies it immediately. “Oh no, the day that woman marries is
the day winter forgets to come.” She says this in good cheer. “Snow is her
surname. I believe she legally changed it several years ago when she
gave...more attention to her career.”
“Oh,” Rhaegar says softly. Aegon spares a nervous glance at his father. Rhaegar
walks over to another frame. He wipes away imaginary dust. “All this time, I
thought she was married.”
He looks at the new picture beneath his fingertips. This time, it is a scene
from a private plane, a schoolbook laying on a tray. There's a figure looking
outside the window, his face not shown. Young, in contrast to a picture. Next
to the figure is a champagne glass filled with juice. “What is the theme of the
showing?”
“Getting older, precious things. I’m afraid it’s still being set up.”
“Lyanna never said anything?”
“Lyanna is hardly a wordsmith.” Vanessa answers. She speaks without reproach.
In fact, she sounds fond. “She expects her pictures to speak for her and for us
to do the rest of the work. I’ve known her for a while now. She was my first
artist. It’s why they asked me to come here to do her gallery.”
Rhaegar’s eyes become intense as he stares at the picture. Vanessa is worrie
 but presents not even a sliver of fear. She has been through worse;  she has
seen hell and looked the devil in the eye, and she will not be frightened by
some eccentric lord. “While I’m sure you possess the means to buy every single
piece in the collection, I’m afraid we must limit you. I trust five shall be
enough to satisfy your urge, and of course, any unsold pictures after the
gallery will be up for sale.”
First there is silence. And then, agreement. Vanessa is relieved when she does
not have to deal with a fight.
“I’ll take this as well. May I keep looking?”
“Of course. Take your time.” Vanessa takes a step back and gives the man his
space. She makes a note to call Lyanna as a precaution.
When Rhaegar leaves the gallery, he is a small fortune down and five paintings
richer. In his mind, he has to wonder where he’ll put them all. Nowhere Elia
could see, that goes without saying. He doesn't wish to upset her in such a
vulgar way. Though, the temptation of having Lyanna’s work in his bedroom
brought all the familiar chills back down his spine. He giggles. He feels light
and boyish, like some giddy adolescent adoring his first crush. His study,
perhaps? His fingers twitch with newfound inspiration. It’s been weeks since he
composed a new song.
“Father.”
“Yes, my son?”
Aegon opens his mouth.
Rhaegar waits.
Aegon thinks for a second, and then closes his mouth. “Nothing.”
Rhaegar gives him a once over.
“You’re so much like your mother, Aegon.”
Aegon beams with pride and resumes his behavior. He stares out the window like
a dog.
Rhaegar sighs.
It wouldn’t kill their family to have a little bit of fire and hailstorm once
in a while.
Daenerys Targaryen is at her dress fitting when her phone lights up, and she
sees her brother and her nephew’s face plastered on the news. It’s a tabloid
blog, but her brother’s curious appearance has her wondering what he’s been up
to, and increasingly worried that there’s going to be a spectacle so near her
wedding.
Seconds later, another notification pops up, and Daenerys frowns.
Unhappily Ever After!
A not so perfect fairy tale for the youngest daughter of the late Lord Aerys
Targaryen and his widow Lady Rhaella Targaryen! In what claims to be the
wedding of the century, this highborn lady is set to marry the fearsome Khal
Drogo, a prince from one of the Polynesian islands—rumored to engage in acts of
ritualistic cannibalism and warfare! Oh the horror! Is there more to this
spoiled princess than what the world gets to see? The Targaryen have been known
for centuries for their “mental problems,” most recently after Viserys
Targaryen’s mental breakdown in Prague and a decade earlier, Aerys Targaryen’s
arson spree. Actually, it’ll be no surprise if this lady goes off the deep end!
But that’s another story!
What we’re really curious about is the necessity to speed up the wedding.
Daenerys has only just came back from her philanthropy trip three weeks ago and
every wedding planner, caterer, and wedding dress maker has been tripping over
their own feet trying to get into their good graces? Perhaps there’s a little
someone the Targaryens aren’t revealing about themselves! She wouldn't be the
first high born lady to pop a bastard out of wedlock. Oh well, we have to wait
and see if she can fit into her dress…
The article goes on, and there are even some accompanying pictures, some from
the day she stepped out the plan with her seven foot tall husband.
Daenerys angrily throws her phone against the wall. First of all, Khal Drogo is
a chief, not a prince. Second of all, how dare they? She is fucking Daenerys
Targaryen! How dare they insult her husband like that? And her future child!
She feels her stomach churn with something other than morning sickness and
feels incredibly similar to righteous rage. She calls her publicist and then
her business partners. She may be some spoiled lady, but she’s also a Targaryen
and a shareholder in some of the biggest companies in the world. She wants that
fucking reporter to burn.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arya likes pointe slippers and buns on the side of her head, leotards that come
in black, people who say ‘turn’ not ‘spin,’ and makeup that washes off with
water not sweat. She likes bruises because they mean hard work, and sex because
of the release. 
Bran likes charcoal over oil, cares more about shading and lighting than color,
and pays more attention to the detail of a crow’s eyes than the length of its
wingspan. He wants a haircut, because his bangs keep getting in the way of his
vision. He needs new gloves, because they are worn out, and maybe hand lotion
when he forgets his pair at home.
Rickon likes men who listen to his orders, and women who don’t. He spends far
too much time stalking the members of his community than can be considered
societally acceptable, or normal, and will probably carry a record before he
turns sixteen. He loves his family, but can't control his impulses for the life
of him.
The three of them are Starks, and could have had the whole world handed to
them. Yet, they don’t. It is silly, but Jon is proud of them, because he knows
how they could have turned out: listless and unproductive, lazy,or worse,
boring.
They venture off to the food court, and Bran mentions his desire for a haircut.
Jon teases him about wanting to impress someone special, and instead of Bran
politely declining the notion or scoffing at him like some angsty teen, he
blushes. He blushes like some fair maiden in a medieval ballad. Jon isn’t
blind, or deaf. When Arya harshly stomps out any possibility, glaring at Bran
and making threatening comments about how their ‘mother would never allow it,’
Jon keeps his mouth shut.
Instead, Jon suggests Rickon and Arya get them something to eat while he and
Bran find seats. Summer is the first to spot an empty table, pitter-pattering
her way to their desired location. Her fearsome size wards off any potential
suitors of the table, and at one point, she growls at a nearby couple trying to
sit with them. When Jon realizes that Arya is safely out of earshot, Jon points
out to Bran that he got "really nervous when Jon mentioned dating.”
Bran grimaces. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
 “Trust me, it’s nothing.” Jon gives him a look and Bran relents. “Nothing has
happened… It’s just texting. And we only just started today. Arya doesn’t like
it.”
 Jon nods. “You are fourteen.”
 “Everyone keeps saying that!" Bran hits the table, resulting a few wandering
eyes. He composes himself. "We’ve never even met. I’ve only seen a picture of
him, and my friend knows him. He’s really nice, and…” Bran sighs and longingly
strokes Summer’s fur. “We talk about the world and our dreams and life…”
 “That’s a lot for one morning.”
 “We’ve been talking all day.” Bran smiles to himself, his cheeks lighting up
prettily. He babbles on a bit about their conversation, how wise he sounds, how
light and meaningful their conversations were. Jon remembers being that young
and hopeful, feeling that affection, that infatuation. Jon understands why Arya
is upset, and maybe he doesn’t know Bran as well as she does, but he remembers
that feeling.
 “I think you should give it a shot.”
 Bran’s eyes brighten up. “Really?”
 “I think it’ll be good for you. You seem to really like him.”
 Bran nods. “I do. I love that he treats me like an adult.”
 “Well that’s enough for me.” Jon hesitates. “But I still want to see your
texts.”
 Bran clutches onto Summer’s fur. The act of apprehension alarms her, and she
prepares for a pounce. “Why?”
 Jon smiles sympathetically. “I just have to make sure he’s not a creep.”
 "He's not! I swear." 
"Well then, there's no problem in me looking at your texts."
Bran considers his options. After some hesitation, he takes his phone from
Summer’s vest pocket and hands it to Jon. “You won’t find anything anyways. He
called me as soon as I texted him.”
“Not helping your case.” Jon scrolls down to find a few messages. When he finds
nothing incriminating, he hands it back to Bran. Shortly after, Arya and Rickon
return with a plate of steaming chicken marsala, bubbling butter chicken, mild
spice for their Northern taste buds and extra naan for dipping, a Greek salad
with a side of hummus, heavily seasoned fries, and a thick, aromatic lamb and
beef gyro. There’s some water and a side plate of beef they requested for
Summer.  They bring it to the table in take-out containers for easier
traveling, and open them for a feast.
They are about to dig into their meal when Jon hears a familiar voice asking if
he could sit down.
 Stannis and Davos arrive, not a moment too soon. Jon suspects they were
waiting this entire time. All of them are carrying plates in their hands,
filled with falafels sandwiches, lightly fried halibut and golden chips, and
savory pies filled with skirt beef and potatoes, salty pork and sweet apples,
with a side orders of pickled coleslaw and potatoes.
 “Davos! Stannis! What a coincidence to find you here?”
 They put their food down to avoid spillage and begin introductions. Stannis
says, “Yes, it is truly a coincidence. We did not expect to see you here at
all.”
Jon laughs to cover up the poor acting, and introduces his cousins. “Well,
these are my cousins, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, you’ve probably met them already.
You guys, these are my employers. I’ll be working on them as a nanny starting
next week.”
“I know your father,” Stannis informs them curtly. Arya nods, remembering the
him quite easily. She’s never seen the other, older man, though.
“Yes, at the charity gala a few years ago,” Arya remembers. “It’s been a while.
Mother tells me you’ve moved here indefinitely.”
“Jon’s told us about you,” Bran points out. "You're Uncle Robert's brother, and
you're a solicitor, right?"
"He owns the company now," Shireen brags. Her father turns red with
pride. “It’s very nice to meet you. Jon’s told us a great deal about you all as
well. May we sit?” 
“Of course you can.” Jon moves out of the way so that Davos and Stannis can
take a seat to his right, and Stannis the Second moves to the free spot on his
left. He is quiet and solemn, and Jon will never seek to question whether or
not Stannis the younger has any biological similarities to his
namesakes. Shireen moves over to the Starks' side.
 “You can sit here!” Rickon offers.
 Shireen accepts the offer, and is moving towards him until Stannis voices his
disapproval.
“No.” Stannis shuts him down immediately. He orders her to sit next to Bran,
ignoring the glower directed at him. Stannis then tells Steffon to sit next to
Rickon. They are the same age—they’ll have plenty to talk about. 
Shireen, ever the picture of filial devotion, obeys, and despite the odd
circumstances, remains quite pleasant. Bran and Shireen become quite heated in
a conversation about books, how Bran enjoys authors like Neil Gaiman, and
Darren Shan, and of course, the occasional Stephen King novel, while Shireen
raves about Tolkien and Ursula Le Guin. They talk about school, and how they’ll
be classmates after this summer, along with Stannis the Second, who’s more
into biology than fantasy. 
"I'm going to be a doctor and cut people up," he announces. He returns his
attention to an anatomy app, where he scores perfectly on each quiz.
 Eventually, Shireen and Bran's in-depth conversation becomes intense,
more animated, and Rickon decides they are too close, speaking a language he
does not understand, nor cares to. He pretends to drop his plastic knife and
stabs his brother’s upper thigh—where he knows it stills hurts.
“Ow!”
They turn to Bran, who inspects his thigh for a bruise. Shireen, worried,
places her hand on his arm and asks if he’s alright.
“I’m fine,” Bran glares at his younger brother. “I think I got a bug bite. It’s
probably nothing.”
Shireen seems unconvinced. Jon changes the topic swiftly. They‘ve all finished
their food by now, and suggests getting down to business. “Is there anything
you need, Shireen? Bran wants to get art supplies and Arya will spend an hour
laundering around the mall, looking for a dress, deciding she’ll wear the same
dress as she always does, and RIckon will…he’ll do Rickon. It's quite
fantastic, actually. You'll have great fun with him.” 
Rickon beams at the analysis. His joy is almost as great as Stannis's
annoyance.
Shireen thinks about it. “Well, I do need a jacket. The weather here is a bit
chillier than I had hoped, even for the summer. I don’t mind going to the
crafts store, though. I might like to pick up some yarn.” She reminds Jon of
her multitude of craft hobbies. Growing up, Shireen was a sickly child, and her
mother rarely allowed her outdoors. It wasn’t until Davos came into their lives
that she was allowed outside. “I can pick out a jacket with Arya, or go with my
brothers, afterwards. They’ll need something as well.”
“I bet you will look beautiful in a jacket.”
Shireen turns to Rickon. Rickon, who is a Stark with all nerve and no sense,
tells her: “I bet you will look beautiful in anything.”
“Thank you, Rickon.”
 “I mean it. Anything.”
 “Thank you—”
 “I could skin the hide of a cow and coat you in its blood, and you’ll still
look beautiful. Better.”
 Shireen's smile falters. "Thank you...I guess?"
"You're so beautiful, I would massacre everyone whose ever called you ugly and
deliver their skins as a tribute. Because you're that beautiful. "
The silence is impressive for their location. Shireen, an avid reader and
lifelong literary lover, is at a lost for words. The food court appears heavy
with discomfort. Arya, to her credit, does not burst out laughing. Jon saves
the day by ushering them up, especially Stannis, who is glaring daggers
at Rickon.
Stannis grabs Jon by the scruff of his neck and warns him not to let that
“demented cannibal” anywhere near his daughter. Jon almost purrs at the
placement of his neck, right where he likes it. Instead, he stands between
Rickon and Shireen, forcing Shireen to walk beside Bran. Rickon seethes in
bitterness. Jon wants to reassure him, but he takes a look at the newly minted
teens, and watches as Shireen twirls her hair. She talks about Summer, and
offers to crochet a new vest for him when it begins to wear out. Or maybe knit
her something. She could do both.
Jon pats Rickon’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” Jon comforts him. “They’re just being
friendly.”
Rickon swats his hand away. He doesn’t buy it, and frankly, neither does Jon.
Shireen seems pretty interested in whatever Bran has to say. They get into the
art supplies store when Rickon asks to speak to Bran—alone. Jon is suspicious,
and is about to say no. Rickon, annoyed by the distrust, gives a sly, under the
radar hand signal to the other boys, and the Baratheon-Seaworth lot dash into
the store, wreaking havoc as they come. In a completely Pavilion manner, Jon
runs after them, with Davos and Stannis following.
Arya, the least likely to fall for such tricks, warns them both to ‘be good.’
She enters the store as well, mostly to observe the chaos within the glass
windows.
Rickon creeps out to his older brother. Bran knows Rickon loves him, would
never do anything to harm him. He also knows that Rickon has a skewered sense
of morality, and a child’s understanding of limits. Rickon clutches onto Bran’s
handles and wheels him slowly away from the store. “Rickon…where are you taking
me?” Summer, who is trained to attack when sensing danger, is at a lost. Rickon
makes no sudden movement as they go forward to an open space.
“I think it’s time for you get away a bit, right?” 
“Rickon, you’re scaring me.”
“What are you talking about? You’re my brother, Bran. I would never hurt you.”
“Rickon, can we go back into the craft store?”
“Look, Summer is right here and you know she’ll never let anything happen to
you, right?”
“Rickon, you’re not funny.”
“Rickon, you’re going very fast.”
“Rickon, I think you need to stop. I’ll tell mum and dad.”
 "Rickon, we are getting very far from the craft store." 
“Don’t worry, I will find you later.” Rickon promises, and he’s sincere about
it. “You just need to disappear for two minutes, five tops.” Hopefully ten or
twenty. 
The plan was for Rickon to take his older brother to the nice little bookstore
on the other side of the mall, where Bran could peacefully read in silence and
tranquility. It is a nice bookstore, too, and for the right price, they would
have given him cocoa and a piece of cheesecake. Rickon would have bought Bran’s
supplies, and he would have gladly done it, too, if not to help his brother
than to play up his kindness to Shireen. Bran would have been safe and sound,
and no one would have been none the wiser. Then, Jon, who was rightfully
concerned about his cousins, rushed outside and asked Rickon:
“Rickon, what are you doing to Bran?”
And so, Rickon panicked. It wasn’t his fault! He panicked because he knew the
only thing worse than someone finding evidence of a crime was when someone
was caught in the middle of the crime. So he pushed Bran—and really, it was
just a little push, but he’s a Stark and Starks are naturally stronger than
most (at least that’s what his uncle told him), and so he pushed Bran a little
too far.
“Damn it, Rickon!” Jon shouts. He orders Rickon to head into the crafts store.
“I will deal with you later!” Rickon is, at first, rightfully terrified. Then,
he remembers there’s a pretty little princess waiting for him, and decides to
count his blessings when they come.
Summer is making a grand fuss when she chases down Bran. The barking causes
people to move out of the way, avoiding a disastrous collision, but also
prevents the wheelchair from stopping its locomotion. Bran keeps accelerating,
and both the dog and the boy knew that without an act of god, Bran is headed
towards a wall or worse.
Fortunately for Bran, there was a young man of high breeding and good taste,
that had been out that afternoon. He is waiting for his tea at a coffee kiosk,
being made by a lovely barista, when he hears the incessant barking of a large
dog. The creature, the man notices, is truly magnificent. It’s silvery gray fur
sparkled iridescently in the light, and its yellow eyes are fierce with
protective worry. The man is an animal lover, and never fails to admire a truly
grand piece in motion. 
The man, whose leg limps with an air of profound pain, does not hesitate to
place his cane on the floor. He waits for the boy to come closer, and as the
wheelchair hits the obstacle in its path, there’s a small whiplash. The man
catches the boy, holding onto his body as he slumps into his arms. Despite the
extra weight on his foot, he takes it with stride.
The people erupt into applause, as he helps the boy into his seat. “Are you
alright?” He asks.
 Bran nods, embarrassed with a face red enough to burn. Oh, the humiliation he
feels must be great. “Bran!” They both hear. The handsome savior watches as
another young man, bearing a soft resemblance to the boy, except with the
addition of beautiful curls and pouty lips, pulls Bran into a hug. Immediately,
he is quick to check for injuries, bruises or cuts on Bran. Not wanting to be
left out, the man himself makes a comment.
“Check his hands. If he tried to use the breaks, the wheelchair may have caused
friction burn.” 
The young man is surprised, but checks. True enough, there are slight blisters
on his fingers, probably from the lacking of proper gloving. It’s far from
serious, so their savior fishes out some unscented lotion and hands it to them.
“Here, use this. It’s a miracle worker.”
Jon takes it gratefully. “Thank you, mister…?”
“Tyrell. Willas Tyrell. Please, I encourage to call me Willas.”
“I’m Jon.” Jon hands it to Bran who rubs onto his hands. It tingled. “Thanks
you, Mr. Willas.”
Willas laughs. “Just Willas.” The man refuses to take the bottle back. “I don’t
need it too much, anymore. I keep with me mostly out of habit.”
Jon tilts his head, confused, before he looks down. There it is, a rather
obvious, scarred and disgruntled injury. “Oh your leg…it’s…”
“Permanent,” Willas supplies. He smiles, completely unperturbed by the
situation. “I had to use a wheelchair for the first few weeks of
rehabilitation. I understand the struggle of brake burns.”
To his surprise, Jon’s expression shows no traces of pity. His gaze is almost
devastatingly straightforward, solemn as he looks Willas in the eye and thanks
him a second time. Finally, Jon looks away, and seems to be stopping himself
from smiling.
Jon refuses to lie to himself. Willas Tyrell is handsome. He’s attractive in
the traditional, princely way, the kind of man who sweeps women off their feet
in white horses and decadent footwear, before the days where thugs and
bodybuilders became a desired norm. Wills was the kind of man with a perfect
jawline and eyes that twinkle. “Well thank you for helping Bran out. I can’t
say it enough. God, I can’t believe I let you alone with Rickon.”
Rickon? The wheels turn in Willas’ head as he asks: “If you don’t mind me
asking, would Rickon happen to be a rather disgruntled sibling?” 
“Worse, a jealous sibling.” Jon lets out a choked, rather amused and somewhat
dark, chuckle. 
Willas is reminded of the good old days, when Garlan and Loras would hide his
things in impossible to reach places and push him down the hallways of their
manor. “Oh, I remember that, too.” He turns to Bran. “Brothers are the worse,
aren’t they? The problem with siblings is that they don’t hold back in their
pranks. They go for the jugular every single time.”
By the grin on Bran’s face, he agrees. He probably finds it amusing enough not
to be too angry at his brother. The second best thing about having brothers is
that they don't treat you like an invalid just because you can't walk as well
anymore.
 Jon smiles, and grabs onto the handles of Bran’s wheelchair. “I have to get
back to the others, though. It was nice meeting you.” And it was. The last time
Jon met such a charming man, he ended up being his cousin. Willas has an air
like Robb, as well. The whole ‘highborn son destined for great and glorious
purposes’ thing going on. Jon wonders if being with Robb made him develop a
type.
The two men share a last, longing glance at each other. A moment after rolling
Bran away, Willas calls out to them. He offers to walk beside them until they
reach their destination. “If you, of course, don’t mind me slowing you down.”
“No,” Jon disagrees. “Of course not. And you won't be slowing us down."  
Willas grabs his tea, and walks alongside them, his limp barely noticeable to
either of them. They make small talk, Jon reveals his relationship to Bran, and
various little details about their lives.  Normally, such banal conversations
would annoy Jon, but he can’t help but be charmed by Willas. When they reach
the craft store, Jon sees that all of them are already at the register. Even
Rickon seems to be in the middle of purchasing something.
“Those better be my supplies,” Bran mutters darkly. He menacingly begins to
wheel himself in the store, ready to give Rickon a great verbal lashing.
Jon tucks a stray curl behind his ear. If anyone asks, he refuses to admit he's
flirting. “I have to get going. Their parents are going to want to hear about
this.”
“Pity, I would have loved to get to know you better. Perhaps, I can rectify
that by getting your number?”
Guilt washes over Jon. “I’m sorry I have a—.” Oh. Jon pauses. Oh.He thinks
again. Does he still have a boyfriend? Jon is no stranger to being asked out,
but when he was with Robb, there was no temptation to be with another man. Now,
here is an attractive, charming young man whose interested in him, but can he—?
Oh. 
What was he to Robb?
“I have a busy summer. And I—“
Willas holds his hand up. “It’s fine if you’re not interested.” He’s about to
walk away, when Jon yells at him “that’s not it” before he could stop himself. 
Willas stumbles for the first time that day, and Jon catches him. Willas
clutches onto his shoulders, and winks. “You were saying?”
 Jon tries to release him, but Willas has a firm grip. “You are interested?”
“I’m…” What could he say? “It’s complicated.” Jon winces at the stereotypical
response. “I don’t feel right saying yes to you when I can’t commit.”
“Then don’t.”
Jon is taken back at the suggestion. Willas stabilizes himself, and fishes
Jon's phone out of Jon's pocket. It is far too personal and aggressive, but Jon
doesn't have the will to push him off, partially in fear of causing another
injury. "I know I'm taking advantage of your kindness, Jon, and the fact that
I'm handicapped. But I'm putting my number in your phone. You can delete it if
you want, but one day, hopefully sometime during the three weeks I have left
here, you’re going to call me. And we’re going to have a very, very romantic
date, where I sweep off your feet, you tell me about your complications, and
we…work around them.”
Jon understands why people say it’s all about confidence. A man can run a
company, build an army, and lead a country based on how wonderful people
believe he is. So Jon takes the cell phone. He doesn't delete the number.  He
watches Willas walk away, and regrets it immediately.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I really wish I hadn't start watching Game of Thrones again because I
     regret not putting Lyanna Mormont somewhere in this story. God damn,
     that girl is a badass.
     Anyways, um...remember how in earlier chapters I complained about not
     knowing anything about England? Well that may change soon considering
     it's extremely likely I will be getting my Masters in the UK next
     year. So yay...very exciting. I say likely and not actually, because
     I can't get a Visa until I get a CAS from the University of
     Birmingham and I can't get a CAS without a degree verification and my
     school takes 8-10 weeks to give me one of those. God damn it.
     Yet, I've been pretty dedicated to my writing, and am trying my best
     to post as many chapters as I possibly can to make up for my lack of
     commitment for the last year. Thank you very much, all of you!
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It should be universal acknowledged that anything that can go wrong will, and
anything that has gone wrong will only get worse. When that happens, one can
only blame themselves. Either for not taking the proper precautions to prevent
them or for leading themselves to the circumstances. For whatever reason,
Margaery never hesitates to to ensure the best possible circumstances of any
situation. She’s the woman who gets things done. She doesn’t complain about
them. Whereas some like to call her a manipulative bitch with a snake’s tongue,
she simply saw herself as diplomatic.
 For those reasons, no one was particularly surprised when Margaery decided to
become a solicitor. After all, she’s the girl who crushes compliment fishers
with sly notes of improvement and a carefully worded critique. If they’re
feeling fat, why wouldn’t they accept her offer to go on a jog? Is it wrong to
ask a person who’s complaining about their intelligence when was the last time
they read a book? The only question was whether she would attend Oxford, a
solid school with a livelier reputation, or Cambridge, a home of tradition and
serene landscapes.
 “It has to be Cambridge,” her grandmother decided for her. The senior Cabinet
member would listen to no further arguments towards her alma mater and its
rival, and despite her son’s blubbering (most likely due to his own rejection
Oxford—though he never tried out for Cambridge and would have been turned down
regardless), Margaery complied.
Her third year into her degree, and a summer’s vacation before her LPC,
Margaery is unpacking her bags from her vacation in Croatia. It is late
morning, perfect for a quaint little lunch on the patio, surrounded by family
who celebrated her final year of Cambridge, Triple First Honors, of course. She
hums a tune by Lily Allen, considers dyeing her hair blonde and blaming the sun
for her “natural” highlights when she returns to public life. She removes a
mint colored, vintage bikini with neon linings, a black one piece, and few
souvenirs for her ‘friends’. When she is finished, she leaves her bedroom to
enter the dining area of her family home in Norwich. Rich scents of fresh
blackberry pies and raspberry tarts, glorious strawberries with a few glasses
of daytime champagne rest on the table. Lights fill the room, pretty little
maids giggling and happy to be employed at the Tyrell manor and not, God
forbid, the Lannisters or worse, the Arryns.
Margaery takes her glass and sits down next to her grandmother. Her eldest
brother, Willas, is shown on the tablet, actually reading the newspaper despite
being miles away, unlike their father who holds one up for display. Willas
prized himself on his filial nature, and despite being in Yorkshire for work,
he refuses to miss a family breakfast. “Traditions,” he once told Margaery,
“Traditions must be kept sacred if a family is to stay together.”
On the screen, he mumbles a bit about what Margaery presumes to be animal
husbandry or perhaps agricultural advances. Instead of admitting her ignorance,
Margaery makes a vague, yet supportive comment that causes Willas to smile, all
pixels and high definition. Technology has gone such long way. Her mother sips
her tea with a spot of brandy for good health and her father whispers sweet
nothings about her beauty, ever the lovebirds. Loras is on a training camp with
his teammates, and Garlan is out in the countryside with his dainty and darling
wife, disconnected from the world. 
“He’s thoreauing his life away,” Willas jokes, relishing in how their
grandmother rolls her eyes at the pun. Margaery giggles.   
A few strawberries in and lightheaded from the far too strong champagne, Olenna
discusses what office Margaery plans to work at and what type of solicitation
she’s decided on. “Divorce, dear. That’s where all the money’s at, and men
don’t die like they used to.” “Our company could use another—” “Don’t interrupt
me, Willas. It’s rude. Now, my dear. Let’s talk about marriage. I have a
lecture for you.”
Margaery smiles genuinely, mostly amused because conversations about men with
her grandmother always started with a good story. “Now Margaery, there’s no
rush given your age, but as you advance in your career, it’ll be nice to keep a
warm body in bed. No need to be an old maid like Willas—”
“I’m waiting—” 
“For true love, yes my dear, we all heard the story,” Olenna shushes. “Here,
Margaery. Look at your brother: smart, handsome, more money than God. Yet he’s
single.” She spat out the word like curdled milk, as if his sitting there,
alone, is some sort of public offense. “Wears his loneliness like it’s badge of
honor. He can’t even blame the leg, you know. I won’t allow it. In my day, men
didn’t do much in the bedroom. They just laid there, like some impotent
starfish. Women were expected to do all the work. Women and bottoms. All you
needed in the bedroom was a pointer facing up and a pretty mouth, and you were
set.” 
Willas, to his credit, laughs. At thirty-one years old, the CEO of Tyrell
industries has gotten this speech a thousand times over, in a hundred different
variations. “—And look at that gout, I dare say it’s getting worst! That’s what
they do. Handicaps are like cysts, the infections bubbles and prospers all over
your back, and suddenly, you don’t care anymore. You live with it, and let me
tell you Margaery, rich people living alone is just not proper.”
“Worry not, I could always call up one of the nice young chaps I’ve met in
Croatia,” Margaery teases her grandmother.  
The elder woman scrunches up her noise. “Nonsense, the only good thing that
country has is cheap liquor and spectacular seafood—that’s why their residents
have so many crabs.”
Alerie lets out a snort, and Mace’s laughter is heard, always following the
lead of his lady wife when it came to appropriateness and social cues. Margaery
then thinks of another question. A more prevalent question. “Would your
interest in our love lives have anything to do with Daenerys Targaryen moving
up her wedding date?”
Oh, and wasn’t that news absolutely scandalous! Daenerys Targaryen, after the
scathing report from one of the tabloid magazines, Daenerys sequentially moved
up her wedding date from late August to mid-July, and uninvited every reporter
from the procedure. She claimed there was a “lack of venue space.” She proceeds
to invite families from around the world, turning it from the wedding of the
decade to the wedding of the century. The reporter has probably lost her job,
and is regretting her actions as they speak.
“As a matter of fact…” 
“Grandmother, really,” Willas reprimands. “Haven’t you always told us to set
trends, not follow them?”
“Not when it concerns highly publicized events where everybody is watching. Do
you know how humiliating it will be for the both of you to show up alone? Why,
even I managed to wrangle up some scoundrel for the night—”
“Mother!” Mace looks absolutely horrified. Willas chokes on his coffee before
he starts laughing.
“Grandmother, are you seeing someone?” Bless her, Margaery sounds absolutely
delighted.
Olenna waves off their excitement. “Margaery dear, let’s not waste our time
with questions. Then we’ll spend our whole day asking ‘who, what, where, when.’
All very tiresome matters for an old woman—” 
“Mother, is this true? Where in the heavens did you meet this man?” Mace sounds
aghast. “Do we know him? How old is he? He could be a criminal for all we
know!”
“Oh hush up dear. When you get to be my age, you stop looking for men with a
good heart and start searching for men with a beating one.” Olenna takes a bite
of her omelet. “The point is, Willas, you need to find someone. Nobody wants to
be seventy and alone, trust me on that.”
“I thought this was about Margaery?”
“Oh don’t be silly,” Olenna scoffs. “This is about you. You’re thirty-one years
old. With your looks and talents, people will begin to suspect there’s
something wrong with you if you’re still single. Margaery is a tenacious lady,
she’ll get married whenever she wants and not a moment too soon.” Olenna winks
at her favorite grandchild. “Of course, I do expect her to have a date before
the wedding.”
“Of course, grandmother,” Margaery agrees, pleasantly enough. “How would you
like him?”
“Young, rich, hopefully with a title but not a necessity. Stupid, preferably,”
Olenna suggests. “Marriages only work with two types of husbands: the ones who
know nothing and the ones who know everything. Margaery, you are far too clever
for the latter. Willas—”
 “Yes, grandmother?” Willas asks tiredly.
“Find someone. You’re in Yorkshire, yes?”
“It would seem so.”
 “Don’t be cheeky, Willas. Your leg can’t support the sarcasm.”
 “Yes, grandmother. I am in Yorkshire.”
 “Well, good. Yorkshire is the home of the Stark family. I hear they have a
daughter who is of age. She seems to be a profitable match. Good breeding,
pretty, a bit dull but that’s all the rage with women these days.”
“She’s 17.”
“As I said—of age.”
“I’m only nine years younger than her father.”
“Ned Stark married young. It’s not like you went to school with him!”
“What if she has a boyfriend?”
“If I haven’t heard about it, my dear, he’s obviously not worth mentioning.
What was it your brother used to say? ‘Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t
mean you can’t score.’”
 No one dares correct her. Instead, Willas shakes his head in defeat. He asks,
finally. “What if I already found someone?”
Olenna raises an eyebrow. “Have you?”
“It’s very much a possibility. And try switching pronouns, grandmother.” Willas
drinks the last of his beverage and looks Olenna straight in the eye. Even if
he is protected by miles of distance, it is still a bold move.
 Olenna does not bite. “A possibility isn’t an opportunity, Willas. Bring
whoever you like. All I ask is for you to bring a suitable, preferably
beautiful, partner to the biggest event of the decade.” She bites into a
tomato. “That way, even he’s an idiot, he’ll at least be nice to look at. A
painting may not serve a purpose but we still hang it, don’t we?” With that
being said, she motions one of the maids to take away her plate. It is time for
her daily stroll in the gardens.
 Margaery wipes a crumb from the side of her lip. “Do not fret, brother. You
know how she is about appearances.”
 “Oh, I don’t worry about our dear grandmother. She knows that in the end, I’m
the one who has to take care of her into old age. I’m quite looking forward to
wheeling her to book clubs and bingo nights. Good day, Margaery.” 
Willas turns off his screen before he hears the rush of laughter from his
family. He leans back on his chair, thinks for a bit about how being unattached
has affected his life, and starts messaging his leg. Finally, he gets up,
winces at the pain, and sits back down. He glances at his tablet and then his
phone. 
He contemplates his options; he could wait for the beautiful, curly haired boy
he met at the mall yesterday to call, or he could have another chat with his
darling sister about her trip to Croatia. He could have a private conversation
with his grandmother, and perhaps annoy her until she reveals the identity of
her suitor. His brothers are out of the question. Maybe, he could take his
grandmother’s advice, and make an appointment with the Starks. He’s always
wanted to visit their legendary reserves. He might even see a wolf. 
Chapter End Notes
     So...a lot of things to get through today.
     1. The next two chapters are going to be pure angst—and some angsty
     sex. Maybe a little laughter but it'll be less of a 'haha' situation
     and more of a 'haha oh shit there’s pain and now I’m fapping and
     laughing through tears.’
     2. The next two will be completely centered on Jon and Robb’s
     relationship. And a brief mentioned to Bran's accident.
     3. I'm want to be more receptive to my readers so if anybody has a
     request for this story, now is a good time to tell me. I’m only
     finished up to chapter 20. Want to see two people interact? Tell me.
     Want me to focus on a certain couple? I'll give it a shot.
     4. I'm going to try updating on Fridays. Nothing seems to happen on
     Fridays.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Catelyn is deciding between dresses for the wedding when her children arrive
home.There's angry thumping and threats, a bit of pleading, and a great deal
terror being promised. She sighs, and calls her assistant to tell her to bring
both tomorrow; she’ll decide after trying them on. She hangs up and braves
herself for the storm ahead. When she moves to the living room,
Catelyn is immediately bombard with angry accusations and screeching defenses.
She understands nothing, and hesitates to go further so that she may actually
understand what is going on.
Arya walks past her with a shopping bag, and makes a quick comment about
how she ‘bought a dress so no one can complain. It’s black. Like my soul. And
my feelings about going to this wedding.’ Indeed, Catelyn does not complain.
It’s the best she’s going to get from her youngest daughter. Bran goes with her
upstairs, and shields his eyes from his mother when she greets him. Already,
she can tell something is wrong.
When Jon sees her, a sullen Rickon follows. His face scrunches up in
preparation for the lashing he is about to receive and his fist curls. She
wonders what he did now, and why Jon looks so upset.
“Aunt Cat, I don’t want you to get too worked up...” 
“What did he do?” And Catelyn, at this point, is more tired than worried. She
and Ned have settled on Rickon being the troublemaker of the family, and
nothing he does can surprise her anymore. She stifles a yawn. 
Jon doesn’t say anything at first.
Catelyn raises an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out. Hurry up. How am I to punish
Rickon this time?”
Jon bites his lip. “Bran is fine,” he begins.
The hair on Cat’s back rises, and a strong, defined grimace appears on her
face. Suddenly, she is entirely awake and a fierce presence overcomes all of
them. “What. Did. Rickon. Do.”
“Bran didn’t get any serious injuries, and he’s not angry—well, not angry now.
He was upset but they’re mostly over it.”
Jon reveals the rest of the story with grave reluctance. He wonders if he can
backtrack his claim. He can see the fiery rage of his aunt and decides that
like Band-Aid, it is best to get the news over with. “Rickon pushed Bran’s
wheelchair and slid him across the mall.”
“RICKON STARK!”
“Bran is fine. He was able to use his breaks before he crashed anything. He
didn’t even get that far. I was able to catch up to him before anything bad
happened.”
“Anything bad happened? ANYTHING BAD HAPPENED? My son was thrown like a ragdoll
by his own brother and you don’t see that as something bad happening? Jon, what
is wrong with you?" 
“Aunt Cat—”
Catelyn’s entire demeanor changed into a frazzled, unhinged creature hell bent
on restitution. Rickon huddles behind Jon for protection. Jon does not know how
this is going to end, but he knows well enough to never let a child witness
their parents fighting--even if it's just one of them. He nods at Rickon to
leave while Catelyn continues her concerns.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let him out of the house. God, what was I thinking?
Jon, why weren’t you paying attention to him? You know Bran can’t be left alone
for too long. Damn it, how am I supposed to let him volunteer at the reserves
now—”
“Bran is fine,” Jon interjects, entirely for Bran’s sake at this point. “It was
a prank. It won’t happen again.”
 Catelyn isn’t listening. “Where is Bran now? He must be absolutely
traumatized!”
“Bran is not traumatized. He’s in his room, resting for the next couple of
days. He’s very excited about the reserves. Please don’t take it away from
him.”
“How can I not?” Catelyn all but screech. “After what happened today? Jon!
Think of how Bran’s feeling. He probably doesn’t even want to go there
anymore.” 
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Jon defends. “And Bran desperately wants to
work there. He’s wanted to since he was a little kid. He was begging me not to
tell you because he thought you would forbid him from doing so." Looks like he
was right. "Aunt Cat, these things happen. Brothers prank each other all the
time. Friends do that. Bran is no different.”
“Bran is different. He can’t be treated like everyone else. He can get hurt."
Jon finds himself indignant on Bran's behalf. “Everyone gets hurt, Aunt Cat!
That doesn't mean we lock them in a box or stick them in a bubble."
"So we should just let them go galavanting into the wild, where they could get
maimed or worst. Splendid idea, Jon. You are doing the Baratheons a major
service!"
"I am trying to do Bran a service!" Jon counters. 
"You can do that by actually watching over him and making sure he's okay!"
"We can’t treat him like an invalid his entire life!”
“I’m not treating him like an invalid, I’m taking care of him!” Catelyn denies.
“You don’t understand!”
“He’s my cousin. I understand he wants some freedom and you’re—” The words die
on Jon’s lips as he tries to rationally explain he’s stance. He stares deep
into his aunt’s eyes. “The way you’re going at this is…you’re stifling him,
Aunt Cat. The whole car ride home, he kept begging me not to tell you, because
he’d knew you’d react like this. He—“
“Don’t Jon.” 
Jon doesn’t listen. “He can’t reach his potential—”
“Jon I’m warning you to leave this—” 
“—if you keep sheltering like a clipped bird—”
“How dare you—”
“—he’s never going to learn how to survive. He needs space, Aunt Cat.”
The words are a trigger for everything Cat fears. She remembers the police
station, the courts, how that boy stared at her with such contempt, or worst,
disgust at her behavior. He was acting as if he knew best, as if he cared for
Bran all those days and nights, worrying whether he was going to wake up or
not, holding him as he cried about never being able to walk again, to run, to
climb, to swim, to be alive. I know him better than you think, Mrs. Stark. I
know his heart. You want to limit him, I want to set him free. He needs to hold
the skies in his arms, and lift the sun on his skin. He needs space. He needs
more than the disinfection and the training wheels. He needs the grass and the
worms, the stars and clouds. Not the trash you feed him--a cripple's bible
of self-pity and false hope. He is a hawk in the skies, not some clipped bird--
 
“It should have been you!” Catelyn shouts. She yells it to an empty house, a
declaration of frustration and anger, a fleeting moment of release for her own
soul. She did not remember that Jon is there, right in front of her, always
on her side. 
The hallway chills and silence enters the house. Time stops for Catelyn and
Jon, if only to give them an opportunity to save themselves from what will
happen next, to take back anything they’ll regret. Catelyn hears the ringing in
her ears, and the irritation builds and mounts onto her tongue like an icon on
a skyscraper. 
“Bran only got into the accident because he heard that you were visiting Robb
at the reserves and he was jealous you were always spending more time with Robb
than him. He thought that if he could go to the reserves by himself, you would
like him more. He was nine, Jon.  He wanted to be free, independent. So he left
home without permission and then he crossed the street and he wasn’t looking
and then that car—” 
Catelyn wills herself to stop. Time began again. The realization of her
confession hits her like a freight train, and before she can apologize. Jon
stops her.
“I know.”
Catelyn gasps softly. She wants to tell Jon she didn’t mean it but he
continues.
“I know what happened. I’ve known for a while now." 
“Jon, I didn’t mean to—”
Jon looks down at his feet. "It’s why…it’s why I haven’t come back in to visit.
You were all mourning, and Bran hadn't woken up. I heard you talking to Uncle
Ned about me and I remember you saying this wouldn't have happen if I...if I
wasn't here. So I thought I leave, I just...I didn't want to stay where I
wasn't wanted." 
"Jon, that was--"
"You were angry. I've never seen you that angry, not even at my mum. But
you...you were right. It was my fault. I thought that if I left, you'd get Bran
back." Jon pauses. He smiles, and it's absolutely heartbreaking for Catelyn to
see. She's never wanted to see that expression on any of her children's faces,
certainly not because she caused it. "And you did. He came back to you, and I
was gone and I thought: it's true. Everything is better when I'm gone. You'd
get your family back, and I could...I could do something with my life. You
Starks, you were always stronger together than with me." 
Catelyn tries to say something—anything to make this better.
"Maybe I should have stayed away."
"Jon, please," Catelyn begs. She wants to get a word in, anything.  
“I think Rickon—” Jon informs her, tone flat and unreadable. Catelyn wonders if
that is worse than anger. “—needs to be punished. According to how you see fit,
of course." 
“Jon, I’m sorry—“
“I’m going to go out for a bit. I think we both need to cool down.”
Jon wonders if he should wait for Aunt Catelyn to gather herself. She will want
to make an apology soon, but the anger, the part in him that is so Lyanna in
the sense of willpower and vindictiveness wants her to feel guilty. As guilty
as he did when he heard of Bran’s accident, when he ignored Robb’s messages for
four years until eventually, he forgotten what his cousin, his best friend
looked like.
Jon’s never forgiven himself for Bran’s accident. And maybe, just this once, he
wants someone else to feel his misery.
He is out of the manor when his phone rings and Robb’s number flashes on the
screen. Jon didn’t bother to check if Robb was in the house prior to entering,
but the thought of being with Robb, being comforted by Robb, made him weak. He
is susceptible now, and if he sees Robb tonight, he knows he will fall for him
again. It makes him want to ignore the vibrations.
“Hello?”
“Hey, is this Jon?”
That is not Robb’s voice.
 “Yes, this is he.”
 “Hey, I’m Dacey. I’m a friend of Robb’s. I’m calling to say that your
boyfriend is utterly pissed right now. And I don’t know what’s going on with
you two but Theon, you know, Robb’s friend, is acting like a total slag and—”
 “Where are you guys?” Jon asks. He repeats the address for confirmation and
adds it to his notes. “I’ll be there right away. Don’t…don’t let Theon go too
far.” Jon dashes back to the manor to borrow the Stark’s car for the second
time today. Catelyn is already upstairs. He breaks every speed limit possible,
and he wonders briefly if the lack of law enforcement is because he’s too fast
for the cops to bother, the neighborhood is completely empty, or that everyone
in the county recognizes the Stark’s vehicle.
Robb, contrary to his friend’s beliefs, is neither plastered nor pissed, drunk
nor legless. He is tipsy, red with bad judgement and ill intention plans, and
lacks hindsight and paired vision. Theon is sitting comfortably in his lap,
running his hands through Robb’s hair and whispering dirty suggestions into his
ear. Robb appreciates the effort, but tells Theon to save it for when Jon gets
here. Theon justifies himself by saying it would be odd for Theon to suddenly
start hitting on Robb upon Jon’s arrival.
“That would hardly look natural, would it?” 
Robb reluctantly agrees, but warns him not to go too far. His friends are
watching as well (ah, the intensely brutish Dacey Mormont, and the honorable
Jory Cassel who glares at Theon with such fury, and a few other unmentionables)
and he doesn’t want them to think his relationship with Jon is cheap as few
bottles of tequila and swill.
Theon pouts, but doesn’t hesitate to enjoy the moment. He’s running his hand up
Robb’s thigh when he spots the darkly dressed figure coming into the bar. There
goes his night. Jon comes in, ignores the attention of a woman who asks him to
show her a good time, and goes further into the pub. They’re sitting on
couches, happily chatting, when Jon, in all his sulky glory, catches them. His
expression is far from happy.
Robb, out of habit, removes Theon from his lap but Theon remains firm in his
seat. His reminds Robb that they’re “making him jealous, remember? Play along.”
And Robb does so obediently. He laughs a little harder, asks about Jon in his
whispers in Theon’s ears (“is he looking at me? Is it working? Do you think
he’ll drag me away from here?”) Theon laughs. He doesn’t find anything of what
Robb is saying amusing, but he knows from Jon’s nostril’s flaring that he’s
upset, he’s furious, and yes, he’s jealous. Theon knows that jealous people do
stupid things. When he agreed to Robb’s plan, he was aware that Robb might have
the right idea. Jon may be overcome with possessiveness and drag Robb back into
his arms and have his wicked way with him. Or— 
He might get so angry; he’ll leave Robb for good. He will have had enough,
knowing that Robb hasn’t changed his ways. He can move on from Jon. Jon was
nothing to him.
So Theon rubs Robb’s shoulders, nibbles on his ear, and laughs like a whore in
a brothel.
Just. For. Jon. To. See. 
Watch me, Jon Snow. You won the battles, but I'm going to be fighting the war.
I'm going to fuck your boyfriend so good he screams, and it'll be my name he'll
remember. He's more mine than yours now.
“Robb,” Jon addresses.
Robb waves at Jon. Casual, and without any of the clinginess that Jon so
desperately hated and craved at the same time. “Hey, Jon, everybody this is
Jon. My boyfriend.”
Jon nods at the guests, who sit awkwardly, watching the events go by. None of
them know what to do. “Robb, you're drunk.”
 “I’m not drunk.” He really isn’t. “I’m just hanging out with some friends,
having a pint, and wondering when my boyfriend, you do remember we’re still
together right, has been avoiding me all week?” Robb continues. “Hey, do fancy
a pint? This pub serves some of the—”
“I’m driving,” Jon points out. “More specifically, I’m driving you home.
Dacey,” he threw a look to the only girl at the table. “Called me to tell me
you’re pissed, and obviously not in your right mind.” He glares at Theon, who
flips him a ‘V.’
Robb, in attempt to sound nonchalant, shrugs. The action infuriates Jon, who’s
so used to Robb’s affection and care. Robb removes Theon in his lap, gently,
and gets out of the booth. He goes up to Jon. Jon can smell the booze, and look
into his red, glossy eyes, and wants no part of it. He’s seen Robb drunk before
and this time—this is different. When he tries to kiss Jon, the Snow boy turns
away.
Robb, in the most heartbreaking matter, shrugs again. “Guess I’m staying here,
then.” 
Dacey, who’s concern is that an older sister now, suggests he go with Jon.
“You’re not yourself.”
Robb refuses. “I want to stay where I’m wanted.” He pulls Theon closer to him.
Theon giggles, and agrees. “Oh, you’re definitely wanted.” And then Theon
decides that in spite of Robb’s potential anger, the temptation is too great.
He kisses Robb, lathers saliva onto his tongue and suckles on the flesh like
candy. He completely ravishes the inside of his mouth.
Watching them was like having someone punch Jon in the gut.
Robb is stunned by the action. He attempts to dislodge Theon, who is
aggressively going at his face. When he finally goes up for air, Robb laughs.
He tries his best to play it off as two friends playing around and fails
miserably. Everyone stays quiet. 
Jon is livid.
If Robb was any more drunk, he wouldn’t be able to see the other emotion
nestling in Jon’s eyes. Jon, who is so used to hiding his disappointment and
resigned to dealing with the worst that comes, looks heartbroken.
Robb broke his heart.
Jon doesn’t stay for excuses. “You can drink yourself to death for all I care,”
he spits out. He rushes out of the pub, praying no one can see the tears
building up in his eyes. He gets to the car, and ignores any attempts from Robb
to salvage the situation. He takes deep breaths and fights the tears from
falling. He’s not going to cry over this. Instead, he punches a nearby post and
ignores the pulsing in his fist. "Asshole!" He shouts to the sky. "Fucking
lying, two timing, asshole!" 
He gets into the car and drives back home, where he is equally not welcomed.
At least the manor is big enough for him to avoid the Starks that hated him. He
considers sleeping in Arya’s room because no one bothers her. He wants that,
the loneliness, the security of solitary and the predictable nature that comes
with relying on oneself and oneself only. Fuck this, Arya and his mother were
right. People are undependable. They say things, and they let other people walk
away from them.
No one wants to fight for love anymore. This isn't the Middle Ages. They want
you to give yourself to them, and then, they get to decide whether they want
to keep you, Jon. Sweetheart, I want you to promise to never give yourself to
anybody. Never be the second person in anybody's heart. Never be content with
being cherished if it makes you weak. If they deserve you, they'll fight for
you. They'll give up everything to be with you.
Jon thinks about Robb. Robb, who has obviously gotten over him and under Theon.
He knew there was something between them. To think, he was willing to…he was
going to try and work it out with Robb. Maybe it was his punishment. He planned
to use Aunt Cat’s words as justification for his reunion with Robb. Maybe the
Gods saw his bitterness, and raised him irony. Robb didn’t want him anymore. 
Jon grabs his phone. Then he drops it, wondering what he’s thinking. No matter
how angry he is, he still cares about Robb, maybe even l— and the admittance of
that emotion, love, makes what he does next all the more painful. He dials a
number on his phone and waits for the person to pick up. 
Chapter End Notes
     1. I’m really enjoying the discourse going on in the reviews towards
     Robb and Jon’s relationship. I think the reviewer Rose aptly
     described how I envision Jon’s thought process before writing his
     behavior, but I also like hearing how the Theon/Robb shippers justify
     their reasoning for wanting to see them together. This is great. You
     guys are great.
     2. I have no plan on how to end this story. It can go on forever for
     all I care. I do, however, take into account reviewers ‘opinions. So
     yes. Keep on suggesting things. Keep on asking.
     3. The Brojen love is strong. As a warning, though, Jojen is going to
     get very creepy in this story.
     4. I’m redoing people’s ages. I’ll try my best to edit the story to
     fit the new circumstances. A lot of people have expressed their
     concerns about Bran and Arya’s ages, and to be honest I was beginning
     to regret making them so young. The changes aren’t that extreme, but
     fit the storyline.
     Here are the new ages:
     Rheagar (48) > Viserys (29) > Daenerys (24)
     Brandon (44) > Ned (42) > Lyanna (36) > Benjen (34)
     Catelyn (44) > Lysa (39) > Edmure (32)
     Robert (42) > Stannis (38) > Renly (29/30)
     Cersei (36) > Jaime (36) > Tyrion (28)
     Willas (32) > Garlan (27) > Loras (24) > Margaery (21)
     Jon (21) > Robb (20) > Sansa (17) > Arya (16) > Bran (14) > Rickon
     (11)
     Meera (19) > Jojen (17)
     Gendry (18) > Joffrey (17) > Myrcella (14) > Tommen (11)
     Dale (24) = Allard (24)> Mathos (21)> Maric (19)> Devan (15) >
     Stannis (14) = Shireen (14) > Steffon (11)
     Rodrik (29) > Maron (28) > Asha (24) > Theon (21)
     Sandor (30), Gendry (18), Robin (11)
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning: M/M sex scene
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It takes half an hour for Robb to realize that Jon is not coming back. When
that happens, Robb rushes out of the bar, hoping that Jon is simmering in the
Stark's family car, trying to collect himself and waiting for Robb to catch up
to him. Jon will yell at him. He might punch the wall next to him and scream
his bloody lungs out, and Robb will take every insult, every degrading remark
and he will not argue. He will listen and get on his knees and beg for Jon's
forgiveness. But he can't. Jon is nowhere in sight. Robb fucked up. He fucked
up so badly, he could cry. And maybe it’s the alcohol, or Jon’s desertion
finally hitting him, full force, knife through the cut, and punch to the face,
but Jon left him. Robb starts crying and swearing and cursing the gods, and
fuck, fucking shit, he's such a fucking screw up! Theon runs outside to see a
sobbing Robb, and pulls him into a hug. A genuine hug. Not the kind of hug he
gave when Robb’s girlfriends broke up with him and he was happy to be the only
one in his arms again, or the kind where he just wanted to feel Robb’s skin.
This is the kind of hug Theon wants to give Robb because he’s suffering and
there’s nothing he hates more than to see Robb in pain.
Theon waits for his cries to die down, and wipes the water from Robb’s eyes.
Robb asks Theon if he looks like he’s been drinking.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
They return to the bar, where Theon orders a round of shots and another pint of
beer and Robb just inhales it until he’s sick.  He talks about Jon. He talks
about him every second he can, until Theon’s ears feel like they're bleeding
and even he’s beginning to love Jon a little. Theon’s about to call for another
pint, when Sansa’s screeching voice silences everyone. “Robert Stark, you put
that pint down right now or so help me Gods, I will shove a beer bottle up your
arsehole and drag you by a leash.”
Theon doesn’t know what’s scarier, Sansa yelling or Sansa sounding exactly like
her mother when she does.
Robb is as pissed as Dacey thought he was an hour earlier, and while he fights
Sansa’s grip for the first few minutes, he eventually submits, whimpering about
her cruel treatment. Theon limps towards them, and Sansa begrudgingly takes
them both into her car. Robb is tossed into the passenger seat while Theon is
shoved in the back.
“I can’t believe you! I’ve never heard Jon so angry before! How could you—Gods,
do you even—you know he’s in his bedroom right now, listening to angry Rhaegar
Targaryen music—like—I didn’t even know classical music could sound so warlike
and he’s listening to it, acting like some brooding, mopey child—and you—what
the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Sansa," Robb whines. His head hurts so much. "Sansa...it hurts. Everything
hurts right now.”
“Oh, oh I’m so sorry I’m hurting your feelings,” Sansa mocks. She makes a harsh
break at the red light, causing whiplash for Theon and Robb’s stomach to lurch.
“If you throw up in my car, I swear to Gods, Robb, you will clean it up.”
She glares at Theon who is trying to keep awake. Then, she sees Robb, who is
already lulling into sleep. Sansa sighs for the millionth time tonight. “The
least you could have done is break up with him first." She turns to Robb for an
explanation, but he doesn't hear her. His snores are light throughout the drive
home.
When they get back, Theon offers to carry Robb. Sansa watches him stumble his
way to the door, and almost trip on his own feet. She promptly refuses. “You’re
only going to make things worse."
Theon glares through the grogginess, and moves towards the stairs on his own.
Robb is heavy, weighs a ton when there’s a pound of alcohol and piss inside
him, and he thrashes. He tries to escape Sansa’s arms, and more than once he
succeeds. But when Robb is drunk, he is also weak. And slow. Sansa catches up
to him easily, and even allows him to continue some way on his own before she
gathers him up again, body leaning on hers, and takes him to his room. He’s
mumbling about something, and sounds absolutely miserable. Sansa’s only
experience of Robb legless was his sweet sixteen, and he was the happiest drunk
she’s ever seen. All red faced and giddy with upcoming adulthood. Robb mumbles
something but the only words she can decipher through his slurs is Jon’s name.
When he passes his room and starts pounding on Jon’s, Sansa realizes he’s
trying to apologize. 
Jon never went to sleep. The night is plagued with nightmares and former
regrets resurfacing. He hears pounding on his door, and Robb’s voice. He comes
out to tell him to be quiet—he doesn’t need another reason for everyone to hate
him. He also wants to punish him, to make him feel like shit for rejecting him
tonight. The second he opens the door, Robb tackles him. He is begging for
forgiveness. The babbling and the crying and the sweet nothings, spoken when
Jon feels like the most worthless person in the world, is exactly what he needs
to hear tonight.
Robb tells Jon he is perfect, smart, witty, kind—that he is deserving of more
than Robb (and wasn’t that the kicker? Robb Stark thinking someone was above
him). Jon holds him. Finally, he lets go and tucks him into bed, and strokes
his hair. When Robb says ‘I love you,’ Jon whispers it back because he knows it
won’t be remembered the next day.
“Coward." Someone call him.
Sansa waits by the doorway. Her stare is filled with judgement and remnants of
disgust. She looks at him like she wants to say something, and he doesn’t doubt
it. Sansa always wants to say something, to correct something that can’t be
fixed. Finally, she sighs, full of frustration and fatigue, and walks away.
Jon leaves to follow her. He stops when he is pulled back—Robb took a hold of
his hand and refused to let go. Jon, tempted to stay and lie with him again,
decides to leave. It’s a bit of struggle, but eventually, he gets away.
Sansa sits in the dining room table alone, eating leftover lemon cakes in
silence. When Jon comes in, she says nothing. She does not spare him a glance.
“Are you angry with me?”
Sansa takes another bite and chews. Slowly. Looks at the wall with eyes glossed
over, and a mouth pursed with petulance and chews.
“Sansa, if there’s something you want to say, just say it.”
Half her cake is left, and Sansa keeps on eating.
Jon gives up, and turns his back on Sansa, who finally puts down her fork and
tells him she’s hungry.
“What?”
“Tonight, I was supposed to be out getting dinner with my boyfriend. But then
you called so now I’m hungry.  And I want something to eat. You’re the only one
of us who can cook and I figured you owe me.”
Jon could protest, but he doesn’t. He is a pushover for the Starks, always has
been. “Hash browns okay?”
“Can’t cook. Can’t complain. I’ll take anything at this point.”
He finds a frying pan and grabs potatoes and onions from the fridge, and
seasoning from the cupboards. Cheese is already on the counter. “He’s your
brother, too,” Jon mutters. He lights the stove and pours some oil into the
pan.
“But he’s your boyfriend. Or was he? I’ve been so confused the last week.”
Jon grips the knife handle a little too tightly. He chops the potatoes. “I
haven’t decided yet.”
“Robb has. Aren’t you being unfair to him? Leading him on when you’re not
sure.”
If Jon is not so frustrated, he would have patted himself on the back for his
composure. He wants to yell at her that she doesn’t understand, she’s a child,
but realizes that would sound too petulant. Instead, he tells her. “Sansa, I’m
sorry you had to pick up your own brother from a pub when he was passed out.
But I couldn’t—I needed some time to myself. Please understand that.”
Sansa stares at him. Jon hopes she is finished interrogating him and they can
wallow in their own thoughts as always. Much to his surprise, she agrees with
him. “What don’t I understand? You needed time to think. You just watched your
boyfriend make out with another man—a man who, most undoubtedly, has been
planning your demise from the very beginning. You have every right to be
angry.”
Jon pauses. “But?”
“But nothing. Theon went too far, and Robb lets him.” Like he always does.
“It’s about time Robb learns from his mistakes.”
Jon frowns. Her words spark a series of memories that lead to an obvious, if
not frustrating conclusion. “Theon does this often.”
“Sabotage Robb’s relationships so he can comfort him? Of course. Robb is his
reason to live.” Sansa’s expression turns sour. “He’s been in love with him
since they were teenagers. Robb never felt the same way, and instead of
confessing his feelings, he did nothing. Oh wait, that’s a lie. He
singlehandedly ruined every one of Robb’s chances for love.” Sansa shrugs.
“It’s quite fitting, isn’t it? Robb’s oblivious to everyone’s feelings but his
own.”
Jon looks down to the frying roots, crackling as they browned to the desired
amount of crispiness. He adds pepper. “I fell right into his trap. Did you know
what he was doing?”  
Sansa nods. “Theon is pretty sympathetic when he wants to be, and…a part of me
hoped it would happen.” Jon gives her a look, beckoning her to continue.
 “I want Robb to be happy. I’ve always wanted that, for all of my siblings. I
wanted Robb to finally settle down and find someone who love him for who he
is.” Sansa gets up and grabs two glasses and a pitcher of milk. “Careful what
you wish for.”
Jon chuckles darkly. “I guess I must have been a disappointment.”
“No. You are perfect for Robb.” Sansa looks at him. “But you don’t think so, do
you?”
No, I’m not, Jon thinks. He doesn’t answer with that. “If I gave him up, at
least I know he’ll be loved.”
Sansa’s smile is tinged with sadness. “And that’s why it’s you I’m worried
about, not Robb”
Jon almost drops his spatula. He asks, “Why would you be worried about me? I’ll
be fine.”
“Fine is not love,” Sansa clarifies. “Fine is for people who are content with
being unhappy. You’ve always been fine, Jon. You don’t accept love easily. You
accept blame before you even think to take a compliment.”
“Sansa—”
“I know what happened with mum.”
Jon stays silent. He turns off the stove to keep himself from burning her meal.
“I was coming downstairs, and I…I heard everything. I heard what mother said,
and it was horrible—we don’t blame you, not at all—”
“I know. Sansa, you don’t have to—”
 “No,” Sansa tells him firmly. “You need to hear this.”
Jon listens.
Sansa swallows her milk to give her time to collect her thoughts. “But you
accept it. You’ve always have.” She looks over at Jon, and he stares at her in
disbelief. “Do you remember, when we were children and Arya broke that man’s
window? And she was all moody and ready to run, but you went ahead and told
them you did it. And they loathed you for it. They blamed it on your mother,
and said it was because she never taught you discipline, and called you a
bastard.”
Jon did remember. He remembers every horrid insult thrown at him, and how they
grabbed him by the arm and called his uncle. They called him an ingrate, a
stupid troublemaker who needed to be punished. Ned had to come over to pay for
the damages. Arya had confessed to their parents immediately, but the damage
had been done. “Arya tried to tell them the truth, but no one believed her. To
make her feel better, you told her it was your idea to play football so either
way, it was your fault. That was the first time I saw her cry.” Sansa shakes
her head. “Do you know why she was crying?”
“She was sad I had to get into trouble.”
“No, Jon. She was crying because you actually thought it was your fault.” Sansa
is on a brink of tears. “You actually believed you were responsible for Arya’s
actions. You were genuine when you said sorry. Jon…I don’t want to be cruel but
I’m begging you. Don’t do this to yourself.” 
“I don’t understand.” Jon is exasperated, and he wants the conversation to end.
He grabs a plate and tries to ignore what Sansa is saying. “Listen, I’m just
going to leave your plate here and get some sleep—”
Sansa wipes away the tears from her eyes. She continues with a sense resilience
only seen in soldiers. “Robb is going to win you over. I know it. We all know
it. He’s going to convince you to run back into his arms, and live happily ever
after. But tt's not going to be like that. This is real life, and there are no
'happily ever afters.' Robb isn’t going to be the one who’s going to suffer
in this relationship.”
“Sansa, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sansa’s eyes turn cold. Jon has never seen her like this, and he wonders what
has happened in the last year that has aged her so. “I do. I know that you’re
the bastard, and he’s the Stark heir. I know he’s the golden child who does
everything right, and you’re the child who’s never had a real home. I know what
they say about Aunt Lyanna. 'I pity the man who falls for her. He'll get eaten
alive.' 'Such a shame that a man like Rickard Stark raised a whore.' 'No wonder
that child is so screwed up. Look at his mother.'  Do you remember that?"
Jon remembers every word.
"When they find out who you are, Robb is going to be the man kind enough to
look past your faults and love you. But you? You’re the whore who seduced him
and led him down the wrong path. At best, you two will be made fun of and that
feels like shit.”
Jon slams the kitchen counter. Sansa winces. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about,” he repeats, though his words feel more hollow than before.
“Jon, please…”
Somewhere inside Jon knows she’s not lying. He’s only ever heard rumors about
Sansa’s boyfriend from Arya, but he knows the man has never met Ned or Catelyn.
Sansa isn’t stupid. She knows it is only a matter of time before they meet, and
she’s prepared for the worst by the looks of it. Jon wonders if she’s willing
to give everything up for this mysterious man.
“Love is hard. Love deemed disgusting by society is harder. The mockery, the
dirty looks, the rumors; that’s not something that goes away, not in this
family. And it stays in this family. You have to be willing to fight for him,
and that’s not possible if you’re not sure he’s worth fighting for.” She walks
up to him and embraces him. The action stuns Jon, and finally, he weakly wraps
his arms around her. “I love my boyfriend. He loves me. I fought for him and he
fought for me. We’re not what you call an appropriate couple but we’re stronger
because of it. I’m so happy.”
She pulls away. She wipes a stray hair from his face. “I want my brother to be
happy, but he’s not the one paying the cost for this. Decide for both of you
what’s right. If you love Robb, you need to decide how you’re going to be in
his life. If he can’t understand the consequences of his actions, you need to
make the decision that both of you can live with.”
Jon stares at her. He says nothing for the longest time. All he can do is look
at Sansa in the eye, watch her blue orbs challenge to say something, to do
anything.
"Can you fix yourself a plate? I already finished cooking the food," he
asks her softly. Then he, like many weak men before him, walks away. Sansa
watches him leave. 
Jon knows he will not sleep that night, but he can still imagine a loop of
Sansa’s words. When Jon enters the bedroom, Robb is resting soundly. Jon, weak
for a lover’s touch, climbs into bed with him and wraps his arms around his
cousin like old times. Tomorrow morning, he promises himself. He will tell him
tomorrow morning.
This once, and just this once, Robb makes it easy for Jon. His internal clock
forces him to wake up at an ungodly hour despite his blinding hangover. He is
not alone, and for a second, he believes Theon has sneaked into his bed again.
Instead, the warmth is derived from the body of a man much, much paler than
Theon’s natural tan, and a wave of curls rest beside his on his bed—no, Jon’s
bed. He is in Jon’s room, and his body flushes.
Jon groans, having finally been able to nod off. Robb kisses him before he
becomes fully conscious. Jon wants to barter for more sleep but is distracted
by the kisses for attention. He remembers where he is, and unlike the other
times in this house, he does not pull away. Robb adds in tongue, and he licks
his mouth with eagerness. Robb leans further in, and wraps his arms around Jon
to hold him close.
Jon is awake, and isn’t pulling away. Robb wonders if he’s entered a dream, but
knows it to be real when he grabs onto Jon’s ass and there’s a moan, a
delicious, throaty moan with the potential to grow and multiply.
“I missed you so much,” Robb whispers. Jon says nothing. He keeps kissing Robb
like it’s the last time they’ll see each other.
The morning is still young. No one is awake except for the maids, and none of
them come upstairs at this hour. Jon and Robb enjoy their fleeting moment
together. Robb strokes Jon’s hair and asks if he’s being too forward for asking
him if they could make love. Jon says yes, but through his giggles he says he
doesn’t care.
Robb slips his hands into the waistband of Jon’s shorts and cups and squeezes
Jon’s cheeks until they are embedded into his memory. Jon’s moans grow louder
as his kneading becomes harder and his fingers dip into into Jon’s hole. He
adds in one finger, and then two. He pushes in and out of the puckering hole
and lets it clench around him as if it is his cock. Jon grips onto Robb’s
shirt.
“Does it hurt?”
“No…” Jon whimpers. “Keep going.”
Robb takes his fingers out and turns from Jon for a second. He masterfully
twists his body so that he can reach the floor and grab his jeans. There, he
takes out a bottle of lube. “I had high expectations last night.”
Jon wills himself not to laugh, and fails. He hugs him.
Robb is liberal with the lube, and douses himself with KY jelly. It’s been a
while and he’s sure Jon’s been faithful—he's made sure of it. He plays with the
goo for a bit, allows it to drip over his fingers and into Jon’s pried hole
like cum. He returns to his ministrations and begins pumping in his fingers
slowly, occasionally brushing against Jon’s prostate. Jon can only moan and
cry. Robb plays with his body for endlessly, relishing in those soft noises of
pleasure, and soaks in Jon’s wordless praise. Jon demands nothing, and allows
Robb to do as he wish. Jon gasps when Robb stretches him from side to side,
spreads his fingers so that he’s gaping.
Robb refuses to push his luck.
He lathers his cock up with the gel, and gets on top of Jon. He looks down at
him and calls him beautiful. Jon blushes, but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he
reaches up and kisses Robb again. The reaction is stunning so Robb continues
the praise. "You're beautiful. I can spend my entire life inside you. I just
want to spend all day coming in you until you can't walk."
Robb cradles Jon’s hips close and enters him slowly, letting Jon feel every
inch being worked into as if he was always meant to be there. Every small
movement feels exquisite, and as he gets closer to Jon’s prostate, he can feel
the heat of Jon’s body wrapped around him and the hole clench. Jon encourages
Robb by willing his body to squeeze and tighten around Robb, milking him for a
full load. Robb works a slow and steady piston into him. The sensation makes
Jon’s eyes roll up and Robb has trouble breathing with the beauty below him.
They go on forever. Robb keeps Jon full but never sated. His cock thrusts up to
Jon in long and slow motions, each hit rubbing Jon’s insides with more liquids
and gels until he’s absolutely slippery and Robb’s dripping out of his hole.
All the while they kiss, they bite, they mark. Jon wraps Robb up in his legs
and tells him to never stop.
When they are finished, Jon takes one last look at Robb. Happy, sated Robb
who’s probably dreaming of their wedding, their lives on this estate, and their
dogs, happily running together in the woods. Jon knows what Robb wants, and the
desire grips at Jon’s heart like an anchor tied to a man. Robb wants to take
Jon to dinner parties and introduced him as his partner. He wants Jon to be
happy, and he wants the insults and slurs to stop.
But they won’t.  
“I’m sorry.”
Robb startles from his post coital high. He turns to Jon, still smiling. “What
for?”
“I’m sorry,” Jon repeats, unable to form the words. “I’m so sorry. This wasn’t
fair to you.”
Robb becomes worried. “Jon, what’s going on?”
Jon limps out of bed. He searches for his pants somewhere, and tries his best
not to look Robb in the eye. Robb will have none of it. He grabs onto Jon's
hand and forces Jon to look at him. He pulls him back into the bed, and
cups Jon’s face and keeps him there. Jon’s eyes are closed. “Jon, look at me.”
Jon turns his head.
“Look at me, damn it!”
Jon takes a deep breath and open his eyes. They are completely dry and
loveless. 
 “Jon, what’s the matter? I thought…is it about last night? That was nothing.
Theon and I were just playing around. I love you. You know I love you.”
Robb grabs onto Jon’s hands and presses his lips against them. He stays there
for several moments and then kisses him again.
Jon takes a deep breath, and pushes him away.
 “I can’t do this, Robb. We can’t do this. It’s not worth it.”
“No,” Robb refuses to listen. “No, I’m not hearing this bullshit again. I love
you. That’s the only thing that matters. You and me. I care about you. I care
about this. What we have is real, you love me, don’t you?”
Jon has never said it to Robb, not when he was awake at least. He’s told Sansa,
he’s told himself. But he’s never said it to Robb, and he doesn’t want to. He
can’t. He knows those words are the only strands of hope Robb needs to hang on
forever, and Jon won’t do that to him. Jon won't do it for himself. 
It's okay to be selfish, Jon. That just means you're looking out for yourself,
and there's nothing wrong with that. People like us...we need to love ourselves
before we love other people. 
Jon is cruel. He has already done so much to Robb.
“I…I’m not ready to fight for you, Robb. I love you…like a brother. I realize
that I’m not…we’re not worth the trouble. I can’t love you in the way you love
me. I’m sorry. Please…let me go.”
Robb stays silent. 
"Robb? Please...I'm ending it. For good. I...you'll find someone else. You've
always have. Okay? Let go." 
Robb lets go of his hand. He gives up like a desperate man who handing by a
cliff. He watches Jon dress himself, and as he looks for a shirt, Robb stops
him.
“No,” Robb says, the words coming out automatically.
Jon tries not to cry. “Robb, I have to go. I—” He gets up. Robb stops him.
“I’ll leave,” Robb says instead. Jon looks at him of his own volition. “This is
your room. I’ll leave.”
"It's your house," Jon protests. The Starks owe him nothing--none of them do. 
"It's our house. This is your room. I will be the one to leave." Robb gets up.
"I'm sorry for bothering you last night."
Jon does nothing as Robb gathers up his clothes. He asks if Jon can tell his
mother he won’t be at breakfast. “I want to get some things done at the gym.”
Jon could nod and say yes, but he'd be lying. Instead, he tells Robb: “You have
a hangover. Let me make you something before you go.”
Robb turns him down. “I’ll be fine.”
And he leaves.
Robb goes to his room to get his gym attire. His mind is pounding and his heart
aches and he's angry. He heads to the Stark facilities. They have five punching
bags, all in a row. He used to box as a kid. Did a bunch of martial arts
because his father believed they provided discipline when he was too busy
working. He put on some clothes and practiced some hits. His hits got harder,
and harder, and harder, until he is sure something is sprain or broken. And
then he hits the punching bag again. Every hit makes him forget about Jon. He
forgets about the night they met, he forgets about their dinners together where
he learned that Jon loves to over season his vegetables with pepper, and
forgets waking up together and how Jon would let him steal the covers. He
doesn't want to remember their dates in the park, meeting up for coffee after
class, listening to Jon complain about his household habits, their
conversations during the sunset, the rare days Jon would follow him to class
and pay attention because he wanted to be able to understand something Robb
cared about. Robb associates the pain from each hit with a memory and trains
himself to forget and he can’t.
Instead, he keeps the memories. He plays them over and over again.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter is lighter. The Stark genes are strong. Willas
     appears again. The Reeds finally come to Winterfell. Jazz hands.
     2. Brojen is taking awhile to come. I think I should just write a
     separate story to fill the fandom void.
     3. This chapter is short. Next three chapters are much longer.
     4. So...R+L=J might be canon.
     5. I’m severely entertained by Brexit. I know I shouldn’t be, but a
     few years ago, I was forced to argue for the UK leaving the EU (I did
     British Parliamentary Debate as an undergrad and we don’t get a
     choice in which side we get). My tagline was “It’s time for us [UK]
     to leave the sinking ship [EU].” I won that debate.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The rules of courtship must have changed since Willas was in his twenties,
because he recalls a waiting period of a week—less, if one played their cards
right. He thought that by putting a time limit on his stay, the boy
beauty would hasten their transactions by at least a day or two, and yet here
he was. Five days have passed since Willas gave Jon his number. He hated to
sound conceited but he expected a text by now, or at least a missed phone call,
preferably by a blushing snow skin boy who would hang up as soon as the phone
rings. But no, nothing. He assumes the complication became a problem.
Oh well, Willas thinks regretfully, these things do happen. He hopes Jon is
happy, though he’s sure he could have made him happier. With his solidary
status confirmed, Willas figured he might as well take his grandmother off his
back, and called the Starks for a tour of their reserves.
To be honest, it is no hardship for Willas to visit the park. His leg still
pulses, but it is a dull pain. Cool air and the fresh scent of grass—naturally
fertilized, organically grown grass, always made him feel better. He sees the
birds of prey circling the skies like dragons, and is reminded of his own hawk
collection at home. There are miles of flowers, a few butterflies dancing on
the tips of their pedals, and he makes note of all the buzzing beetles and
slippery worms on the ground. From afar he can see the deer, prancing with one
another. The reserves are large and vast, and it feels like another world here.
“You have done a magnificent job,” he praises. “The Stark reserves are
legendary where I’m from.”
Ned Stark nods, serious but inwardly proud of his efforts. He tries not to show
his conceit. Willas understands that this is not an attempt of false modesty;
Ned is simply someone who is not used to taking compliments. “Yes, protecting
the natural reserves has been the duty of the Starks for several generations.”
“I’m happy to be of service to you.”
“We are glad to receive your aid.” Ned’s eyes dart across the field. They walk
closer to the deer, and Willas is surprise when they do not run away. Ned notes
his surprise and responds that, “the deer know they do not have to fear humans
here—only other predators. We do not interfere with the natural order of life.”
Willas understands. “I appreciate the effort. Is your entire family as involved
in maintaining the area as you are?”
Ned does not hesitate. On the topic of his children, he allows himself to be
proud. “My eldest son used to volunteer here in his teens. He goes to
university now but he helps out when he can. Both my daughters did their work
experiences in the office, though the younger one, Arya, did do some field
work. My second oldest son starts volunteering today.”
“I’m jealous,” Willas admits. “I’ve always loved the outdoors. My parents
encouraged me to handle the corporate matters of our company, but I enjoy
getting my hands dirty. There’s something about being a part of the labor that
makes the whole process more worthwhile.”
Ned agrees with the philosophy. If it weren’t for his brother’s untimely prison
sentence, he would have opted to take a more physical role in his family’s
company. “I believe you handle the livestock maintenance.”
Willas nods. “I do now. After my accident, my family wanted to limit my
interactions outdoors. My grandmother wouldn’t have it, though. She said only
cowards use excuses to prevent the pursuit of their dreams. I go on walks as
often as my leg allows, and can ride horses with the proper saddle.” 
"Your grandmother sounds like a fine lady."
Willas laughs. That is an understatement. "She is a handful, but I'm grateful
to have her around. Without her, I would never be able to pursue my dreams." 
Willas loves animals, always has and always will. He still spoils the hell out
of Camellia, his beautiful chestnut mare that trampled his leg when he was a
teenager. His family wanted to put her down, especially since she was a gift
from his friend, Oberyn. They suspected foul play the night the two of them
decided to sneak out of their rooms for a ride in the dark. Willas would have
none of it, though. Children made mistakes, and they were such children back
then.
“What happened to your leg?”
“Horse riding accident.”
“My son was paralyzed in a car accident.” Ned confesses. The news surprises
Willas more than it should. He doubts his grandmother was ignorant of this
fact, and wonders just how much thought went into her decision to whore him out
to the Starks. Of course they would have a paraplegic son. What was he
thinking? “His mother was opposed to him being here, but she was convinced
otherwise.”
“But you don’t mind?”  
Ned sighs. “Some people never learn how to swim unless they’re pushed into the
water.” He squints his eyes, and Willas thinks it’s because of the sun before
he catches sight of someone familiar. “Bran is coming. He’s the one I was
talking about.”
Willas does not have enough time to be surprised before the heart-shaped face
comes into view. Bran’s eyes widen. “Willas?”
Willas waves hello. “Nice to see you again.”
Ned raises an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”
“We met the other day at the mall. I saw him wheeling down—”
“—And he gave me the lotion to help with my friction burn. After I stopped the
breaks. Myself.”
Willas doesn’t say anything in response. Ned catches his raised eyebrow and in
return, becomes as unconvinced of the story as he originally was. Bran senses
this, and is trembling in trepidation. He looks into his lap, thinks for a
moment, and then opens his mouth to add detail to his story. “And—”
The boy should never play poker, because after two brief encounters, Willas can
already find his tell. The boy's father must agree. for he is starring his son
down with a stern expression made for enacting discipline and serving
punishment. Before Bran can dig himself a deeper hole, Willas beats him to the
punch. “Your son is very brave, Mr. Stark. Lesser men wouldn’t have been so
self-efficient.”
Bran stares at Willas, alarmed by the agreement. "Uh..."
"Is he?" Ned questions. 
"Yes, I was surprised a boy his age was so clever as to maneuver himself to
safety. He waited until he reached a floor that was dirty to stop his break, so
that the friction slowed him down. If he were riding on freshly mopped floors,
he would have surely ran into a wall."
"That's clever?"
"If he tried to stop himself on clean floors, the heat from the brakes would
have been too hot to withstand and too powerful to stop. He choose the best
option."
"Hmm..."  
Ned continues to be as distrusting as before. He looks at Willas' sharp smile
and Bran's wide eyes, and sighs. Wise man, Willas thinks, turning down this
battle. Willas then suggests Bran show him around. “We can make it his first
duty. If—of course, he doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t!” Bran announces. He gives himself a head start on the path, (actually
wearing his gloves this time, Willas notes). “Follow me!”
Ned is tempted to go after him, but figures it is finally time to drop Bran
into the water. He tells him to come back in an hour, and in one piece. Bran
and Willas are already on their way; Bran eagerly chatting about how a certain
bird species has flown in for the summer.
When Ned Stark is out of sight, Bran thanks Willas for his discretion. “I had
to tell them that I handled it by myself. Mother already wanted to cancel the
volunteering and I was afraid she was going to tell father not to bring me. I’m
sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
Bran furrows his brows. “For lying. For taking away your good deed.”
Willas laughs. “Bran, if a man ever complains about losing his good deed, it is
a good indicator that he is a bad man.” He grins, like a child caught
performing mischief but feels no shame for the crime. “Besides, I would have
done the same. Hell, I have done the same.”
Bran is relieved. He makes a right turn, where the smell of wild violets end
and a powerful bog begins to overwhelm. Years of horse manure and hawk
droppings has gotten him immune to strong odors, but he is impressed but Bran’s
nonchalance. There’s a sign indicating they are near a swamp. 
“I just don’t want people thinking I need to be saved.”
“We all need help sometimes. We are only human.”
“Not all the time.”
The mood sours considerably after the declaration. Willas cheers him up by
talking about the reserves. Bran starts explaining how his father is developing
the swamp because of the animals often ignored on the endangered list. From his
conversation, Willas can conclude that Ned Stark is a lucky man. Bran is bright
and enthusiastic about the work his family does. While he cares little for the
security business, he is hardly naive about the subject. Most children would
shun the darker parts of their parents work (say, for instance, the thousands
of animals slaughtered for food each year), but Bran is aware of how the
military utilizes his father’s systems. He’s far more concerned with
preservation, though. Willas learns he wants to travel, and when he’s an adult,
he considers simply running away and traveling the world.
“Where would you like to go?”
Bran thinks for a while. “Brazil, and China to see the tigers, and maybe
Vietnam or Laos. Or South Africa. They have a huge black market based on
poaching and animal trafficking.”
Willas finds himself overwhelmed with statistics on ivory trafficking and the
number of dead rhinos and elephants a year. He suspects Bran will be quite the
philanthropist in the future; he already has Willas reaching for his
checkbook. 
“…that is, if I can find a way out of my wheelchair.”
The bitterness is familiar, and leaves a horrible taste in his mouth; the tang
of sour lemons and curdled milk. Willas tells him with utter confidence that he
is not an invalid. “You can do anything you wish. Paralysis is not a death
sentence, and people have done more good in the world working with less.”
Bran pauses, and for a while, Willas wonders if he sounds too preachy, or
insincere. He decides he should avoid either by explaining his own
circumstances.
Instead, Bran beams.
“Thanks Willas. That means a lot to me.” His voice is sincere and melodious. He
glows like an iridescent angel. Willas heart skips a beat, and he has to lean
on the tree to compose himself. If all of Ned’s children are as pretty as his
son, maybe he should heed his grandmother’s advice and make a call. 
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. It’s just my leg,” he lies.
Bran accepts the excuse. He asks if Willas travels much, and Willas says he
does. He talks about his recent trip to Peru, and while Willas is only half
engaged in his own storyline, Bran is wide eyed and awed. He tells him that
he’s jealous of people like Willas. Then, he begins on his own family and their
vacations. Willas picks up on the name Jon, and how he travels the world with
his mother.
“How is Jon doing these days?” Willas asks. He carefully lightens his tone to
sound nonchalant, and even looks at a flower—as if he were inspecting its
oddities—to express his disinterest. Bran bites, but there’s a evasiveness in
his answer that makes Willas wonder if he was convincing enough.
“He’s okay. He’s been kind of quiet recently.”
“Oh.” Willas makes a risky move, and asks if it had something to do with
Jon’s…boyfriend?
 Bran freezes. “You know about that?”
“We talked about it while you were buying your materials,” Willas replies. “I
was asking him on a date, but he turned me down.” Willas sighs, and displays a
disappointed expression. Sad. Pathetic. Doglike. “I mean, he sounded really
conflicted. It’s such a shame though. I was rather taken by him.”
“Well…” Bran seems conflicted about something. Willas wonders how much he
understood about their situation and how well he knew the other person, before
he admits that: “They just broke up. But Jon is pretty beat up about it.”
Willas wonders if a dozen roses would be too tacky for a first date. “That
explains why he didn’t call me.” He looks into Bran’s eyes. He knows that to
honest people, a stare conveys truth and hides bad intentions. “Do you know why
they broke up? Is there anything I can do?”
“Personal reasons,” Bran admits diplomatically. Willas raises an eyebrow.
Personal reasons can mean so much, but there's always a hint of scandal
attached to them. If he knew anything from Margaery’s brief romance with the
eldest brother, ‘personal’ meant something went wrong within the family. And
the Starks are certainly an interesting family.  
He’s a bit excited.
“Bran, I hate to put you in this position, but do you think Jon would be
interested in getting a call from me? He is absolutely marvelous, and I don't
want to lose my chance with him.”
Bran is taken back. “Well…I…it’s complicated.”
“The best things normally are,” Willas declares. He reminds himself to curb his
excitement. While he loved the normalcy of his routine life and day to day
adventures, he also craved interesting interactions, vibrant socialization that
changed a person’s life. He chooses to opt out of his fascinated stance, and go
for sincerity instead. Sincerity, integrity, and honesty—that’s what the Starks
like.
“Please Bran, all I need is a number. If he turns me down, I won’t bother him
again. I just…I have to try. I really felt something with him.”
Bran seems troubled. He glances back and forth, as if expecting a wandering
infiltrator. Willas wonders if that was a legit worry, or paranoia. He noticed
that Ned did the same thing whenever he talked about his family. Nonetheless,
Bran grabs a piece of paper from his notebook and writes down a number.
“…ob is going to kill me,” he mutters. Bran cautiously hands Willas the paper.
Willas fights his shit eating grin. Starks…even when they don’t trust you, they
still believe in you.
Willas folds the paper in half and puts it into his back pocket. The sun is
beginning to set so Willas suggests they head back to the camp. Bran seems
conflicted by his actions, and considers reversing them, either by asking for
the number back or confessing to Jon what he did. Willas doesn’t want either to
happen. Willas distracts him by discussing about his hobbies. He talks about
breeding hawks and horses, and hooks Bran’s attention in until the end of the
road.
A gust of wind passes by them, and messes Bran’s hair. He needs a haircut,
Willas muses. Leaning forward, he uses his free hand to brush the strands off
Bran’s hair. “If you’re going to be working here, you should consider cutting
those bangs. It’ll ruin your vision to have them constantly in your eyes.”
“I was supposed to get them cut at the mall,” Bran defends. “Not my fault
Rickon tried to kill me.”
Willas laughs. Bran, when he pouts, reminds him of his youngest brother. Loras
always threw the biggest fuss when it concerned his hair. Willas leans forward
to ruffle those overgrown locks and causes a yelp of protest when he does. Bran
swats him away, but Willas prevails. 
“What’s going on here?” Ned’s question is rough and full of accusation. Bran is
taken back by the rudeness. Willas, who is used to hearing that tone from the
overprotective fathers of the women his brothers dated, is taken back when it’s
directed towards him. He’s a cripple—he’s never gotten the threats. People feel
sorry for him.
“Just a bit of horse playing,” Willas admits. “I was suggesting Bran get a
haircut. It will probably be easier for him to move around when he’s not
constantly wiping his bangs out of his pretty face.”
Ned snarls, “We’ll take care of that. We don’t need your concern.”
There’s an air of awkwardness that comes with the darkening sky. Willas, wary
of Ned’s newfound antipathy, chooses his next words very carefully. “Ned, I was
wondering if you and your family would like to join me for dinner some time
before I leave. I found a delightful restaurant that I think you will enjoy, if
you haven’t already been there. They use all of our products, and serve the
best pie in the country. I swear on it.”
“I’m sure you’ll like it if my family was there. Bran, especially.”
“Well…yes. That’s why I’m inviting all of you.”
Realizing his own answer was not satisfactory, Ned gruffly says he’ll think
about it. “Come Bran. We need to go home. Do you have a ride, Mr. Tyrell?”
Oh…so he’s no longer Willas. Willas does not bother to hide his confusion at
the sudden change in attitude, but does add some goodwill onto his face and a
nonthreatening smile. “My driver should already be waiting outside. Thank you,
Ned.”
Willas walks ahead of them. He decides to play up his limp, maybe even spark
some guilt into the Stark patriarch. When Willas is out of sight, Ned turns to
Bran.
“What did you two talk about?”
Bran grimaces. He does not feel like answering his father’s question, not after
Willas was being so civil and gracious towards them. He’s disappointed at his
father’s rudeness, and he understands why his mother is so often irked by her
husband's poor graces. “You were being very rude, father.”
Ned, who is used to being scolded for his poor manners, relents. He is revived
in seconds by some form of righteousness that usually gets him going, and asks
Bran again, what were they talking about it?
“Like we said, my hair,” Bran answers. He does not feel like explaining Willas
and Jon’s odd flirtation, not with Robb and Jon’s separation fresh in the
family.
“And that’s all?”
“We talked about animals, plants, and you know, the reserves? What else would
we be talking about?”
“You didn’t talk about anything personal? Something you can’t tell me or your
mother?”
Bran frowns. How much did his father know? Was he listening in—? No, if that is
the case, he wouldn’t be asking all these questions. “Nothing, father. We were
just talking about the reserves. If it was something serious or worrisome, I
would tell you.”
“Really?” Ned looks worried. “So you’re not hiding anything from me.”
Bran stares at his lap for a lap and breathes. He then looks up. “I promise.”
Ned is troubled. He wants to push this, but he doesn’t push so far that Bran
closes himself off. He’s done that before. He’s good at that. Yet, the
detective in Ned, the one who spends his quiet nights reading thrillers and
mystery novels, and watches crime dramas while actively participating in the
detective's storyline, doesn’t relent. At an impasse, he suggests a break.
“Let’s go home. Your mother will be worried if we stay any longer.”
Bran agrees, and is already wheeling his way out of the difficult conversation.
Ned stays back to check on a few video feeds of Willas and Bran. The drones are
supposed to check up on the animals, but he swore to Catelyn he’d use them to
track Bran's whereabouts at least every half an hour. While he previously
protested Catelyn’s overprotectiveness, he will have to admit his wife has some
weighted concerns.
Bran has always been a pretty child. He and his siblings take after their
mother in pure loveliness and, and he hates to boast, but his children are the
most adorable Stark pups ever conceived. Catelyn calls him a doting father, but
he’s honest about his children’s charms, and wants to protect them from all
unsightly perversions. As a babe, Bran has consistently received unwarranted
attention. He’s sweet, and that saccharinity attracts pedophilic stingers and
lustful maggots that don’t deserve his son’s honey.
He’s not sure what he sees in the cameras, but he doesn’t doubt there’s a
twinkling in Willas’ eyes that screams predator. They are talking in hushed
whispers and secret messages, and after Jojen, Ned has to be cautious about
people who express interest in Bran. He’ll have to look into Willas’
reputation.
Earlier, at the Stark Manor, Catelyn is overseeing the movers. Howland Reed
insisted that they did not have to go through the trouble. No one in their
small family owned enough possessions to require such extravagance. Catelyn
agreed, but Ned liked to treat his friends and felt that the three of them lost
enough that they deserved to keep whatever they had close. Howland is a
craftsman, and while his jobs are far and in between, his work is beautiful.
Howland expresses nothing but his gratitude. Meera, who is growing up to be a
fine young woman, is quick to say thanks as well. She tries to make pleasant
conversation, but the overwhelming, overweight elephant in the room is stifling
all of them. The words exchanged are terse and uncomfortable. Eventually,
Meera, who is normally cheery and sociable, has to opt out. The tension is too
much, even for her.
“Mrs. Stark?”
She recognizes that voice anywhere.
Jojen walks towards her, a sense of bravado and shamelessness that makes his
sister cringe, and his father sweat. Catelyn thinks his confidence is vulgar;
his entire presence is obscene and he makes her skin crawl. “I want to thank
you personally for what you’re doing for us. I’m very grateful for your
kindness, given our history—”
“It was my husband’s wish. Not mine.”
“Nonetheless, I’m thankful—”
Immediately, Catelyn tells him her son is not here.
Jojen remains unperturbed.
“Bran lives in the main house. You will not have contact with him, you will not
speak to him, and you will not even look at him. I will make sure of that. If I
see you lay a disgusting finger on him, I will have you arrested and prosecuted
and you will never see the light of day again.”
There is silence.
Jojen finds the speech a tad bit dramatic, but says nothing. He wants to defend
himself, tell her that he’s never touched Bran intimately, and that she's being
unfair. She’s willing to let Joffreystay, the guy who beat Sansa black and
blue, and she’s not willing to give him a chance? He knows it’s because she’s
unware of what happened back then, but Jojen can change that. He can make
himself look better in comparison, and he doesn’t.
That’s something he has on a Sansa, and he’ll use it when the time comes.
Catelyn is so angry, she doesn’t see the intoxication in his eyes. For that,
he’s grateful to be hated so much. The whole world is always more pleasant when
he’s high. His sister grabs him by the arm and agrees to Catelyn’s conditions.
“Go,” Catelyn hisses out.
Jojen walks away. He shrugs off Meera’s grip, and says he will have a look
around the premises.
“Nowhere near the main house,” Meera warns.
“I know, I know,” Jojen waves off her concerns. There’s nothing at the house
for him. Bran is at the reserves. He already checked.
Jojen wanders around forever. He breathes in the pure air, and takes in the
scent of trimmed grass, wildflowers and weeds, a sky perfumed with bird
feathers and raven sweat. He drops onto the field and lies there. He plays
imaginary songs in his head. He dreams of Bran and all that delicious,
untouched flesh that yearns to be marked and that sweet voice that cries out
his name.
“What are you doing?”
 Hello darkness my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
 Jojen is a poor man, but he’s not a bad one. He does not hunt children in
their sleep, nor does he steal their souls into the night. Not like the moon
spirits or the fairies, not like the gypsies and the thieves. Why does he have
green eyes? They’re always staring at me. I think he’s looking into my soul
like there’s something wrong with me. He’s not human. He keeps staring at me
like I’m his…Jojen snaps out of his thoughts.
“Listening to the birds and the bees. What are you doing here?”
The boy behind him pouts. “I live here.”
“So do I, now.” Jojen smiles like a child who has found a friend. The boy is
taken back, because he wants a friend. His beast towers over the Jojen and
nestles his nose into his face. The canine’s saliva drips and dribbles, yet
there are no screams. He is not upset, not like how the boy’s sisters are when
Shaggydog drools over their pretty dresses. He laughs instead.
Rickon is relieved. He has been warned not to go near the guests, but surely it
will be okay this once. Shaggydog means no harm, and Rickon’s been so bored
since mother punished him. He’s trapped, he’s caged, he’s grounded, and it is
quite unpleasant.
“Just running around. I’m playing catch with Shaggy.”
“I’m not surprised. Your home is marvelous. I don’t understand how you could
spend a moment indoors when there’s a body of beauty out here.”
“Wait till it rains.”
“Thanks to your father, I won’t have to,” Jojen replies. The skies are lovely
for English weather. Rickon, poor thing, is bristling with unresolved energy.
He must be so lonely, cooped up in that house with no one to play with. “What’s
your name?”
“Rickon.”
“Well, Rickon, I’m Jojen.” He gets up and holds out his hand. “It is nice to
meet you.”
Rickon takes it, but he’s a cautious bugger who immediately goes to his dog’s
side. Smart boy; Jojen appreciates a bit of cleverness. “Do you have anyone
with you right now?”
“Why?”
“Because I… I don’t suppose you would like to… I’ve been quite bored,” Jojen
admits, adding a smidgen of embarrassment into his confession. It would be
incredibly suspicious if an older boy was actually eager to spend time with
someone so young. “Do you mind if I play with you?”
Rickon brightens up. Since Bran is gone, Jon is working, and Robb is doing a
task on behalf of their mother, no one’s been up to spend time with him. Mother
never likes to get dirty, and Sansa is on a date.
He eagerly takes Jojen up on his offer. He instructs Jojen on how to play catch
with Shaggydog, especially since his wolf tends to be very aggressive. Nothing
new or appears dangerous. Jojen needs to be careful, but Shaggy already likes
him so there should be no problems.
They chat a bit about how their summers are going so far. Jojen’s story is
considerably duller, but Rickon does not mind. Shaggydog is eagerly catching
every Frisbee and ball, and performing some of the most intricate gymnastics
while doing so. Rickon reveals that he’s trained his dog on how to terrify his
classmates so he can assert his dominance over them.
“You will go places,” Jojen declares. He’s not lying.
 “Thanks.” Rickon gives Jojen an odd stare. “You know, mum told me not to talk
to any of the guests. She said they wouldn’t want me bothering them. Am I
bothering you?”
“No, not at all.” Jojen shakes his head. “Remember, I wanted you to be here.
You’re doing me a favor by making sure I don’t die of boredom.”
Rickon grins at the response. “Good, because I think I like you.”
“I think I like you as well.”
Someone calls for Rickon, and on reflex, he grabs Jojen’s arm and drags him
further down the fields. If Jojen is upset or surprised by the manhandling, he
takes it with stride. “Over here!” Rickon says hastily. They move further into
an area of the woods, where they are less likely to be seen. When they are
finished running, Jojen asks about his behavior.
Rickon clarifies the situation.
“Sorry, that was my caretaker, Osha. I…” Rickon looks down at his feet. “I got
into trouble recently, so if she sees me talking to you, I’ll be in big
trouble.”
I will be in big trouble, too, Jojen agrees. He’s not as worried as a man with
his record should be. “We’ll have to keep this our secret, then.”
Rickon agrees eagerly. He’s good at keeping secrets—better than Sansa is, at
least. Shame about that particular friendship, Jojen sighs.
Shaggydog, tired from all the running and catching, decides to rest underneath
the shade. Jojen asks what his crime was. He already knows what happened after
talking to Bran the other night, and when the rage subsided over Bran’s
accident, he soaked in the sound of Bran’s laughter. If Bran isn’t angry, then
neither is Jojen.
Rickon has the decency to look ashamed when he confesses he pushed his older
brother down the mall, and his wheelchair rolled out of control. “I didn’t
think he would go that fast.”
Jojen laughs, not finding the situation funny in the slightest but he needs to
soothe Rickon’s worries. “We all do crazy things for love.”
Rickon is quick to agree to the sentiment. He spends another ten minutes going
on and on about Shireen Baratheon and her beautiful scar, how smart she was,
how she’s learning how to do a bruges lace crochet and a broomstick lace
crochet, and she’s having a hard time with the former, and he wants to help but
he’s terrible with his fingers unless he’s punching something.
Jojen shares his own secrets; carefully omitting names and past events. He
tells Rickon he feels the same way about someone; he talks about how he wants
to treasure him and take him away from here. He wants to travel with him and
see the world by his side. Rickon agrees wholeheartedly.
“You should. I think he’d like that.”
“Thank you, Rickon.”
At last, Rickon decides it’s time to get back. “Osha will kill me if I stay out
any longer.”
Jojen agrees. “I hate to see you die.” Then he pauses. He hated if their
meeting became a missed opportunity. Before Rickon leaves, Jojen makes an
unassuming and generous offer to always be there for him. He does not mind
lending an open ear, or a helping hand when playing with Shaggydog. Rickon
approves, happy to have an extra friend to spend his time with—especially one
living so close.
Jojen is whistling when he returns home. Meera is immediately suspicious, but
Jojen pacifies her by saying he was enjoying the finer areas of the Stark
Estate. He gives details of his discoveries, of the baby violets growing beside
the dirt pathways and dry rocks that feel like charcoal upon touch. The
description convinces Meera to pardon the potential wrongdoings. He wants to
feel bad; Meera has always defended him, but he’s absolutely giddy with his
progress.
There’s no possibility of reconciliation with Sansa. He needs someone on his
side, someone to get him into that house undetected and welcomed. He chose
Sansa before because she was accessible, and his friendship with her would not
have raised any red flags. Now, he has a better way in. Rickon and Bran are the
closest of their other siblings. Yes, Rickon is a fine option.  
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter: Sansa/Arya bonding, the Baratheons arrive. Robert
     meets Jon.
     2. Sometimes I lie awake on my phone, doing revisions on previous
     chapters. Ch. 4’s conversation between Arya and Jaime has changed and
     the ending to Ch. 5 was altered. I also lengthened the Jaquen/Arya
     interaction in Ch. 13.
     3. Bran/Jojen get some love in Ch. 24
     4. There was minor, heated discussion that occurred recently about
     the quality of the books vs. the television series. I agree that this
     story’s commentary section is not the platform for that. You have
     every right to discuss your disapproval. But please do not attack
     other people’s opinions. There are parts of the books I like and
     dislike. For example, I hate Tyrion learning how to ride pigs,
     because it felt very degrading to his character. There are parts in
     the television series I like and dislike. Like Dorne. Dorne was not
     good.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Three days after the Reeds move in, the Baratheons follow. On the morning of
their arrival, Arya finishes her training and tells her family that she needs a
ride to the mall.
“For what?” Her mother asks. Her tone is equivalent to a warden in a prison
complex. She’s been on edge since the Reeds came and her fight with Jon has
left her in a tense, self-loathing state of mind and a need to dominate
everything she comes in contact with, regardless if it's as uncontrollable as a
hurricane or as agreeable as a flower bud in spring. Arya is certainty someone
she has no luck reigning in. The last time she seriously tried to inflict a
punishment, her youngest daughter responded by running away from home. For a
year.
Today, she is itching to enact some discipline. Though she loves her daughter,
she refuses to be one of those mothers whose fear of abandonment keep them from
administrating a proper grounding, a necessary spanking, or both. Arya is her
daughter, and it is her job to raise her. She can play a bluff with the best of
them, and Arya knows this. That’s why Arya looks her straight in the eye and
says she’s going shopping for shoes.
 “We just bought you a new pair of flats two weeks ago,” Catelyn points out.
She’s suspicious.
 “I need them for the wedding.”
Everyone quiets. All her siblings just stare at her in shock. Her father, who
is at the table, puts down his newspaper. He hates lying, and will not stand
for such an obvious one in his own home. “Arya, why do you really need to go to
the mall?”
Arya rolls her eyes. "I need shoes." Bran whispers to his brother something
that sounds like an accusation. Arya could smack him, but instead shrugs off
their skepticism. “What? I buy shoes.”
 “You buy ballet flats,” Ned says pointedly. “And then you beat them, burn
them, carve them up with a razor.”
“First, that’s called breaking them in.” She rolls her eyes. “Second, I need
shoes. You know I need shoes. I haven’t needed formal footwear since I was
twelve and I outgrew the ones I have.”
 “And I suppose the fact that the Baratheons are moving in today has nothing to
do with it.”
“The Baratheons moving in today has everything to do with it,” Arya retorts. “I
was going to wait until the day of the wedding and miss the entire ceremony and
then come only for the reception. My master plan is now ruin.”
No one knows if Arya is serious or not. Arya hates public events. She hates
going shopping. She hates Joffrey more than she hates shopping and public
events, and that is a feat.
Still caught in their disbelief, no one makes a move. Finally, Sansa stands up.
She has just finished her breakfast, and offers to drive Arya to the mall. She
also invites herself on her sister’s shopping trip. “I could use a pair of
shoes myself. I’m still trying to come up with the design for my dress and
maybe a new pair will inspire me.”
Their parents agree without hesitation, and ignore the potential consequence of
their actions. Their daughter has expensive tastes.
She tells Arya to get ready, and she’ll meet her at the car. Arya groans about
being treated like a child, but complies nonetheless. This is not a fight she
wants to waste her get out of jail card on. When they reach the car, however,
she is free to complain to her older sister about the injustice inflicted upon
her. 
“I don’t need you to keep an eye on me,” Arya informs her older sister. The
chagrin is melting on top of her tongue. 
 “But our parents do,” Sansa retorts.
 They head to the mall, in which Sansa plays her own playlist and forces her to
listen to repeats of the Billboard Top 100. Arya enjoys a good pop song every
now and then, but refuses to admit it. She asks Sansa if she ever listens to
anything tasteful, like Yiruma or Turnage. Sansa quips that she has seen Arya’s
playlist and its more Nicki Minaj than Beethoven. Arya flips her off, and says
she’s versatile.
 “That’s what she said.”
 Arya stares at her sister in shock. “Did you just—?”
Sansa is focused on the road and doing a horrible job at disguising her grin.
Arya bursts out laughing, and Sansa follows suit. Arya tells her to hurry up
and get to the mall. If there is one thing the two of them are grateful for, it
is that the year apart made them closer than ever. People always appreciate
their loved ones more when they realized they might not always have them
around.  They agree to be educated young women and switch to the news channel
where they hear reports on the serial killer and how human bones were found in
the excrement of dogs. Arya switches it to an old school station filled with
nineties R&B. 
They get to the mall, and Sansa asks where she wants to go. Arya shrugs and
suggests the department store, saying any pair will do as long as it matches
her dress and her soles touch the floor. Sansa stares longingly at the window
displays of the designer tycoons, and keeps recommending a look each time they
pass a new one.
 Arya sighs. “Sansa, money is like insurance. Just because we have it doesn’t
mean we should put it to use.”
 Sansa pouts, but can’t deny the logic. She tells a pair of Jimmy Choo’s
goodbye and waves farewell like she would a lover going to war. After blowing a
kiss to a sparkling pair of stilettos, Arya submits. She tells her sister “one
store” and then they are going home. Sansa almost squeals in the delight, and
Arya will not lie; her sister’s smile is beautiful.
 The saleswoman greets them politely, a little hesitation reserved for youths
but respectful nonetheless. She asks if they are looking for anything and Sansa
is quick to say they are looking for shoes for a wedding. Sansa is not so tacky
as to point out whose wedding they need it for, but she is smart enough to
remark that it needs to be from a new season so that “it does not look out of
place in July.” Then, she hints that Arya just bought a dress and describes the
detail with such extravagance, even Arya believes she bought such a thing. The
woman fills in the blanks for herself, and immediately offers them a look into
their newest collection.
 Sansa mentions being thirsty and they offer her and Arya water bottles and
cookies from a nearby bakery. “Would you like plain or sparkling?”
 “Plain,” Sansa answers. Her eyes focused on a pair of sparkling blue heels. 
 “Same,” Arya copies, far less interested.
 They look around, and Arya asks if they have anything flat.
 The salesperson does, but suggests heels anyway. “Heels will look wonderful on
someone with your posture.”
Arya does not doubt it. “Heels thicken and shorten the Achilles’s tendon and
potentially pulls muscles and joints out of alignment with the pelvic and the
spine,” Arya informs. “I don’t wear heels unless I have to.”
Sansa rolls her eyes, and to the salesperson’s relief, says that Arya’s “pointe
shoes probably cause more damage than two inches ever will.” The woman asks if
she's a dancer, and Arya says yes. She leaves to find her a pair.
While they wait, Sansa grabs the shoes she’s been eying and also a gorgeous
crystal mix pump. Even Arya appreciates them. Instead of complimenting Sansa’s
choice, she asks her “Isn’t that a bit out of your price range?”
Sansa smiles. “I’m already saving father a fortune by not buying the dress. I’m
sure he won’t mind if I go a bit overboard on the shoes.”
Arya sighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be adjusting to a life of banality?”
Sansa scoffs. “Trust me, Sandor isn’t banal.” She tries on the dark blue ones
first, hoping she might love them enough to forgo the beauty of the others.
There’s still a dozen she has to try on and it’ll save her and parents’ strife
if she only buys the one. “Besides, it’s not like being with him means I have
to give up the finer things in life.”
“You know, if you hadn’t mentioned Sandor’s name, this story could have passed
the Bechdel test.”
“What?”
“Just saying, it wouldn’t kill two intelligent young women to talk about
something other than men.”
It is Sansa’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Arya, for my internal
sexism. Please, tell me, what are your thoughts on Britain leaving the European
Union?”
“Well, I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit concerned about how the Stark
Industries’ stock is dropping but since our company has ties to the US, I think
we’ll be alright. It’s only the European markets that are truly worrisome, and
let’s be honest, it was time for us to leave that sinking ship anyways, and
Germany was being a bit of a bitch. Of course there’s Scotland threatening to
leave again—”
“Which isn’t going to happen because Scotland is always threatening to leave.”
 “Hey if I could do it…”
 Sansa laughs in spite of herself. “Okay, okay, I get it. I'm putting the
women’s movement back a few years.”
“Well, if you can live with yourself than I guess I have to…” Arya mock sighs.
“So what’s going on with you? Is Sandor treating you all right?”
“He treats me like a princess.”
“Even if he can’t afford a pair of thousand dollar heels?” Arya teases.
Sansa hums. She lifts her foot up and admires them thoughtfully. “Even if he
can’t, I can—one day at least. It’s not like I plan on relying on mum and dad’s
money for the rest of my life.”
 “But you’re okay risking,” she motions to the store. “all of this?”
 Sansa repeats her sentiment. Her conviction is as strong as it was before,
when Arya first caught the two of them together. “If I wanted to shrivel into
an old, loveless crone with a room of nice things, I would have stayed with
Joffrey.” 
Arya approves of the sentiment. She was apprehensive of their love at first,
mostly because she knows Sandor, has heard of his reputation and understands
the man is dangerous. She never wants to see her sister get hurt, but at least
Sandor can protect her blood. She looks at Sansa again, and sees her maturing
into the woman she's always wanted to be. 
 They’ve all gotten so old.
 “Speaking of Joffrey…”
 “Arya…” Sansa warns. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about men.”
 “Joffrey’s far from a man. He’s a deranged little bitch, the kind with three
legs instead of four and is too small to do anything but bark and pee.”
 Sansa giggles. It’s taken a while before she could laugh about Joffrey. “Okay,
ask away.” The salesperson comes out to deliver the new pairs of shoes. Sansa
takes a moment to coo at them. For flats, they are lovely. “Try them on! Try
them on!” She cheers.  
Arya complies with Sansa’s request, puts on the sheer ones with polka dots.
While admiring how they look on her feet, she asks Sansa why she never told
their parents about what happened.
 “You know why,” Sansa says. She does not look angry, but tired that she has to
repeat the answer.
 “I want to hear it again. To see you if you still believe it.”
 “How many times will it take for you to be convinced?”
 “The same amount of times you needed to repeat it yourself.”
 Sansa sighs. “Father always says you’re too smart for your own good.”
 “He’s not the only one.”
 Sansa shakes her head. She asks the woman for another pair she’s seen in the
catalogue. She leaves them alone and begins. “Remember when I first met
Joffrey? I thought he was the most handsome boy in the world; he looked just
like a prince, like the one sin the fairytales mum used to tell us when we were
children.”
 “I hated those fairytales.”
 “But I loved them,” Sansa confesses. “I loved them so much I wanted my own
prince. I wanted to be a princess and live in a castle and have the prettiest
dresses and the loveliest necklaces and rings and I wanted all the cutest
puppies and have tea parties and eat lemon cakes and I thought Joffrey would
give me that.” Sansa smiles to herself. It’s sad and regretful and all the
things she felt about the past. “When he first hit me, I forgave him. He told
me he would never do it again. He gave me a pretty necklace and said he loved
me. The next time he hit me, he bought me a dozen pink roses and my favorite
chocolates and said he was sorry—again. And he kept doing this, and I kept
forgiving him because I truly believed he loved me.”
 “Sansa—”
 “When I decided to leave him the first time, he called me a whore. He asked me
what he needed to buy to get me to stay. Because that’s all I wanted, right?
Things. I was some whore he could buy and beat.” 
 “Sansa, you know you’re not—”
 “I know,” Sansa snaps. She looks away, a bit ashamed of herself. “I know now.
But back then, he was so convincing. He made me believe it was my fault I got
hit, that I was using him and I deserved it. And why wouldn’t believe him? He
was first boyfriend! That’s life for a fourteen-year-old girl.” Sansa shakes
her head. “I was so ashamed of myself. He kept telling me he would tell our
parents what I did, what I was doing. He said they raised a whore. That they
would be so ashamed of me.”
“They wouldn’t believe that.”
 “I know, but all that mattered was that I believed him.” Sansa has a far off
look. “But one day, Joffrey went too far. He never touched my face, said he
liked me pretty, but he…I was hurt, Arya. I could have died. And Sandor, he was
working for them at the time, was furious.”
 Arya stays silent.
 “He promised me he would take care of it.”
 “And he did.”
 Sansa looks down. She has a soft, distant smile on his face. “He did.”
 Joffrey Baratheon got into a car crash a few years ago that led to his
rehabilitation. Earlier that night, he was caught at a bar screaming about how
he was the king and attempted to execute everybody with an ancestral crossbow
his grandfather kept. He ran out of arrows and ran to escape form imaginary
ghosts. Reports said he was already beaten and mangled when he came, but other
claimed it was from the crash. His tox screen was through the roof.
 Arya remembers it vividly. She then asks why mom and dad needed to be kept in
the dark. They know what kind of person he was; they would never blame her.
“But they would blame themselves.” Sansa explains. “They introduced us. Joffrey
was a good actor, then. Everyone thought we were the perfect couple, and mum
and dad were so happy that we were together. Another Stark marries their first
love. Uncle Robert and father would joke about how they would finally be a
family. And I…when the crash occurred and Joffrey’s problems were uncovered,
they would ask, every single night, what happened between us, why we broke up
so suddenly, what did he do to me? Mother was already killing herself over Bran
and you…” Sansa looks guilty. Arya knows why. That was the year before she
left. She was already out of the door by then.  “I couldn’t do that to them. I
can’t do that now.”
 Arya is not satisfied with that answer. She knows she’ll never be satisfied.
“It’s not right. He deserves justice for what he did to you.”
 “We all have our secrets.” Sansa gives her a pointed look. “I know you have
secrets. Good ones. Ones you’ll take to the grave.”
 Arya stares at her. She's not denying it, but hell if she confesses
anything. “What makes you think that?”
 Sansa stares at her in disbelief. “What happened to you? You completely
disappeared without so much as a note, and then after a year, you come back.
Mum was so happy for her prodigal daughter; she was too afraid to ask. So tell
me, what happened?”
 “Mother and father tried to control my life and stop me from dancing. I left.”
 “What happened when you left?”
 Arya refuses to say anything. “That’s private.”
 “Why should I tell my secrets and you don’t have to tell yours?”
"Because it's different.”
 “How?”
 “My secrets protect myself. Your secrets protect other people—people who
shouldn’t be protected.”
 The saleslady comes back with a new pair. She asks if the young women needed
more alone time to talk. She does not sound aggravated, and appears
sympathetic. She puts a comforting hand on Sansa’s shoulder, which makes Arya
raise an eyebrow. The woman could afford to look less like guilty for
eavesdropping.
 Sansa, in all her grace, thanks her but wants to know more about the bespoken
Cinderella slippers. The woman cheerfully explains that they are custom made
and designed to fit the user perfectly. Arya looks down at the shoes she’s been
trying on forever, and decides to give it one last test run.
To the surprise of the saleswoman and Sansa, Arya does a pirouette perfectly
much to the squeals of Sansa, who shouts that the shoes are “600 pounds, you
monkey!” Arya laughs as removes them from her feet and says she’ll take them.
The woman shakily says she’ll ring them up.
When they get to the cash register, there’s a man paying for his purchase as
well. He’s a man of short stature, blond hair and high regality, and Arya and
Sansa recognize him immediately. Arya wonders if this shall be summer of
reckoning. It seems everyone’s past will come to haunt them.
 “Mr. Lannister,” Sansa greets politely. Whether she does so out of courtesy or
guilt for a man who is often overlooked or both, no one can be sure.
Regardless, Sansa has always been fond of the youngest Lannister, especially
when he’d offered his protection from Joffrey, time and time again. "What are
you doing here?" 
“Business, though today it's rather personal. I'm buying a gift for my
girlfriend. The wedding of the century is coming up and we must be prepared.”
Tyrion replies, as easygoing as always. “I assume you’re doing the same.”
 “Of course,” she agrees. “Do you need any help?”
 Tyrion shakes his head. “No, my love was extremely specific in what she
wanted. I think she’ll throw a fit if I dare deviate. I see you only bought one
pair.”
 “Yes, it’s for my sister.”
 Tyrion places his brown eyes on Arya, and there’s a flash of recognition.
 “Arya.”
 “Tyrion.”
 Sansa looks at them back and forth. “Do you two know each other well?”
 Arya smirks. “I know all the Lannisters.”
 “Some better than others. All better than me.”
 “We could change that if you want,” Arya offers suggestively. 
 Tyrion chuckles, amused by the suggestion while Sansa looks horrified. “No,
thank you. Not a day goes by where I don’t worry about my head when he’s
alive—I don’t need to be concern about my cock, too.”
 Sansa has had enough. She says they have to get going, and is pulling out her
credit card when Tyrion stops her. “Let me pay for this, I insist.” 
 “Oh, I couldn’t—” Sansa refuses, already shoving her card in the direction of
the register. Tyrion’s black shines brighter than her gold. Arya does not lift
a finger in protest.
 “If he wants to pay for it, let him. We’re under no obligation to give him
anything in return.”
 “Arya, that’s—!”
 “She’s right,” Tyrion agrees. Sansa looks troubled. Tyrion pats her arm
sympathetically. “Sansa, let me tell you something and I want you to keep this
to heart for as long as you live. A man pays for dinner—you owe him nothing. A
man buys you shoes—you owe him nothing. Unless you specifically say you will
give him sex for money, you owe him nothing—and even then, you can retract that
offer like a dentist does a tooth. Bad for business if that’s your chosen
profession, but still, your choice.”
He slides the card towards them and tells them to charge it. The woman does so,
and happily hands the shoes to the ladies. She stares at Tyrion with newfound
admiration. Arya takes the bag.  
Sansa is not convinced. “Nothing in life is free.”
 “Smart girl.” Tyrion smiles. “Then, think of this as goodwill between the two
of us. Besides, I think this one,” he points to Arya, “has earned these shoes
and a million times over.”
 Arya agrees, much to Sansa’s chagrin. “Send your father my love.”
 “I will.”
 “You can exaggerate the story if you like.”
 “My cock, Arya. I like it very much.”
 “I could too if you tell the story right.”
 “Arya! Stop!” Sansa hisses. Arya tells her sister she isn’t serious. Tyrion is
amused by the commentary. He wishes them a good day, and perhaps, he suggests,
they keep in contact for any interesting news. “So much is going on this
summer.”
Arya winks at him and promises to give him an update if anything interesting
happens.  
When they get back into the car, Sansa is still screeching about what Arya
said. Arya is in a good mood, though, and tells Sansa to rest her vocal cords.
Her ears deserve some peace before they get home. When Sansa asks what she
means, Arya tells her that Tyrion is here for drama.
“Prepare for your ear drums because there’s a good deal of screaming when we
get home.”
***
After Robert and his children are settled in a separate wing, Ned takes Robert
to the patio to have a bottle of lager. They talk about old times at
university, and their rebellious teenager years at Westchester—(“your
rebellious teenager years, Robert,” Ned corrects), and lastly, marriage.
Catelyn is preparing dinner while the two wait. Robert thanks her for her
hospitality.
“I don’t know how you do it. Catelyn's a great woman, but staying with the same
woman your entire life? Waking up to the same face every morning? I’d kill
myself if I ever did that again.”
Ned chuckles and looks down. “I’d kill myself if I couldn’t see Cat’s face
every day. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s given me all
I’ve ever wanted.”
“And you’ve never been tempted, just a little, to stray? Look at another bird
crossing your path…”
 Ned shrugs. “I don’t like looking for trouble in a bad place when I have a
good thing at home. You don’t get many chances at love in this world.”
 Robert shakes his head in disbelief. “You know, Ned, you never ceased to amaze
me.”
 “I try.”
 Robert takes a swig of his beer. “There’s only one woman I've ever dreamed of
spending my life with…”
“Robert, no.”
“Your sister was the love of my life.”
 “No, she wasn’t.”
 “She belonged with me. If your sister had stayed, we would have been bound by
blood. Brothers, once and for all.”
 Ned shakes his head. “Robert, Lyanna couldn’t be tied down, not by our father,
not by you, and not by any man.”
 “When she left me at the altar, it was like a stake in my heart. I never knew
why she left.”
 She didn’t love you, goes unsaid. She hated the thought of living a lie, was
also muted. The statement raises another, more prevalent concern that needs to
be addressed.  “Robert, I need to tell you something. While you’re staying
here, you’ll also be living with…”
 “She would have never disobeyed me like Cersei did. She would have made me
happy, happier than that bitch ever did.”
Ned always gets uncomfortable when this topic came up. He loved Robert; the man
was a brother to him. But he would be lying if he said that he approved of
Robert’s actions or thoughts. The man had a mean bone in his body that was
aggravated by all the alcohol he inhaled. It was his crutch when times were
hard, and his ex-wife often suffered for it. Despite his feelings for her, he
knew that after Myrcella’s accident, he could not let his friend raise his
children. He never told Robert that he was the one who sent the case to
Stannis, knowing that the only man alive willing to fight the Baratheon name on
a legal case was another Baratheon.
 Catelyn interrupts them with a tired, pale face.
 “What’s the matter?” Ned asks.
 Catelyn grimaces. “There’s someone here for Robert.”
Robert raises an eyebrow and maneuvers himself to the dining room. Cersei sat
on the living room couch, drinking a glass of wine and looking as pleasant as
she always did in their far too long marriage. “Hello Robert.”
 “Hello Cersei.” Robert glares at her suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
 “I’m staying here. You didn’t think I would leave you alone with my children,
did you? Will this be a problem?”
 Ned watches them. That was civil enough.
 “That depends, have you stopped wanting to fuck your brother?”
 Ah, there it goes.
 The yelling began. Sansa and Arya came home, mid-way through the fighting and
neither of them wanted to deal with the drama. Arya manages to toss a glare
towards Cersei before going upstairs.
 Catelyn will have none of it. She breaks up the argument before it cumulates
in violence. “As long as the two of you are staying in our home, you will
behave as guests should. That means, you do not fight in front of my children.
You do not swear in front of my children. You do nothing that could set a bad
example to my children. You will not be staying here unless you can say
something nice about each other. Right now.”
 They are silent.
 “Now,” Catelyn threatens.
Robert looks at his best friend's wife. He looks at his own ex-wife and sighs.
“Even with all the evil weighing down your body, your breasts look pretty
good.”
Ned coughs. "Robert--"
"You heart must be as strong as a horse. It’s the only way you can drink the
way you do and not be dead.”  
"I know with all your crazy, you find it hard not to behave irrationally. I'm
impress you haven't killed someone."
Cersei purses her lips. "You must have been a genius in your youth, because
even with all the brain cells you lost, you can still formulate words." 
"Your money makes up for most of your bullshit." 
"I'll bet you'll do well in the cold with all the fat you've stored--"
"That's enough!" Catelyn intervenes. The two say nothing else. Catelyn will
consider it peace. 
The door opens on them and Jon announces he’s home. He comes into the living
room from his first day on the job at Stannis and Davos. He was supposed to be
starting tomorrow but was called in to help prepare one last family dinner. He
is worn and weary from the experience. He had forgotten what it was like to
have to divide his attention between four children.
He sees two unexplainable guests and cautiously walk towards them. He hates
greetings; he got that from his mother. With an awkward shuffle and great
reluctance, he goes up to the two and reaches in for a handshake. “Hi, I’m Jon,
Uncle Ned’s nephew.”
Cersei stares distastefully. Robert actually bursts out into laughter. “Ned,
you never told me you had nephew! I should have known Brandon managed to knock
someone up!”
Jon frowns. “I’m not Uncle Brandon’s son.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “You’re shitting me. That little sociopath managed to
copulate with a woman? He got over his fetish for old cocks, did he?”
“Uh…are you talking about Uncle Benjen?”
“Of course…” Robert stills. “Wait, if Brandon is your uncle and Benjen is your
uncle…” He turns to Ned and narrow his eyes. He goes up to his best friend, the
man he considers a brother, and in a heated whisper made louder by lowered
inhibitions, “Ned, why didn’t you tell me you cheated on Cat?”
Cersei groans. “For the love of God!” She puts down her wineglass. “He’s not
the honorable Ned Stark’s bastard son. Are you an idiot?”
“Don’t talk down to me, woman!”
Ned sighs. “Robert, this is Jon Snow. He’s Lyanna’s son.”
Silence. After a moment’s hesitation, Cersei starts laughing.
Hard, uncontrollable laughter. This is the happiest she’s been in her entire
marriage. She takes one last swig of her wine and walks away to her designated
room. She turns to Ned. “You can handle this.”
Ned remains solemn. Robert looks horrified.
“Ned, how long have you known about him?”
Ned sighs. “His entire life.”
Suddenly, Robert appears furious. “How could you keep my son away from me all
these years?”
“What?” 
“What?”
“He’s like what? Twenty? Twenty-one? I have to be his father! Me and
Lyanna…Ned, me and Lyanna did it. We had sex, there’s no one else it could have
been.”
Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar Targaryean, Oswell Whent…There are plenty of options. Jon
lists them in his head immediately. He hasn’t even gone through all of them
yet.
“Robert…”
“Sir, I don’t think you’re the only option.”
Robert pauses for a moment. Another horrifying conclusion hit him. “Was she
raped? Who did it? I’ll kill them.”
“No!”
“Are you sure? I think she was raped. She must have been raped. Jon, me and
Lyanna were in love?”
 Jon is taken back. His mother has maybe mentioned Robert Baratheon but if she
didn’t talk about him with any sort of fondness, there must have been nothing
there. Instead of dealing with him, he grabs his phone and does what he always
does when dealing with his wayward mother. He waits for the dial tone. 
“Jon?”
“Hey, I have a Robert Baratheon here claiming to my father…can you take care of
this?”
A woman demands something in French over the phone, and Lyanna replies harshly.
“Hand the phone over to him.”
Jon obeys. “It’s my mother.”
Robert is so excited; he latches onto the device. Before he can say anything,
Lyanna’s ice cold response shuts him down.
“Hey Robert. Sorry about leaving you at the altar twenty years ago but Jon’s
not your son. He’s too pretty. Okay, bye.” 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Chapter 22 was one of my favorite chapters to write. It was
     previously the longest chapter I’ve ever written until I finished
     chapter 23. Lyanna Mormont makes an appearance. There’s some Davos/
     Stannis action.
     2. My newest story is up. It’s a three-part story and my first foray
     into the alpha/omega genre. The first part is centered on Howland/Ned
     (with N+H=J) and covers Robert’s Rebellion and ends a little after
     Jon’s birth. The second part is focused on Robb/Jon, and the third
     part, as promised, is Jojen/Bran. There’s a lot of sex, and it’s
     pretty dark. If you read the first part, that’s the lightest it gets.
     3. I’m want to update on Sundays, and instead of posting an extra
     chapter a week or making you wait a few extra days, I’m slowing
     updating a day sooner each week. Because I’m weird like that.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
     There’s some Davos/Stannis action here. It starts with “Don’t make me
     say it.”  And ends with “STANNIS! I need to—what the hell is going on
     here?” 
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Since the Baratheons arrived, the Stark household has become a physical
manifestation of Pac-Man. Everyone, from the Starks, the Reeds, the Lannisters,
and the Baratheons, takes turns at being the ghosts. They want to evade, and
they want to capture.
Arya and Sansa avoid Joffrey. Joffrey, while not looking for either of the
girls (and simultaneously not not looking), is avoiding his father. His father
is trying to seek out all his children (and Jon), because damn it, he wants to
be a better man so “come back here you little shits,” but with the exception of
Tommen, he does not succeed. Myrcella, sweet little thing who looks at Robb
like he hung the moon, is trying to avoid her father and mother, because she
has an audition to practice for, and will not trade precious rehearsal time for
all the gold her mother can offer (though she’s willing to negotiate if the
offer is Robb). She stares longingly at the eldest Stark boy when he’s not
looking, and Robb does not notice or does not care. Cersei does, and considers
blackmailing her daughter in order to take her shopping, but throws the idea in
the back of her head. She’s too busy avoiding her ex-husband, like Robert
avoids her. They run into each other against their will, because the Starks did
not bother to accommodate their wishes to live in separate houses.
“Uninvited guests do not get to make demands,” Catelyn coldly informs. It was
the happiest declaration she’s made all week, especially after the night with
Jon and Robb.
Tommen avoids Rickon because the redhead terrifies him. Like his father, Rickon
finds him anyways, and demands he come with him to follow Shireen. Tommen
argues that stalking is wrong, and an invasion of privacy.
“Don't be stupid. If watching people is so bad, then why does everyone do it?”
“People don’t…”
“My father does it. He keeps cameras on all of us. It’s for our protection.
Robb does it. He makes sure that bad men aren’t mean to his friends. I’m a
Stark. We protect people. That’s what Starks do. Some people need to be watched
over. Some people want to take other people away from the ones they love.”
“I don’t think…”
“Why are so adamant in keeping me from Shireen?” Rickon glares at the boy. “Are
you trying to take her away from me? Huh? Are you?”
Tommen denies the accusation. “Shireen is my cousin!”
Rickon rolls his eyes. “Like that means anything, pervert.”
Tommen says Rickon is scary. Shireen won’t like him if he’s—Rickon hits him and
says if he doesn’t shut up, he’ll hit him again. Sometimes, Tommen cries.
Rickon tells him to suck it up and be a man. Tommen cries harder. No one knows
why Rickon drags the youngest blond on his adventures except for Catelyn and
Sansa. The answer is human sacrifice. Rickon simply wants a scapegoat in case
he gets caught.
During his grounding and Bran’s volunteering, Rickon spends a great deal of
time with Jojen. Jojen, who is nice and plays with him without treating him
like a burden, asks a lot of questions about Bran. Rickon knows there’s
something odd about that, especially when the questions become requests to
retrieve goods from Bran’s room, like pants or pens with bite marks. Rickon is
not stupid; that shit is weird. But just when he’s about to question Jojen’s
behavior, the older boy talks about a secret pathway to the Baratheon house and
the concerns disappear from the Stark’s mental vicinity. Rickon has more than
the Tully coloring—he has extreme tunnel vision and it is a horrible attribute
for a child as reckless as him.
In exchange, Rickon reveals day to day notes on Bran. He’s careful not to
reveal anything too embarrassing about his brother. He reminds himself of how
sickeningly nice Bran is, and Rickon doubts there’s a person in this world who
wants to hurt him. Rickon does, however, question Jojen’s motives when the Reed
starts asking about his mother’s whereabouts.
“I just need to know if she’s in the house or not. Specifically, when Bran is
home.” Jojen smiles. “It’s nothing nefarious, I promise.”
Rickon does not know what ‘nefarious’ means but he doubts Jojen’s honesty.”
“But why would you need to know when my mum—”
“You know, I found the strangest tree yesterday. I was looking for some time
alone and imagine my disappointment when I turned my head and saw that it was
right across from Shireen Baratheon’s bedroom window…"
Well played.
So occasionally, Rickon texts Jojen about his mother’s whereabouts. Eye for an
eye, right? He comes to the conclusion that if Jojen is really dangerous,
there’s no way his dad would allow him to live with them.
Jojen absorbs the information like a crack addict. Halfway through the week, he
grows bold. He enters the Stark home when it is practically empty, and watches
Bran from his doorway when he’s enraptured in a book or obsessed with his
latest drawing. It is a little creepy, but Summer looks out for Bran twenty-
four hours of a day, so what’s the difference with Jojen doing the same?
While watching him, Jojen notices that Bran is avoiding his eldest brother. The
act is quite hard, especially with how Robb is trying to fill the void in his
heart by pressuring his siblings to spend time with him.
Bran feels guilty for giving up Jon’s phone number to Willas. He knows that it
is only a matter of time before Willas calls and Robb finds out. Then, he will
throw a fit. Maybe he will cry. But in the end, as Robb is with all his
enemies, he will be out for blood, and Bran does not want to be marked as a
traitor. Bran does not know Willas that well, but he knows that guys like
Willas get what they want. Always. Willas will make Jon his and it will be all
Bran’s fault.
Robb, out of all his siblings, has his work cut out for him. He is avoiding his
parents, for practical reasons. He is avoiding Jon, for obvious reasons. He is
avoiding Theon, for no reason. While he knows it is unfair to ignore the older
boy so fervently (it was Robb’s idea to make Jon jealous after all), Robb can’t
fight the feeling that maybe, quite possibly, just a little bit, Theon went too
far on purpose. Theon has never liked Jon. Robb wouldn’t be surprised if Theon
stirred up the pot to get Jon upset. It’s an unlikely theory, but Robb cannot
shake off his suspicions. His main concern is that Theon will do something
stupid in their time apart. Theon always gets into trouble when Robb is not
there to reign him in.
To further his cause, Robb begins facilitating bonding time with his siblings.
He takes Sansa out shopping and he offers to teach Arya how to drive. Robb’s
timing was impeccable. Arya, who is growing increasingly annoyed by Sansa and
her incessant questioning on her relationship with the Lannisters, is desperate
to get out of the house. Arya is so grateful, she does not call out Robb for
spying on Jon in their basement.
While Jon is scared to face Robb, he does not avoid him. He’s played a coward
too many times, and he is the one who broke up with Robb so he deserves to be
tortured by the man’s handsome face and gloomy disposition. Robb makes it
unbearably easy for him. On the other hand, Jon is a complete coward and a
vengeful son of bitch, so he avoids his Aunt Cat and refuses to give her a
chance to apologize. The guilt from his actions makes him avoid her further
because shit—he is a horrible nephew and human being.
Speaking of assholes, Jon is avoiding Theon because he’s positive that he will
punch that dick in the face.
Aunt Cat and Uncle Ned do not approve of violence in their home.
They would have to be in the same room together, however, for them to enact a
punishment. That’s not happening because Aunt Cat, after her incident with Jon,
is too ashamed to face her husband.
Ned is at a crossroad of emotions. He’s looking at a wall filled with red,
yellow, green, and blue yarn, trying to keep track of the failed relationships
he’s witnessed the last couple of days. He follows all of his children on his
cameras and does not like what he’s seeing. He thinks everybody is avoiding
him, because whenever he approaches someone to talk, they run away. Ned does
not notice the people walking behind him, and assumes that it is he, who is
separating his family. He does not know what he’s doing wrong, but he intends
to change it.
The only person who is not avoiding him is Robert, except Robert is obsessed
with getting Jon’s DNA. He’s desperate to prove that Jon is his biological son,
and develops a diabolical plan to compel Lyanna into an expired shotgun
wedding.
“Where is he, Ned?”
Ned reluctantly replies, “At work.”
Because Ned already refused to let him collect DNA directly from his room,
Robert is forced to get Jon’s consent on the matter. “Where does he work?”
“At your brother’s.”
“What?”
“Robert, Jon works for Stannis. He—” Before Ned can finish his question, Robert
is marching out the door. He asks to borrow Ned’s car, and takes his keys
without waiting for a reply.
“—is his nanny. He works next door.” Ned sighs. At least that will get Robert
out of his hair for a while and keep Jon safe.
That morning, Stannis offers his protection to Jon from Robert, his ex-lover,
and his aunt, by telling him to get his “ass to their house as soon as
possible. I saw that freak looking through our windows.” Jon complies. He tries
to look for the youngest Stark beforehand, but fails to find any trace of him.
Jon does not want to make any assumptions, but he’s dead sure Stannis is right.
Rickon would not be avoiding him if he wasn’t guilty as sin.
Stannis may hate the Stark boy, but he’s grateful for the catalyst in his
domestic sphere. Jon has developed a newfound dedication to his job, and an
undeniable loyalty to his employer. He does not defend the little ingrate, but
instead apologizes for his cousin’s actions and swears to punish him when he
gets ahold of him. Furthermore, Stannis cannot remember such a rapid reaction
time to a request. Jon has been sending him thirty minute reports since he got
to their house, and texting efficient and grammatically correct updates on his
children.
Davos is going through last month’s numbers when he stops midway his report to
tease Stannis about his homesickness. Stannis glowers. “Don’t be silly. I know
Jon can handle himself. There’s only three of them this time. Devan can take
care of himself.” Somewhat.
Davos is unconvinced. “It’s okay to miss our children. We’ve been spending
every day with them for the past week. It’s normal to feel overwhelmed by the
distance.”
Stannis flushes at the wording. Our children. Not Stannis’s child. Not Davos’s
children. Not Davos and Marya’s children. Their children. Five years, and he’s
still red as an apple. Davos heads over to Stannis’s side and puts the reports
on the table. He motions Stannis to stand so he can hold him, and places his
hands on Stannis’s hips. He kisses him.
“We’re at work,” Stannis protests.
“You are the CEO of Baratheon Inc. You are the owner of the largest hedge fund
company in England. No one can come in without your say so. Enjoy it, Stannis.
You’ve earned it.”
The words do something magical to Stannis. He cranes his neck to give Davos
better access. Davos complies with a trail of happy kisses. Stannis moans,
loudly, and Davos asks Stannis what he wants.
“I want…” Stannis turns red. He’ll be happy with anything. But then there’s
always that one thing they can’t do because it makes Stannis scream. “For you
to…to do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That…that thing you like to do. The dirty thing. With your tongue.” Stannis
looks down. He gets frustrated with himself. “Don’t make me say it.”
Davos kisses Stannis again and says he would love to do ‘that thing’ for him.
Stannis nervously turns around. He cannot see Davos getting on his knees, but
he can hear Davos dropping to the floor. Davos pulls down the waistband of his
husband’s pants. He caresses Stannis’s ass and expresses his admiration with
kisses and squeezes. Stannis shivers in anticipation. He wants his husband to
get on with it; he wants to feel his tongue inside him.
Davos pulls Stannis’s cheeks apart until they are wide enough that he can see
the winking pucker. He leans closer and puts his thumbs inside Stannis and
spreads his hole until it accommodates the intrusion. Without hesitation,
Davos’s tongue enters his hole and begins licking the inside until he’s sloppy
and wet like a cunt. He sucks and licks and probes deeper and deeper until
Stannis is clawing on the table. He tries to push onto the tongue but Davos
holds his hips in place. The next couple of minutes are torturous.
Davos pauses and takes a look at the swollen entrance, all cute and wanton, and
desperately aching for some fulfillment. He slaps the ass, and takes a good
look at Stannis’s cock and ball, all hard and leaking. “Do you want my cock or
my hole when I’m done?”
“Later,” Stannis groans out. “I’ll decide when you’re finished.”
Davos grins and goes back to eating Stannis out. He could continue forever, but
the thought of them both getting off inspires Davos to hasten his pace. Stannis
is so close to coming untouched, that he never expects, after five years, to be
reminded how much he hates his brother.
“STANNIS! I need to—what the hell is going on here?”
Within seconds, Stannis trips over himself trying to escape Robert’s perverted
gaze. He crashes to the grounds, and struggles like a worm hit by a spade. His
face is on the floor. His pants are wrapped around his knees. He spends a good
couple of minutes trying to clean himself up while Davos stares at Robert with
admirable coolness and nonchalance. He would help his husband up, but that
would only add insult to his already wounded pride.
Robert marches forward. Stannis, finally dressed, reaches for Davos’s hand. He
dusts himself off and turns to his older brother. Davos and Stannis stand, side
by side, to face Robert. Robert grumbles something about having another “poof
in the family” and takes a seat.
“Stannis, I need to talk to you about something.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Robert’s eyes narrow. He glances over at Davos and nods at him. “It’s a family
issue. I suggest sending your secretary off somewhere.”
Stannis bristles. “Davos is family, and he’s not my secretary. He helps run the
company.”
Robert scoffs. “If he’s a brother, I’ve never met him. Though apparently he
sucks enough dick to qualify.”
“He is your brother in law and you met him five years ago—at our engagement
party.” And after that, there was no way he was inviting Robert to their
wedding.
“Fuck me! Aren’t you married to that crazy redhead?”
Stannis almost beats him over with a stapler. Davos holds Stannis back. He
turns to the older Baratheon and introduces himself. “Davos Seaworth, it’s good
to see you again. I am happy to say that Stannis has been my husband for a good
five years and that lapse in judgement is severely over with.”
Robert shakes his hand hesitantly. “Guess since my brother can’t please a
woman, he decided to become someone else’s, huh?” Robert laughs heartily at his
own joke. Stannis twitches, and Davos is quick to change the subject.
“Perhaps, we can move onto why you are here.”
Robert agrees. Stannis has never had a decent sense of humor. “I’m here to talk
about Jon.”
“No.”
Robert is taken back. “What?”
Stannis pauses. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so used to shutting down your inane plans
that I wasn’t listening. Who was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Jon Snow, your employee.”
“Oh, in that case: no. Have a pleasant day, Robert. Don’t come back.” Ever.
Burn at the stake or get buried in a ditch somewhere.
“Listen Stannis, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Jon Snow—”
“—is Lyanna Stark’s son. I know. He told me.”
Robert clenches his fist. “When the fuck was this?”
“A long time ago,” Stannis lies. “He’s my nanny. Of course I would do a
thorough background check on the man who takes care of my children. Did you
honestly think I would let some stranger inside my home?” That was exactly what
he did. In his defense, Davos was quite convincing, and the children did love
him. Besides, when has Davos’ gut ever been wrong?
“He’s your nanny? What the—so he’s not here?”
“Of course not. He’s at home with the kids. And you are not allowed anywhere
near him,” Stannis declares firmly. “I’ve been through sixteen nannies. I can’t
afford to lose him.”
“Did you know that he could be my son?”
Stannis scoffs. Jon Snow could be anybody’s son. Lyanna Stark was and is a
very…popular woman. “I doubt that’s a fact or you wouldn’t be here.”
“But there’s a chance! I have to find out.”
“And what happens if you’re not the one? Will it finally get it through your
head that Lyanna did not want you?”
“Lyanna and I were—”
“—in love. I know. You told me. You told everyone. But the thing is you weren’t
in love.” Stannis pretends to be putting away some papers. “And even he is your
son, Jon is twenty-one years old. He’s an adult. He doesn’t need a father
figure, and his mother did fine without you. You want to use this to claim
Lyanna and let me tell you something: that doesn’t work. Children don’t keep
relationships alive. Your partner does. You do.”
Robert slams his fist on Stannis’s desk and gets up. Davos takes a protective
stance and steps in front of Stannis. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
Robert roars. “You think because you found someone who can stand you long
enough to walk down the aisle that you’re an expert? How long do you think this
will last, with your personality? He’ll be bored to death of you and when the
next best thing comes? That’ll be all you have. Money and a name.”
Stannis does not hold back. He can withstand the insults directed at him, but
Davos is his husband. He starts throwing out every dirty secret, every love
child, and derogatory name and broken skeleton at his older brother. He talks
about Robert’s black outs, the bruises on Cersei’s body after she got too
mouthy, how Stannis had to spend half his life cleaning up his mistakes. Robert
tells Stannis that his wives never loved him, one was force to marry him by her
father because she was pregnant, and then miscarried anyway, and the other only
wanted him for his money to fund a cult. They trade insults like stock. Davos
allows Stannis to handle it at the beginning, but when Robert attacks Shireen
and claims that Stannis failed her by letting her get sick, Davos demands he
leaves.
“What did you say to me?”
“That is our daughter you are talking about. I want you to leave.”
“Your daughter? Which one of you gave birth?” He mocks.
Davos stands up straighter. “I love that girl like my own. She is my child as
much as she is Stannis’s.”
Robert, whether he is impressed by Davos’ declaration, or tired of fighting
with his younger brother, leaves in a huff. He swears that he will get to the
bottom of Jon’s paternity, whether Stannis likes it or not.
When he leaves, Stannis curses his luck. He is about to grab his cell phone to
warn Jon but Davos already has his out. He begins texts at the speed of
millennial.
“Aren’t you going to call him?” Stannis asks.
“He’ll pick this up faster.” Davos tells Jon about Robert’s plans, and orders
him not to let him into the house no matter what. He also tells him to prepare
Stannis’s favorite meal, because he’ll be in a bad mood for the rest of the
night. When Davos sends the message, Stannis is completely sprung. He sinks his
head into his hands and grumbles about his upcoming meeting.
“You still have thirty minutes,” Davos points out.
“I can’t relax in thirty minutes.”
Stannis is never truly relaxed. “I can give you a massage.”
“I don’t want a massage; I want…” The words die on Stannis’s lips. He groans
miserably.
Davos and Stannis share the same thought. Stannis takes a deep breath and
follows through on an idea. He licks his lips and awkwardly looks up to Davos
with a mimicked expression of seduction. He’s stiff and anxious, and so
nervously he could bang his head on the mahogany desk and still not beat the
humiliation out of his head.
Davos is already hooked.
“Davos?”
“Yes?” Davos asks, a teasing note in his vote.
“I think I made my decision. About earlier.” Stannis whispers something in
Davos’s ear. The older man’s eyes widen, and then he chuckles. He pulls Stannis
towards him. They kiss.
“As you command, my lord.”
Jon is baking with Shireen when he receives the messages. He puts the phone
away, and returns his attention to the Baratheon sweetheart decorating cakes
with edible diamonds and pearls. Her brothers are in the living room watching
TV. They turned down Jon’s offer in the kitchen.
“You don’t get lonely being the only girl?”
Shireen shrugs. “It’s better than London.” She begins quilting the pink
delicacy with the precision of a surgeon. “When I was living with mother, she
wouldn’t let me talk to anybody, or go anywhere. I was home schooled because it
was ‘safer.’”
Jon frowns. He’d forgotten that Shireen didn’t live with her father until his
second marriage.
“Melisandre was nice, but scary,” Shireen explains when he asked about it. “She
tried to teach me about her faith, but her stories were boring and strange. So
I didn’t listen.” Shireen shrugs. “She told father that I should continue being
taught by her for a ‘proper’ education.”
“Your father let that happen?”
Shireen does not look at Jon. She is completely focused on the lines of the
cake. “When I was younger, father took me to an event with other children and
they made fun of me. Father didn’t know what to do.” She finishes her work and
moves on to the jewelry. She carefully organizes them in separate piles. “Davos
was at the hospital a lot. His wife was dying. Father tends to make bad
decisions when he’s sad and Davos isn’t around.”
Shireen smiles to herself. “But now Davos is here. He’s my second daddy now,
and father is happy and I have brothers and I have you and everything will be
okay. I’ll go to school, and Bran already promised me at least three friends
when I get there. They’ll be boys too, but I’m looking forward to it.”
Jon thinks about Ygritte and Val, and hopes that Shireen can find a few female
friends of her own. He doesn’t think its necessary, but Jon doesn’t want
Shireen thinking less of herself because she lacked female role models. Maybe
he should consider signing her up for a class, or asking his uncle if he knew
any families with girls Shireen’s age.
“In that case, do you want me to bring my cousins over more often?”
“Well, Bran was talking about his comic book he’s working on, and I’ve wanted
to see it. Rickon is nice, but he needs to stop watching me outside my window.”
Jon freezes.
“Don’t worry, I’m not angry. He’s just a kid, and I’m sure his crush will pass.
But when he gets older, it’ll be super creepy so you should establish some
boundaries. Plus, father might get an ulcer. The doctors are worried about his
stress levels.”
Jon clears his throat. “…I’ll talk to Rickon about that.”
Shireen returns to her counting. When she finishes, she frowns. “We’re don’t
have enough jewels.”
Jon looks over to her piles. “Can you make do with what you have?”
“No,” Shireen refuses. “If you’re going to do something, you do it right. We
have to go to the grocery store.”
Jon thinks about it. Davos did ask him to make something Stannis will like, and
Devan is old enough to watch his younger siblings for an hour—he probably won’t
kill them. Jon already prepared their snacks, and they’re pretty consumed with
the new television series they are binge-watching.
Sighing, Jon agrees to Shireen’s request. He tells her to grab her coat. While
she dashes upstairs, Jon heads to the living room to warn Devan. “Devan, I’m
going to the grocery store to pick up something for Shireen. Don’t let anybody
into the house unless they have a key and the security codes.”
“Then, I wouldn’t need to let them in.”
“Exactly, take care of your brothers.” Jon pauses, in case his message wasn’t
clear. “Oh, and your Uncle Robert is here so don’t let him in.”
Devan’s eyes haven’t left the screen. “Because Stannis would give his security
codes to the man who was caught banging his ex-wife at his engagement party to
his second wife. Yeah, I got it the first time.” Commercial break goes on and
he gets up. “Did you prepare snacks?”
“In the kitchen!” Jon yells at the doorway. Shireen comes rushing down and
waves her brother goodbye for the trip. Devan ruffles her head as she passes.
She tells Jon she’ll meet him at the car. As an afterthought,
Jon tells Devan: “Don’t let your siblings touch the cake!”
“Got it!”
“And take a break from the TV to do something productive!”
Devan rolls his eyes. “Jon, I have two dads. I don’t need a mom, too.”
Jon chuckles tells him goodbye. The second he closes the door; his phone gets a
text message.
‘Take me wit u 2 the store’
Jon is about to text him back. He wants to know how Rickon found out where they
were going, but then he receives another text.
‘Do this 4 me or I will do something stupid. Again.’
You shouldn’t be doing that anyways, Jon thinks. He texts back that he has to
ask Shireen.
‘K. Do it. Now.’
Jon groans and sees Shireen eagerly waiting at the car. After unlocking it, he
tells her that Rickon wants to come along but not if it makes her
uncomfortable. Shireen giggles and says it’s fine but he needs to stop watching
her through the windows.
Jon relays the message and is met with a hesitant ‘fine.’ He promises to stop
looking into her bedroom window but makes no such vows towards her living room.
“It’s for her own safety, he defends. “People are crazy.”
They pass the Stark entrance way and Rickon is already waiting outside. He gets
into the back, right behind Shireen who sits in the passenger seat. If Rickon
is upset, he doesn’t show it and stares longingly at Shireen’s backside. He
focuses on where her braids come together and opens up her face to show off her
scars. Shireen, with too much maturity for a fourteen-year-old, has long
stopped covering her flaws. If people want to look, let them.
They get to the grocery store and head to the bakery aisle. Rickon is quiet,
too quiet, but Jon chalks it up to him wanting to avoid a greater punishment
then the one he’s going to get when Jon informs Catelyn and Ned about his
behavior. For now, the youngest Starks settles for watching Shireen from a
polite distance.
While Shireen picks out her decorations, Jon thinks about what he’s going to
make tonight. He turns around and runs into a familiar face.
“Oh, sorry I wasn’t—oh. Hi.”
“Uh…”
Seeing Dacey Mormont in a grocery store feels equivalent to finding a bear in a
zoo. It is not an abnormal sight, and some might say it’s expected, but there’s
something wrong about the image. She coughs when Jon keeps staring at her. “Hi,
I’m Dacey. One of Robb’s friends…we met the other night. Sort of.”
Jon composes himself and holds out his hand. “Yeah, you called me. I’m Jon. I’m
sorry, I should have introduced myself then.”
Dacey shakes it. “No, it’s…alright. Robb was a right prat and Theon was…Theon
is an ass. I’m just going to say it. He’s an ass. I’m sorry you had to go
through that. I heard…” Dacey hesitates. “I heard you guys aren’t together
anymore.”
Jon shakes his head. “No, we’re officially over.” He tries to smile but fails.
“Are you still living with the Starks?”
Jon wonders how much she and the rest of Robb’s friends know about them. “Yeah,
I mean, they’re family.”
Dacey seems surprised. Then she grins. “That’s good of you. I’ve dated Robb
before and I know how he is. I’ve never seen him act that way, though.”
The news surprises Jon. “You did? What happened?”
Dacey shrugs. “We grew up? I was his first ‘girlfriend.’” She adds quotation
marks for emphasis. “We were twelve. Back then, it was just holding hands.”
Jon remembers his youth as a combination of Stark family dinners and private
jets across continents, playing doctor with a much younger Robb, having his
first kiss stolen by his best friend after getting pissed, losing his virginity
to Ygritte at seventeen, experimenting with Satin, and other trysts he placed
in a mind folder labeled poor judgements and bad decisions.
“Yeah, I understand.”
Dacey’s response is interrupted by a petite girl with a fearsome expression on
her face. She carries a cart full of roots, greens, and steak meats. “Dacey,
enough small talk. Let’s go home and fail at home economics.”
Dacey closes her eyes and displays a pained expression. “Lyanna, we are not
going to fail. I told you…”
The name caused Jon to raise an eyebrow. He forgot what a common name it was in
this region. “You told me I needed to learn how to cook. I told you that I
rather learn how to make money and hire someone to cook for me.”
“Lyanna…”
“Then you said ‘that’s not the way the world works.’ And I said ‘Dacey, you are
twenty years old and your greatest achievement in the kitchen is not burning
water.’ Now, we are here. Wasting money on food we cannot cook.”
Dacey looks like she’s fighting an internal battle. Instead of engaging in the
walking entity of sass that is her little sister, she turns to Jon. “Jon, this
is my little sister, Lyanna. Lyanna, this is Jon. Uh…he’s Robb’s cousin.”
The title causes Jon’s heart to ache. Instead of lingering on the feeling, Jon
says hello. Lyanna nods at him. Shireen comes back with her choice of sugared
gems and crystals, along with a bouquet of gumpaste violets and roses and
cupcake wrappers. “I thought I could make cupcakes next week so father and
Davos can bring them to work.”
Jon tries not to coo at her. “That’s a great idea. Let’s make a stop at the
produce section. What do you think your dad would like to eat today?”
Shireen thinks about it for a second. “Well, if he has a bad day, we can make
Lancashire Hotpot since we have time. And Italian meatballs. He likes them
better than Swedish or Welsh meatballs but refuses to compliment Americans so
we almost never have them.”
Jon tells her that it's a great idea. He’s about to say goodbye to Dacey and
Lyanna, when Lyanna goes up to Shireen. “You’re new here.”
Shireen takes a step back. “I am.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“London.”
“Who are your parents?”
“Stannis and Selyse Baratheon. Well, my father remarried so I have another dad
now. His name is Davos Seaworth—”
“That’s too many words. Who are your parents?”
Shireen is stunned. She answers, “Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworth.”
“How do you know this one?” Lyanna motions to Rickon. Jon did not notice it
before but Rickon is standing very, very far away. He looks at Lyanna like
she’s the Queen of Hell and plans to bring forth all that is unholy.
“He is Jon’s cousin. Jon is my nanny,” she informs before the younger could
question their relationship.
Lyanna frowns. She stares at Shireen like a bear waiting to strike a languid
fish, the kind that has given up the stress of going upstream and is now
content to be lingering near a log and waiting for its death.
“So you can cook?”
Dacey and Jon look at each other. Jon leans over and whispers, “Where is this
going?”
“I don’t know, but the last time Lyanna talked to another girl, she ended
recruiting someone for her plans to become the leader of the world.”
That’s all Jon needed to know. He tugs on Shireen’s sleeve. “Sweetheart, let’s
go get those ingredients. I don’t think we should leave your brothers alone any
longer than we have.”
Shireen nods, and is about to follow Jon’s lead when Lyanna grabs her and pulls
her back. “I’m not done talking,” she exclaims. Her eyes peer straight into
Shireen. She does not even glance at Shireen’s scar, a first for many. “Why did
you learn how to cook?”
“…Because it’s useful?”
“Do you know where to hit a man to leave him paralyzed for life?”
“…No?”
“Can you recite the ingrediants used to make a hydrogen bomb?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s useful isn’t it?”
“I guess?”
“So it’s not about the utility.”
Shireen looks to Jon for help. Jon is as confused as she is. Finally, Shireen
tells her she likes it.
Lyanna scoffs. “Who taught you how to cook?”
“My stepfather, Davos. And then Jon, my nanny. My brothers are bad at it.”
Lyanna looks displeased by the answer. “So you were trained by men to serve
men. And because you’re a girl, you like it. Were you told women belong in the
kitchen, too?”
This time, Shireen’s eyes narrow and she removes Lyanna’s hand. Roughly and
ready for an argument. “Women do belong in the kitchen. Men belong in the
kitchen. If you need food to survive, you should be in the kitchen. Cooking
it.”
Lyanna’s frown decreases by a miniscule. Her mouth screams murder but her eyes
are intrigued. “You don’t have many friends do you?”
“Why do you care?”
Lyanna stares her down. She looks at her oldest sister, and then at Jon. She
considers her options, and before anyone can do anything, she goes into Dacey’s
purse, ignores her protest, and grabs a pen and paper.
“I have a slumber party on the first full moon of the month. You will be
there.”
“What?” Jon exclaims.
“No!” Rickon protests. He leaves his safe spot so that his complaints can be
heard. Lyanna ignores him and turns to Shireen. She writes down her number and
address.
“Here. Don’t be late. I can’t stand tardiness.”
“I will?” Shireen coughs. “I mean…I will?”
“I like you. You can cook, and you have a brain. I like having friends who know
things I don’t. Those are the friends you really need.”
“Oh,” Shireen takes the information. “So…what do you during sleepovers?”
“We play games. We eat food we order. We roleplay what we would do if we were
given more power in the world and deal with problems like food shortages and
enemy attacks. Do you want to be a princess?”
“I can be a princess?”
“Someone has to be. It’s a lot of power and you have a lot of enemies. No one
has been ready to take the mantle yet.”
Shireen, having completely forgotten their bitter interaction, accepts the
invitation.
“I’ll expect a call from your guardian. Tell them to ask for Lyanna Mormont.
Once that happens, we can exchange further details, such as transportation.”
She looks at Jon. “I’m sure you will take care of that.” She turns back to
Shireen. “If you are well received by my friends, you will be invited to more
events. I like to go hunting. How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Are you interested in dating?”
Shireen blushes and think of Bran. She shuts that train of thought down. “No.”
“Good, men are the last thing we need at our age.”
Before Lyanna leaves, she sends Rickon a look of courtesy. “Stark.”
Rickon retaliates with a glower of his own. “Mormont.”
All of them leave the grocery store in the next half hour. The Mormonts leave
before the Starks, because Jon still needed to pick up the items for dinner. He
drops Shireen off at her house first so that she can prepare the ingredients
beforehand, and Jon tells her to make her brothers help. Afterwards, he takes
Rickon home.
The second she leaves the car, Rickon is quick to voice his disapproval. The
friendship, he claims, will ruin Shireen. “She’ll eat her alive. Lyanna Mormont
has no mercy for the weak. She broke a kid’s arm when he called her sister
mannish. She took me down with a single tackle. I couldn’t get up for a week.”
“You fought a girl?” Jon teases.
“When a bear comes at you, you don’t stop to check its part,” Rickon tells him
seriously. “When Lyanna Mormont goes after you, you bet I’m throwing a few
punches.”
“Why on earth did she attack you?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Rickon explains. “One of my underlings told me she was
strong for a girl. I dragged him over to her class to apologize to her.”
“Why?”
“Because women aren’t strong for girls, Jon.” Rickon tells him, the petulance
practically visible in the air. “If you are strong, you are strong. It doesn’t
matter what you look like.”
Jon is taken back by the declaration. Wow, Jon thinks, Aunt Cat and Uncle Ned
raised him well, didn’t they?
“And then I hit her.”
Jon almost slams the brakes. “You did what?”
Rickon sighs. “Jon, if you want to test someone’s strength, you get them to hit
you. Men or women. So I told her to give me her best shot, and she told me to
eat shit and get the hell away from her. Then, I hit her. I never saw that
tackle coming…” Rickon remembers it like it was yesterday; his face is
completely in awe.
Jon does not know what to say. So he laughs, he laughs and laughs until Rickon
flushes a red as dark as his hair and tells him to shut up. Jon doesn’t, and
only collects himself when he gets to the Stark home. He tells Rickon that he’s
eating the Baratheons and won’t be home for dinner.
Rickon rolls his eyes. He already knew that.
When Rickon comes home, he yells to announce his presence. Shaggydog is already
running to the entranceway, excited for his master. His mother greets him, and
he relays Jon’s message as asked. His mother appears disheartened by the news
but recovers enough to tell him to take a bath. Rickon grimaces. He heads
upstairs and does as requested. By the time he is finished putting on his
clothes, dinner won’t be ready for two hours. He settles for wasting his time
watching the telly. Suddenly, the door slams open.
“You are such a hypocrite, Robb, it’s not even funny!” Arya screams.
“How am I a hypocrite?” Robb yells back. “I’m just saying that maybe you should
start respecting yourself a little more—!”
“I respect myself just fine!”
“Really? I couldn’t tell!”
Arya shakes her head and laughs. “Oh, like you’re so much better? You call a
girl your girlfriend and that means she’s special, that you’re not slutting it
up with a new bird every month? What does a relationship even mean to you? How
is Jon any different from all the other girls?”
“Don’t start that with me, Arya!”
“I don’t need other people to define me, or my happiness, Robb! You! You’re
afraid of being alone! Everything about you is about being with someone else!
Do you even have an identity, Robb?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Robb Stark, Ned and Catelyn Stark’s son. Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell
and Stark Industries. Robb Stark this, Robb Stark that. Your entire person is
made of titles and responsibilities!”
“That’s because I care about other people!”
“I care about other people!”
“No, you don’t! You don’t worry about the consequences of your actions,
everyone is just another stepping stone for you! You’re spoiled, Arya! You do
whatever you want because you know you can always count on mother and father’s
support!”
“And you don’t? At least I’ve tried living on my own, and you know what? I’ve
succeeded. You have never strayed off your ‘path,’ Robb! You’ve never taken a
risk unless it’s being backed up by a dozen of your friends!”
Before Robb can say anything else, she heads to her bedroom. Robb orders her
not to turn her back on him and she ignores him. On her way up, she tells her
mother she’s going out. Catelyn protests but they fall on deaf ears.
Catelyn gets down to the living room, and asks Robb what happened.
Robb groans. He wants to hit something.
“I took her driving.”
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter: Robb/Arya go driving, Ramsey is his own warning
     becomes a warning, and some Gendry/Arya interaction, and a throwback
     to the original series
     2. Nothing happened this week.
***** Chapter 23 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arya switches lanes like a pro, and can parallel park with her eyes closed.
When they get off the motorway, Arya suggests getting something to eat for a
job well done. Her driving is faster than Robb likes, but she’s efficient at
turns and knows exactly what she is doing.
Robb’s eyes furrow. “You already know how to drive, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Gendry taught me.”
Robb recognizes the name as the young mechanic Arya is always hanging around
with—the one who fixed their father’s car when it broke down a few years back.
Arya gave him her number within moments of meeting him, and though he swore to
their father back then that “he doesn’t go for jailbait,” Robb wonders how long
he lasted before his little sister dug her claws into him.
“When?”
“Last year, before I left home. It felt like a good skill to have.” And hot
wiring a car, but that’s a completely different discussion, and she rather not
have her brother advocating for her separation from Gendry. It is not his fault
he’s whipped.
Robb frowns. He’d forgotten about that. “Where did you go?”
Arya takes a left turn. “Why does everyone want to know that all of a sudden?”
“It’s a reasonable question. You were gone for a year, Arya.” Robb stresses the
‘year’ aspect.
“And so were you.”
“I was at university. Mum and dad knew where I was. We had no clue you were
alive except for the occasional phone call and that email you sent from Aunt
Lyanna’s townhouse—which you broke into.”
“First of all, that wasn’t her townhouse. That was her former beau’s beach
house. Secondly, why does it matter so much where I went? I left. I came back.
None of us can change the fact that it happened, and I don’t plan on running
away again. Once was enough.”
“Once was too much.”
“Once was necessary for me to find myself.”
Robb doesn’t agree. “Your relationships with other people define you. Your
values, your likes and dislikes, how old you were when you first learned to
speak, who you fall in love with…Arya, we’re your family. We should be a part
of you.”  
“Sometimes you need to remove the things that make up who you are so that you
can see if that’s actually you.” Arya signals for a right turn. “Robb, nothing
bad happened to when I was gone. I went to New York, spent some time in Asia. I
danced, I found a way to make ends meet, but I’m fine. I’m not ashamed of what
I did.”
“Then why won’t you tell us what happened?”
“Because I don’t like dredging up the past in a way that only makes people
upset. My life is my life. I own it. I live it. I should be the one to endure
it, not you, not mum, not dad.”
Robb wants to protest, but he knows that Arya will not budge on this matter.
Instead, he gives a name of nice café that serves French Paninis and ice tea
that’s far too sweet, and offers to treat his younger sister. She agrees, and
after some time, puts on the radio, where the news of a mangled finger was
found underneath a trash can, not too far from where the bone filled shit was
discovered. Robb switches the channel.
“It’s depressing,” he justifies.
Arya turns it back on. “It’s the most exciting thing to happen all year.”
Robb fights her and switches to some music. “Dead women are not ‘exciting’
stories, Arya, they are tragedies. People are dying.”
“That’s what people do.”
Robb stares.
Arya scoffs. “It’s a quote.”
Robb continues to judge her.
“It’s from Sherlock.”
“The books series? I don’t remember—”
“From the BBC series. For goodness sakes, watching the telly once in a while
will not kill you Robb, no matter what father says.”
“Father wouldn’t lie to us,” Robb defends. Arya pouts, but eventually comes to
the realization that Robb might be serious and actually believed their father
when he said that television was dangerous and caused brain damage, and that
the only reason they kept one in their house was to watch the news.
They get to the café, and are seated near the window. She orders an iced
jasmine and mandarin orange tea blend, and asks for time to look at the menu.
Robb requests a dripped iced coffee and chooses to order with Arya, despite
already knowing what he’s going to get. While they wait for their drinks, Arya
wonders about the serial killer.
“I heard he feeds his victims to his dogs, and chases them throughout the city
at night, when no one is on the streets. I also heard that the victims are all
prostitutes, so no one helps them or they can’t get help legally.”
Robb nods. “It makes sense. Killing for fun is not like killing for greed or
envy. You want to keep doing it then you need a plethora of victims. Or the
funds to keep moving elsewhere.”
“Or both.”
“Or both,” Robb agrees. “If he’s moving north, he’s going to be trouble,
though.”
“Do you think Uncle Benjen will be put on the case?”
Robb shrugs. “If they know what they’re doing. But they definitely have to
bring in new people soon.”
“Why?”
“The case is getting too big. They started investigating again in West
Yorkshire and found similar cases in Bradford and Lancashire.”
“How do you know this?”
The server comes back with their drinks. Robb orders a turkey and pesto panini
and Arya gets a small salad with dressing on the side. When she leaves, Robb
tells her that he overheard Uncle Benjen and Ned talking. He keeps his tone
even, and bites into his sandwich with perfect nonchalance. Arya then asks how
he really knows.
"What do you mean? I just told you--"
“You just said you didn’t know if Uncle Benjen was on the case, and now you
revealed that you heard them talking about it. You have no reason to lie about
it now, which means you were lying earlier. How do you know?"
Robb stares at her, a little bit amaze that she caught his lie so fast, and
then laughs. “You caught me.”
“I’m good at that.”
Robb sighs. “I was checking our sales reports and noticed that there was an
increase in home security purchases in those areas. I asked father and he
confirmed it.”
“Father told you information about a classified police case? Which he's not
supposed to hear about in the first place?”
Robb drinks his tea, biding time to find an appropriate answer. Arya narrows
her eyes.
"How dumb do you think I am?"
"Arya—"
“You’re watching us again, aren’t you?”
Robb drinks his tea.
“Robb!”
He keeps drinking until he’s full and choking.
“Robb, it’s bad enough that father does it, but now you? Anywhere else, this
would be a crime. I can't believe I can’t even go to the bathroom without
someone being able to track the frequency of my bowel movements.”
"I have a very good reason for doing so," Robb announces. He tries not to look
guilty, and goddamn it, he probably has already justified it in his head. As he
speaks, there is more conviction in his voice. To him, Arya's privacy is no
concern if it means her safety. He sounds like their father, and it is
absolutely infuriating. "In these times, it's important to be cautious, even
overly so. I rather be sure of where everybody is than to wonder if they're
laying in a ditch somewhere." 
"I don't care if you have a good reason," Arya retorts. "You need to stop, or
I'll tell father." Because only one person is allowed to be the paranoid bugger
in their family, and even he will not approve of Robb's ability to access
private security cameras. 
"You can't do that, Arya." 
"I can, and I will. I don't like feeling like a prisoner in my own house." 
"I'm not watching you."
"Like I believe that, and even I wasn't your target, I still can get mixed in
the crossfires—"
“I’m watching Jon!” Robb blurts out.
Arya is taken back.
“I was worried about him working for the Baratheons and so I hacked into their
systems—I know, it’s illegal—”
“And morally egregious but go on.”
“But then we broke up, and I just…I kept watching. Okay? It makes me feel
better to see him.”
"Why not try talking to him?" Arya asks. "Why not treat him like an actual
person and have a conversation with him? You're keeping tabs on him. That’s not
healthy, for either of you.”
“It’s therapeutic,” Robb justifies. “I can’t face him without wanting to get on
my knees and beg him to take me back. But that’s not an option anymore. Jon has
made it clear he doesn’t want me.” 
 “That’s never stopped you before.”
“Well it has never worked before,” Robb snaps, his bitterness is strong enough
to taste. “Things need to change. I need to change.”
Arya stares. She knows she should push the camera thing further, get Robb to
stop this insanity, but she can’t. Instead, she sighs. Robb was torn by the
break up, even more so than Jon. As much as she cares for her cousin, she also
wants Robb to get better.
“If you really want results, changing bad habits is a good place to start. But
in the future, I think you should be more focused on us.”
“Us?”  Robb raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, us,” Arya spins her straw around. “Me, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon. Your
siblings. I bet you never realized it either.”
“What?”
“Robb, we’re tools for you. You spend the most time with us after you’ve been
through a break up and need the distraction. That’s how we knew you were
single.”
“I don’t…” But the words die on Robb’s lips. He remembers going out with Jeyne
and forgetting to pick Arya up from school. When he finally realized what
happened, Yoren had already showed up on their doorstep with a black eye
because Arya thought she was getting kidnapped. He also remembers dropping
Sansa off for a date with Joffrey so that he could spend time with Talisa, and
getting a phone call saying she dumped an entire cake on Cersei and left the
house during a storm.
Fuck.
“I’m the worst fucking brother in the world,” Robb moans. He sinks his head
into his hands.
Arya shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ve stopped worrying about it.”
“No!” Robb protests. “No, you should not be okay with my shitty brothering.”
“’Brothering?’”
“Yes, brothering. I can’t believe…if this were the middle ages, I would have
sold you off for a cattle and a goat for winter.”
Arya rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m a girl, you would have had to pay
a dowry to get me away.”
“I’m not being dramatic, and it’s not funny. What if you were held hostage
somewhere? What if father dies and I can’t take care of you because I don’t
know what to do? Fuck,” he repeats. “Fuck, I can’t believe it.”
Arya giggles. She tells him it’s fine. They know he loves them. Robb shakes her
head and starts mumbling about the shit he’s done in the past. While he gets
lost in his own maniacal strategy plans, Arya catches the eye of a dark haired
man from another table. He’s sitting with a group of guys, trading japes with
one another, and throws her a wink. Arya smiles and looks away. Not her type.
Robb notices, and looks behind him. He turns back to face her. “Stop.”
“What?” Arya asks innocently. She sips her drink like Lolita come to life, and
Robb is not buying it.
“He’s too old for you.”
“Really?” Arya glances over again and the guy is talking to his friends. “He’s
your age at most, and besides…” Arya grins. “I’m sixteen now. No one is too old
for me anymore.”
The statement makes Robb uncomfortable. “Except him. He’s too old for you.”
Arya shakes her head. “You’re taking to brothering pretty quickly.” Robb can be
so silly sometimes. She smiles at him. “Do you know why I’ve never had a
boyfriend?”
Robb never noticed actually, with all the gentlemen callers riling up her
phone.
“Because when people are young and get in romantic relationships, they fuck
themselves up for the future. They begin to see themselves as being whole with
another person and not whole by themselves. They don’t have time to respect
themselves because they’re thinking of their partner’s opinions, they don’t
have time to develop friendships because they want love.”
Robb remains silent.
“If you want Jon, then give him time. Be friends with him. Fall in love with
him again.”
Robb looks down. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
Arya tells him: “You used to. And he loved you, too.”
Robb looks at her in her surprise, and then chuckles. “When did you get so
smart?”
“Last year,” Arya quips and laughs with him.
They get their food and eat it in relative comfort. They chat about
miscellaneous things, like Arya’s London performance and how she’s working with
Jaqen H’ghar. She talks about university with Robb, and carefully avoids his
questions about college next year.
Near the end of their meal, Arya goes to the bathroom. Robb watches her leave,
and does not miss the guy from before checking her out. More importantly, he
was staring at her legs and ass. He turns to his friend and makes an unheard
comment, before giving Arya a onceover. One guy says something and they all
laugh.
Robb knows enough about guys his age to know he’s not admiring her shorts. He
leaves his table and goes up to the ringleader whose been watching this entire
time. The guy sees Robb go up to him and smiles, guiled and full of kindness.
Robb doesn’t buy it.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah,” Robb answers. “You can help me by removing your eyes from my little
sister.”
The young men around him laugh. The guy smiles. “Oh you’re her older brother. I
didn’t see that coming. That’s good.” He actually sounds happier. Before Robb
can tell him to back off, the guy continues. “You know a girl’s real whore when
she dresses like that around her brother. Means she’s begging for a good lay.”
His friend laughs, and Robb fights back his own chuckle. Jokes on him, because
this fucker is not the first person Robb’s considered killing and he won’t be
the last. Hell, he’s a Stark. He can make some asshole disappear with nothing
more than a pair of matches, baby powder, and an unidentified vehicle.
“Care to repeat that?” Robb warns.
The guy smirks. “I have this game, you see. It’s called ‘Find the Whore.’ We go
to a room full of people and we try to spot the one just asking for it. Then we
take her home and show her what’s she’s missing. And I never lose. So when your
sister comes back, why don’t I give her a—”
Robb grabs his head and slams it against the table, over and over again, until
there’s a sudden shriek and a rain of gasps. Then, the whole restaurant quiets.
When Robb lets go, the man’s face is bloodied from a broken nose. He looks at
the other men. “Anyone else?”
The other young men get up. The asshole cups his injury. “You’re going to
regret that,” he tells Robb. He’s smirking as the blood runs past his lips, and
he’s completely calm.
“Oh really?” Robb challenges.
Arya chooses that moment to get back, and looks at the situation at hand. “What
happened here?”
The bleeding man walks up to Arya. He becomes dangerously close. Robb clenches
his fist and is about to push him away from her when Arya takes it a step
further. Literally. She goes up to the man nursing a broken nose and meets him
face to face, mere inches apart.
“What did you do?”
The man does not flinch. “Your brother just attacked me. I’m innocent—”
“What the fuck did you do?” Arya repeats.
The guy stares at her unflinching face. He turns to Robb. “Oh, she’s good.” He
cackles and turns back to Arya. “See, pretty lady. I called you whore. I can
smell it on you. See that your little throat is meant for cum guzzling and that
ass is supposed to spread and used and I generously offered my services to your
brother.”
“Is that so?” Arya is unimpressed. Bored, at worst. Her behavior unnerves the
young man because she can see his smile falter. He’s not used to dealing with
women who can handle themselves. He has probably never met a girl who could
fight back.
Robb is about to give him another punch in the face, and honestly? Two or three
years ago, Arya would have done the same. Instead, Arya gets closer to a point
their lips are almost touching. She tells him the truth.
“I don’t want you.”
The man’s eyes narrow. His smile doesn’t leave his face but it becomes tight,
unhappy.
“But I am a whore,” Arya tells him, her voice as sweet as sugar drops and candy
canes. “I am a whore and I don’t want you. Do you understand that? That’s how
pathetic you are. A whore doesn’t want you.” She caresses his face. He flinches
because she’s being tender. “I bet you’re thinking about me now. I bet you’re
imagining me on that table, crying, begging you to stop. But I won’t. You’re
calling me a cunt in your head and it’s killing you that I’m not scared. You’re
bigger than me. There’s six, seven of you and one of me, and my brother
probably can’t stop all of you. But even if you fuck me, you can’t own me.”
His smile is gone. “You—”
“Me?” Arya whispers. “Me. I’m going to my car. My brother is going to pay the
bill for me because I’m a whore. And then I’m going to walk away like a whore,
and I’m not going to think of you, like a whore—but you’re going to think of
me.” She grins. She leans into his ear. “You’re going to look at my smiling
face and you’ll remember it for years. Because guys like you? They don’t forget
about whores like me.”  
Arya walks aways. Robb quickly drops a few bills on the table, and runs after
his little sister. She gets into the passenger seat. When he gets in, Robb asks
her “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Shouldn’t that be my line?”
“I had every right to get angry. He called you a whore.”
“Which sounds like it should be my problem, not yours. Another piece of advice,
Robb? Next time, maybe slamming a guy’s head into the table when he’s with
seven other guys is not the best idea. I wanted to avoid an altercation.”
“Since when? You love a good fight!”
“I like to fight battles I can win.” Arya rolls her eyes. “Come on, years of
counseling and disciplinary action and the one time I prefer words to conflict,
you have a problem with it.”
“Arya, I don’t have a problem with how you dealt with him. I have a problem
with how you described yourself. You shouldn’t be saying things like that.”
“Like what?”
“You called yourself a whore!”
“Well I’m certainly not a lady.”
Robb almost hits himself on the wheel. “It’s disrespectful to yourself, and you
can’t go riling up guys like that!”
“Like what? I’m not riling anybody up. I’m defending myself, like you tried to
do.” Arya scoffs. “Robb, I know you said you’re going to be a more attentive
older brother but I was hoping for things like gifts, a new leotard or food.
None of this ‘protect my sister’s virtue’ bullshit.”
“Arya, I’m worried. We just spent half an hour talking about girls getting
hunted down and mutilated, and you pissed off a guy who basically fantasized
about raping you! What if he was the serial killer?”
“What if he was? I’m sure attacking and humiliating him in public might have
done a bit more damaged.”
“I’m your big brother. It’s my job to deal with scum who want to hurt you.”  
Arya stares at him seriously. “Robb, I’m not some damsel in distress. I don’t a
glass slipper or a prince to slay my dragons. I will deal with scum who want to
hurt me.”
Robb frowns. He keeps his voice low, but even with a mutter, Arya understands
him. “This is so like you…you’re too fucking reckless…” He says more things,
and Arya snaps.
“Just because Jon leaves you does not mean you can take your anger out on other
people, especially me,” she throws at him. “You can’t protect me, and you’re
not responsible for him.”
Now neither of them are happy, and Robb tightens his grip on his steering wheel
and retorts with another backhanded comment. Arya rages up and snidely remarks
on his lack of priorities. They continue with even tones for the first street,
and are up to full blow yelling when they reach the drive through. They don’t
stop until Arya is running up her room.
After the fight, Arya decides she needs a walk. Serial killers be damned. She
gets a leash, and goes to the yard to get Nymeria. She dials Gendry’s number on
the way down and asks him to come along with her. When he refuses, she name
dropped the serial killer. Gendry tells her serial killers should be afraid of
her. Arya tells him to shake his ass and pick her up. He does.
Nymeria is in the yard, watching the east house with an alarming amount of
stillness. She’s never liked the Baratheons or the Lannisters, and would growl
at Joffrey whenever he got near or would bear teeth at Cersei. Sansa used to
accuse Arya of training her to do so.
Back then, Arya scoffed. “I wish I could train Nym to follow my commands.” She
told this to Sansa and got a huff and an argument in response.
Gods, they were children then. Now, Nymeria has grown up and so has Arya.
Nymeria is smaller than her siblings, but there are moments when she becomes
abnormally wolf like. She stalked people and observed them for hours as if they
were prey. When she ‘played’ with her siblings, it was closer to fighting than
actual roughhousing one expects from siblings.
Arya calls out her name and waits for Nymeria to come to her. She clips on a
collar and leash, which is loose and easily removable, but keeps up appearances
for the family. All the dogs are clever enough to be left to their own devices.
But their big sizes leave people agitated, and they’re required to put them on
leashes when they go out. Only Summer is allowed without her leash in public,
and that’s because of her vest.
Gendry texts her that he’s on his way. He’ll meet her on the next block to
avoid running into Robert or his children, or worst, Cersei.
The walk to Gendry’s car is longer than she remembered. He used to park there
all the time, when Arya was thirteen and not allowed to even think of boys, let
alone be going out with them in the middle of the night. Till this day, she
wonders if her father actually believes that ‘midnight dance classes’ were
actually dance classes.
She reaches the Baratheons’ home, and notices that the sun is oddly bright
today but no one is on the streets. They are probably at the mall or out at the
park or at home. She heard that women have been keeping themselves in, and men
are at home with no birds to chase.
There’s a light breeze, but not so much as a wisp of hair or a broken
fingernail. It’s empty enough to hear a ghost moan. With the exception of the
random vehicle driving down the two-way street, Arya sees nothing.
She passes the Baratheon house, and is now walking by fences that look like
prison bars. The next house over, their yards are not as well trimmed. The
weeds escape the fences like hands grasping for freedom. Nymeria growls at
something. Arya looks behind her.
There’s no one.
Nymeria keeps growling. “Hush,” Arya orders. Nymeria does not listen. She
starts barking. Staring at the streets and the random cars passing through. She
barks at the houses beside them. “Hush,” Arya repeats. Nymeria bears her fangs,
and there’s the wolf in her again. She never listens, and Arya doesn’t know why
she tries. Instead, she bends down and cups her dog’s face and asks her what’s
wrong.
Someone grabs her shoulder.
Arya turns around and punches them in the face.
“What the—Arya!”
“Gendry?”
Arya watches in horror as her best friend clutches his nose.
“Fuck!” he swears. “We talked about this! You can’t just go stabbing people you
just met!”
“I didn’t stab you!” Arya defends. A voice in her head says she should have
said sorry first, and so she says “Sorry! Are you okay?” after.
“Yeah, yeah…” Gendry checks his nose. There’s no blood, so Arya went easy on
him, but it definitely feels strained. “At least it isn’t your knife.” He
glances at her pocket, and notices that her left hand is on her knife. No
wonder this one didn’t hurt as much.
“You punch with your right hand?”
“My aim is better with my left hand,” Arya clarifies. She remembers her
father’s self-defense education. Do the most damage with what can cause the
most damage.
Gendry shakes his head. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“I…” Arya tries to find the words. “I want to go for a drive.”
“With Nymeria?”
“She helps me think.” The dog stands at full alert. She hops on Gendry’s
stomach and attempts to stretch up and lick his injury. Gendry appreciates the
effort and bends down to make it easier. He scratches beneath her ears, and
Arya tells him to stop.
“She likes it.”
“She’s only doing it to get the passenger seat. Nym, he’s not giving it to you.
You’re staying in the back.” 
Nymeria whines a bit, and licks Gendry one last time. She gives him her biggest
puppy-dog eyes, and acts insanely cute, but Gendry eventually agrees with Arya.
With a growl, she returns to Arya’s side, proving her master’s point.
They head to his car. They keep all the windows down because Arya demands to
feel the air in her face and so does Nymeria. Princesses, both of them. They
drive for an entire hour without saying a word. Arya keeps her thoughts to
herself, only making occasional demands to change the music. She taps her feet
and hums to herself. There’s a slight doze to her head.
Arya phone dings and there’s a message from her mother telling her to come
home. Without asking, Gendry makes a U-turn and heads back. They stop a block
away again, when Arya asks Gendry to come with her. “You should meet him.”
“Who?”
“The pope…who do you think I’m talking about Gendry?” She raises an eyebrow.
“They’re staying for the summer and will be leaving before we know it. This
could be your last shot.”
“He’s not my father, Arya,” Gendry inform her. “He didn’t raise me. He left me
with my mother and never looked back. All those millions and he’s never so much
as spared me or my mum a glance.”
“Well then you should tell him that.” Arya looks towards the direction of the
house. “I don’t care about him, but I care about you. I think you need the
closure.”
Gendry contemplates his options. He thinks about all those days wondering when
his next meal was, living in the estates and trying to stay on the right side
of the law even though it was so easy not to, quitting school because he had no
choice, and then finding that picture with Arya, and realized that all of
it—watching his mother cry at night, telling his teachers he was dropping out,
the hungry nights after working his ass off all day—all of it was for nothing.
“I’ll go in. But if he doesn’t want to see me, that’s it. We won’t talk about
this again.”
“Deal.”
Gendry drives them across the Stark estate and walks her to the door. He pauses
at the entrance, a little terrified by the spikes on the gates designed to keep
men like him out, and is in awe when Arya types in the passcode and invites him
in. The doors open up for him.
He’s inside.
He sees freshly cut lawns and bountiful flowers more beautiful than the blooms
on the first day of spring, or his week in Wales when his mother finally
scourged up enough money for a vacation. They walk past the house and through
the windows, he sees carefully aligned oak furniture and paintings from famous
artists and genuine artifacts from areas around the globe. Arya’s mother is
talking on the phone, and she’s wearing a fancy dress and her hair is tied back
in a regal manner, not like the women at the pubs he frequents, who let their
hair down after a few drinks or push their dirty blonde hair into a loose
ponytail to get it out of their faces. Nymeria follows them the entire way, and
even she is pitter-pattering down the pathway with greater dignity than he can
ever muster.
Arya is unimpressed by all of it; to her, this is just her home; this is the
Winterfell Estate, this is the Stark Manor; this is where she was raised in her
entire life, and to her, it’s just a gas station in her grand journey of the
world.
She drags him by the hand to the east wing where Robert is staying. “My father
told me that Winterfell Estate was once this gigantic fort with towers that
could reach the sky and the entire area was covered in stone and ice.
Everything fell apart in this large battle, cannons and the dead rising to tear
down the walls and wreck habit on the inhabitants. Finally, when they rebuilt,
they wanted to honor the people who had fallen, and decided not to cement the
grounds or anything of that like. Instead, they divided Winterfell into
separate houses and turned the fort into home. The only thing that remains from
the original design are the godwoods.”
“Godwoods?”
“They’re traditional forests of the Old Gods. We even have a weirwood
tree—that’s a tree with faces carved into them.”
“I didn’t think people still followed those practices.”
“We do,” Arya proclaims proudly.  Finally, they arrive at the entrance of the
other house. From outside the window, they can see Robert. He’s having a pint
and watching a football game with Myrcella. Bless the girl, she is as kind as
she is beautiful. She does not look put out and watches the match with the
attentiveness of a referee. She makes a comment and in response, Robert asks
her something. Suddenly, she brings out her hands and tries to show her father
something. Maybe teaching him a word or two. Robert tries to mimic it, and
fails. Myrcella laughs, and though embarrassed, Robert has a happy expression
on his face. Myrcella continues to help him until he performs it properly.
“She seems nice,” Gendry says at last.
“She is,” Arya agrees. “I don’t know how given she’s lived with monsters her
entire life.”
Gendry smiles in spite of the circumstances. “She’s blonde, like my mother.”
        
“Gendry…”
“What’s she like?”
Arya hesitates to answer, because she doesn’t know Myrcella that well, except
that she has a crush on Robb and is the smartest of her three siblings. But she
does not want to disappoint Gendry, and tells him: “She’s auditioning for a
performing arts school in London. She’s a cellist, and she’s pretty talented.
She…” Arya struggles to come up with words. “She’s good with her hands. One
time, at a Christmas party, Cersei and Robert made everyone in the room stop
what they were doing to listen to her play the piano.” That night was the
happiest Arya had ever seen the two of them together. “She…”
“Is she deaf?” Gendry asks. Myrcella has started teaching her father on another
phrase. Robert is long distracted from the match and is completely enraptured
by his daughter’s tutelage.
“Half-deaf. When she was younger, someone tried to kidnap her and…they got her
before a ransom was made but the van she was taken in was really dirty and she
caught an infection in her ear and…” Arya lets him fill in the blank. “She
still plays music though. But Cersei asked for a divorce afterwards, and they
moved away.”
“She’s sounds amazing.”
Arya wants to laugh at his admirable tone, but she knows that’s unfair of her.
Gendry has never met his siblings, may never meet them in person. Myrcella says
something to her father, and he waves her good bye. Awkwardly, Robert reaches
up for a hug. Myrcella seems surprised, but then kisses him on the cheek.
Robert chuckles, pleased by the action. The moment was sweet. Gendry felt wrong
intruding on them from afar.
“Let’s go. I don’t want to meet him tonight.”
“Gendry, please…” Out of nowhere, Nymeria barks. Arya tells her to be quiet, or
they’ll get caught.
“Arya, I can’t do this. I’m a fucking drop out who works as mechanic. I’m not
some pretty blonde heiress…”
Arya tries to reason with Gendry but her efforts are interrupted by a familiar
nasal voice, rich with maliciousness.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Joffrey mocks.
“Fuck off, Joffrey,” Arya exclaims, a little tired of this bullshit. Nymeria
almost escapes her leash, and Arya has to pull her back. She pulls on Gendry’s
sleeve. “Let’s go.”
Joffrey stops her. Up close, she can smell the alcohol on his lips. “Oh, don’t
leave so soon. I want to have little talk with you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.” Arya drags Gendry away. Joffrey latches
onto her arm and pulls her back. Nymeria’s leash slips out of her hand and her
mouth takes ahold of Joffrey’s wrist. It is a mere scratch, but it leaves
Joffrey howling in pain.  
“You little bitch!” Joffrey shrieks. “I’ll have that dog put down!”
Fear flashes onto Arya’s eyes, and concern weighs on her face. Joffrey hand is
bleeding. Gendry, forever protective of Arya, goes forward and punches Joffrey
in the face. “Don’t talk threaten her like that,” Gendry orders. Joffrey
clutches onto his face, and is now swearing about his broken nose. Gendry tells
him to stop crying because he did not punch him that hard.
Arya protests. “You can’t just punch people for me, Gendry! You have a record!”
Gendry looks at his fist and turns to her. “I was talking about Nymeria. Poor
dog has no way to defend herself.” Arya, in spite of her trepidation, smiles.
“Besides, I only punched his mouth. Idiot doesn’t even know where he got hit.”
Arya laughs. Her humor is short lived when Joffrey begins swearing up a storm
and menaces her with promises of the cops, and a trip to the pound and a
needle. He continues to say that Nymeria is dead; her last meal comes tonight;
he is a goner.
The whining attracts the other residents of the east house and the main house,
and suddenly, all the lights go on. Doors are opened and people rush to the
scene of the crime. Upon seeing Joffrey’s swollen lip and bloodied hand, they
are aghast. Robert and Myrcella are shocked. Cersei’s face burns with rage.
Catelyn and Ned are surprised by the injuries, but are more surprised to see
Gendry present. Robert asks what is going on. He turns to Gendry and asks who
he is, and if he attacked his son. He asks if Gendry knew who he was messing
with and whether he was aware of the consequences of his actions. “That is my
son, you little bastard! Do you think you can get away with this?” In a booming
voice, he tells Gendry he is Robert Baratheon, and he demanded Gendry pay for
this. Ned tries to stop him from saying anymore. Arya attempts to drag Gendry
away. She’s made a mistake, and she refuses to allow Gendry to suffer any
further for it.
Robert’s presence does something to Gendry that no one expects. He does not
cower, nor does he allow Robert’s ignorance to hurt him. He takes every insult
with stride, and puffs up his chest in honor with every spiteful threat. He
turns to Arya, and sends her a look that settles her guilt. Gendry does not
regret tonight, but he plans on making Robert pay. When Robert finishes, Gendry
is quick to respond all the callousness with sharp words of his own.
“You want to know who the fuck I am? I’m Gendry Waters. Your fucking bastard
son.” 
 The declaration forced the Starks to call for a mediation.
Before they enter the room where Cersei seethes and Joffrey whimpers about his
broken hand (Arya insists it is just a scratch), Robert asks how long has Ned
known about him. “A long time, Robert,” Ned responds evenly enough.
“Do you know about all of them?”
“Arryn did,” Ned admits. “He said you prepared a fund for all of them in case a
new one popped up. He left the matter to Stannis to handle, but sometimes
Stannis asks for my help in securing them homes or jobs. I found Gendry at a
cheap garage that was a front for some mob. Had him transferred over to nicer
place, better business.”
Robert chuckles. He looks into the other wall and sees Gendry glaring at the
Lannister children. Myrcella looks away in shame, while Joffrey makes a few
snide comments about bastards and lowborns. Tommen, so innocent and pure, was
sent to be by his mother.
“Varys prepared that fund. That poof told me it would help avoid a lawsuit.
Stannis agreed, and so I agreed.” Robert shakes his head. “Just my luck the boy
who looks like me gets involved with your daughter. I always thought she look
like Lyanna.”
Ned’s eyes twitch at the mention of a relationship, but he does not retaliate
with a denial. Instead he tells Robert they need to take care of this first
before he gathers anymore regrets. Catelyn agrees, and while she has stayed
silent for most of their conversation, she does push them into the room to
settle this matter.
Cersei is hungry for vengeance. She does not care if Gendry is Robert’s son,
and actually uses the bloodline as proof that Gendry carried Joffrey ill will.
“He did this on purpose, Cersei reasoned. He wanted to hurt Joffrey.” Cersei
wants to call the police, and she wants the dog as dead as Joffrey desires.
Joffrey moans that his hand hurts, and Robert fights the urge to tell him to
shut up. If he says anything, he’s sure Cersei will be screaming of favoritism.
She was already eagerly waiting for the moment to whisk them away from
Yorkshire.
Arya is the first to defend Gendry. “Joffrey grabbed me and Nymeria bit him to
protect me. They’re trained guard dogs. That’s what they are supposed to do!”
“And what about that boy? Is he trained to assault people on your behalf as
well?”
Arya retorts that Joffrey called her a little bitch. “Besides, Joffrey has a
history of violence. His record is still on file. You call the cops and it’s
our words against his.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that boy has never committed a crime,” Cersei
sneers, because she knows about the whores Robert used to play around with and
she’s well aware of the children they breed. The estates aren’t typically known
for producing nobles and millionaires.  
Arya stills at the implication, and so does Gendry. Cersei grins when her
theory gains ground. They are all on equal playing fields, then. She turns to
Robert. “If you do not press charges against him, then I will.”
“That’s not fair!” Arya protests. “Joffrey wanted to hurt me!”
“I did not! She’s lying!” Joffrey screams. “Her dog attacked me, and now she’s
trying to save the beast by making it seem like I did her harm. I only wished
to talk to her!”
Robert says nothing.
Jon and Robb are standing on polar opposite ends of the room. Before Jon can
stand by Arya’s side, Robb warns Cersei to calm herself. “Ms. Lannister,
forgive my rudeness but you are not exactly a valued witness to the incident.
Let’s hear all sides of the story.”
“Your sister—”
“—Is not a liar. And your son does not exactly have the best reputation in this
house. You are a guest here, and I don’t appreciate the demands you are placing
on us. We are Starks. We listen to family first and the threats of others,
second.”
Cersei is taken back by the declaration. She huffs and continues screaming to
Robert and repeating old threats. Arya, on the other hand, is warm with love.
She looks at Robb, and though he does not smile, he sends her a nod of good
faith and support. He may be mad at her, but she is still family, and she will
always have his loyalty and trust.
“And let’s be honest: your son is a royal prick.”
And then, there’s Theon. Cersei is about to lash out at him but Theon merely
raises his arms in innocence. He cares little for these matters, but he will
stay by Robb’s side until the end of time.
Cersei does not falter, and continues yelling at Robert to fix this. Robert
responds by saying he is trying to, but he needs time to think. He orders
Cersei to be silent, and is surprised when she asks him “or what?” Robert is
tempted to backhand her again, but pulls himself back. He is stronger than
that.
At first when I see you cry
It makes me smile
Yeah, it makes me smile
At worst I feel bad for awhile
But then—
Theon picks up his cell phone before the ringtone goes any further. “Hey,
what’s up?”
They all stare at him.
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Okay then.”
Cersei wants to go on arguing but is surprised when Theon walks past her and
hands his cell phone to Joffrey. Joffrey glares at Theon like he’s shit on his
shoes. “My hand is injured, you ingrate.”
Theon, being the walking ball of ‘I don’t give a rat's ass’ he is, shoves it
into his other hand. “I think you might want to.”
“Who is it?”
“Someone who wants to talk to you.”
Joffrey narrows his eyes. “Put it on speaker, then.” ‘
"I don’t think you’d like that.”
Joffrey frowns. He puts the phone to his ear and asks,“What?” Joffrey waits for
a moment, and everyone watches his face changes from surprise to shock to anger
and irritation to bitter reluctant. “Fine, but don’t go expecting any more
favors from me.”
He hangs up the phone and throws it on the table. He turns to Gendry. 
“Given that we are brothers, I’ve decided to forgive you on the condition that
I never see you again. This is your only warning.”
“Joffrey—” Cersei protests. “You can’t let him get away with this!”
“I’ve already decided!” Joffrey snaps. He turns to Gendry. “You are lucky I’m
so kind.”
Gendry raises any eyebrow. He looks at Robert and looks back at his half-
brother. “Agreed.”
Gendry is already heading outside when Arya stands up to follow him. Before she
reaches his side, she receives a text from Sansa.
‘You’re welcome.’
It is written right underneath Arya’s warning to not come home tonight. She had
not wanted to involve her sister with the asshole's issues anymore than she
already has. She feels a wave of guilt overwhelm her, and it does not settle,
even when she gets a second text warning her that Sansa expects her to answer
some questions when she gets home tomorrow. Arya groans, knowing she now owes
Sansa a great favor. When she catches up to Gendry, she thinks of nothing but
apologies and false promises to keep him happy and to comfort him. Instead, she
asks if he is alright and if there is anything she can do.
“I think enough has been done tonight.”
Arya frowns. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“I know,” Gendry shrugs. “We can’t always get what we want.”
He leans towards her, and just when it looks like he’ll kiss her, he instead
reaches out and pats her on the head.
“Not even a kiss?” Arya teases.
Gendry tells her not tonight, and not at the Stark doorway. “Bye, my lady.”
“Not a lady,” Arya whispers. "Get home safely." 
Gendry leaves the manor and heads across the street. When he arrives to the
car, he hears a twig snap and turns around. There is no one there. He frowns,
and opens the door.
“Excuse me?”
Gendry turns around. Before him is a curly haired man with bright eyes and a
smile. His hands are in the pocket of his trench coat. “Yeah?” Gendry asks,
eyes on the man’s hands.
“I was a bit lost and was wondering if you could help me find this address?” He
takes out a piece of paper, and Gendry, on reflex, takes a step back. The man
is not offended by the obvious display of mistrust. He seems amused. He hands
the paper to Gendry.
Gendry recognizes the street name as the one he is on, but tells him that he’s
a block early. “You need to head forward. It’s the second house on your left.”
The man thanks him graciously. “Thank you. I’m a rubbish at directions. I
swear, I could get lost in a bathroom.”
Gendry nods, unamused but remembers his manners. The man asks if he’s going
home tonight. Gendry says he is, he just wanted to drop a friend off from home.
“Friend or friend?” He winks.
Gendry cannot help a chuckle. “A little bit of both, actually.”
The man laughs with him and finally agrees to leave him be. He thanks him a
final time, and gets back into his car. He leaves first, and Gendry waits until
he is out of view to check his backseat.
It is empty.
Gendry breathes a sigh of relief. He is not dealing with a horror movie
tonight.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Who is the mysterious man I wonder…? I mean, we all know who it
     is, but I figured I add in some suspense.
     2. Next chapter: Guest stars appear. SanSan moment. Bran/Robb
     brotherly bonding. Bran/Jojen sexiness (well sort of)—by popular
     request! Lots of sex talk.
     3. Thank god, I wrote this chapter in advance or else it would have
     come out seriously late. I’ve been obsessed with my other story that
     I haven’t been able to give this one any attention. I’m hoping I’ll
     be able to set up a schedule in August for my two fanfiction stories
     and my original work.
     4. I’m really sorry for not responding to reviewers. You guys deserve
     so much more attentiveness when it comes to your fanfiction writers.
     I’ll start on my responses again on this chapter and try to answer
     any questions and requests you have following this chapter!
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter features underage kids talking about having sex. They
     are not having sex but they're talking about it.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sansa hangs up the phone. Sandor comes back with two plates of chicken Alfredo,
and Sansa moans at the smell of cream and buttery chicken. He sets both their
plates down while he goes into the kitchen to get some wine. Sansa is already
bouncing. Sandor comes back and hands her a glass of white.
“I’m so hungry. This smells amazing,” Sansa tells him. She digs into her plate
and moans. “Have I ever told you how much I love that you can cook?”
Sandor chuckles. “It’s just chicken, cheese, and pasta. How come you never
learned?”
Sansa takes another bite. “No one in my family knows how to cook. Except my
mother, and Jon.”
“None of your siblings?”
“It’s not the Stark way,” Sansa explains. Sandor sighs, as if exasperated by
her ignorance. She grins at him and continues to eat her meal. Sandor takes a
bite of his own dish. It is pretty good; but hell if he ever reveals to Sansa
that he knew she was shit in the kitchen and he figured that if she wasn’t
going to be the one who survived there, then he’ll pick up the apron in her
stead. Carving a chicken isn’t too different from cutting up a man, anyways.
    
“What was the mess about?”
Sansa takes a sip of her wine and peers at him.
“Don’t,” he warns her.
“Don’t what?” Sansa asks innocently.
“Don’t look at me with your big blue eyes and start coming up with fancy words
so that you can avoid telling me the truth.”
Sansa pouts. “I don’t want you to be worried.”
Sandor sighs. “Is it about Joffrey?”
“How do you know about Joffrey?”
“Because his bitch mother was staying with me last week.”
“Cersei Lannister was staying here?” Sansa sounds aghast. “And you never told
me?”
“You didn’t tell me about Joffrey.”
“That’s different!”
“No, it’s not.”
Sansa stares at him, open mouthed and then frowns. “Okay, it’s not. But still,
we should be telling each other these things.”
“We’re telling them now.”
“We should be telling each other these things when they happen!” Sansa
exclaims. She puts down her plate in frustration. “I don’t even know why I’m
upset but I am.”
“Are you?”
Sansa has to think about that. “I don’t know but I feel like I should be.”
“Alright, what do you want me to do about it—whatever it is?”
Sansa picks up her plate when she realizes she has no clue. “I don’t know. But
we should do something.”
“Okay, well then why don’t you tell me what happened and we’ll decide from
there.”
Sansa bites her and twirls her fork. She stops when she realizes that Sandor
used fettucine and not spaghetti, and it looks stupid to do so, not cute. “My
sister got into a scuffle with Joffrey tonight, and I decided to help,” Sansa
confesses.
Sandor chugs down his glass. “What did you do?”
“I told him he should repay mercy with mercy, and reminded him of how kind I
was not to press charges against him all those years ago.”
There’s a silence. “Your limitation period is almost finished.”
“I know,” Sansa says. “But he doesn’t.”
“Fuck,” Sandor says. He shakes his head. “What if he tries to get back at you?”
“Then, you’ll take care of him of him, won’t you?”
“Will you be okay with that?”
Sansa shrugs.
Sandor stares. “I’ve been a bad influence on you.”
“I like it,” she teases. She begins eating again. She licks the cream off her
lips and stares up at him through her long eyelashes and tells him, “This is
really good.”
Sandor chuckles, and asks if she wants to watch a movie while they eat. Sansa
says if they watch a movie than it’ll get late, and she’ll have to stay over.
Sandor responds that she should stay in anyways. He doesn’t want her going out
there alone. He’s spoken with his contacts, and there’s something out there
that he doesn’t want her to get caught in.
“The nights aren’t safe travel in, little bird. You might meet
someone dangerous.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“I am,” Sandor admits. “But I’m on your side. And there's someone out
there chopping up girls, I don’t think he’ll be so inclined to fall for your
pretty eyes like I did.”
Sansa pouts, and pretends to be reluctant when she agrees. Truth be told, she’s
happy she’ll have an excuse to stay over her "friend’s" house when it gets too
late. If she plays her cards right, she maneuver more accidents in the future
and be forced to stay over a lot.
“If I stay over any more, I’ll be living here,” Sansa jokes.
“What’s wrong with that?” Sandor asks. He puts in a DVD of an action movie
starring an actor Sansa likes, and hits play. He gets back to the couch to see
Sansa staring. “What?”
“Do you mean it?”
“What?”
“Living together…do you mean it?”
Sandor shrugs. “Like you said, you’re already here half the time. I figured
that’s what we’ll be doing when you leave for uni.”
Sansa feels herself choke up. “But I told you I’m thinking about studying in
America!”
“And I told you I knew people in New York. That’s where you wanted to go,
right?”
“Yes but…” Sansa wonders why she’s so taken back. Sandor is right. They have
talked about this before, and each time, Sandor has been incredibly
accommodating to Sansa’s dreams for the future. “You’re okay with moving for
me?”
“All the schools you’ve talked about were in London or New York. I told you I
can get worked there. It’s not like you’re asking me to move out to some
fishermen’s town on the coast of Spain.”  Though, to be perfectly honest, he
would have followed her there as well.
“But…” Sansa bites her lip.
“What’s the problem, dove? Do you not want to be together after you graduate?”
The possibility is a real one, and while Sandor knows that it will kill him,
lead him to throw himself to suicide missions and death squads, he’ll wish
Sansa the best if it means her finding her way in this world.
“No!” Sansa protests. “I just…I don’t know how you could be so willing to move
for me when I can’t do the same for you.”
The confession is heartbreaking, and for all the right reasons. Sandor would
never ask Sansa to give up anything for him, and that makes Sansa want to cry.
She knows she’s selfish, and she loves that Sandor thinks of her enough to
sacrifice everything.
Sandor pretends not to care. “I don’t want anything but you.”
Sansa kisses him, and almost knocks the plate out of his hands when she does.
She tells him she loves him and has only ever wanted him and she hopes they're
happy together. They continue to watch a movie for the rest of the night. Sansa
receives a phone call from her mother, and she responds that she’s staying the
night at a friend’s place. Her mother does not buy it for a second, but she’s
worn and wearied from the incident with Joffrey and she’s let it go before,
another hundredth time won’t change anything.
When Catelyn calls Bran’s location, she is met with the snide reprimand of his
school’s headmistress. She tells Catelyn that picking Bran up at this time at
night will be too much trouble on her end. Regina, with feign innocence and
faux worry of having put Catelyn out of her way, insists on letting Bran stay
over tonight. “Henry is always sleeping over at your place. Let me return the
favor.”
“It’s not trouble at all,” Catelyn corrects, hoping she suppressed her
irritation enough that Regina could not tell how badly she wishes to strangle
her. Regina can always tell when someone is being snide.
“No, but as an educator, I am in charge of the wellbeing of children, and I
can’t possibly encourage one of my students to wander on the streets.”
“He won’t be wandering,” Catelyn snaps. She takes a deep breath and removes all
derogatory names towards Americans in her vocabulary. “I’ll be right outside.”
“But Bran should be inside. In the safety of my home.”
“My home is the safest place for him. In case you don’t remember, my husband
runs the world’s best security company.”
“Well, my wife is a cop. If something were to happen, you’re going to call her
anyways.”
They continue the conversations for a long time, throwing words like ‘serial
killers’ and ‘guns’ and ‘mutilated women’ and ‘pedophiles’ with the addition of
insults and backhanded compliments towards each other. By the time they
finished, Bran has already finished inking four pages and coloring two. Henry
finished the script for the ending. Regina enters the room and says she’s
making some pizza bites and popcorn balls. 
“So Bran is staying the night?”
“Yes,” Regina grins victoriously. “He has no choice. His mother will too
inconvenience to do so.”
Bran stares at Henry who is unperturbed. When she leaves to get the snacks,
Bran sends a look to his best friend. Henry shrugs.
“Mom has trust issues—well, she doesn’t like it when people don’t trust her.”
He looks over the completed pages. “She thinks that when your mother doesn’t
let you stay over, these are really nice,” Henry compliments the work,
momentarily distracted. “—it’s an attack against her ability to raise
children.”
“Oh.” Bran frowns. Bran would have questioned the notion further, but the phone
in his left pocket beeps, and he grabs it before he has a chance to realize he
left his phone on the table. What he sees on his pseudo-cellular proves that it
is certainly not his. He shrieks, loudly, and throws the device up in the air.
Henry catches it before it drops to the ground and when he sees the message,
forces it back into Bran’s hands.
"Take it!"
"I don't want it!" Bran protests. 
Henry’s mom pops in to check on the noise and asks what’s wrong.
“Nothing!” Henry squeals out. “But Bran has to use the bathroom so I’m going
with him—you know, to help him out.”
“Bran knows how to get there by himself,” Regina points out. She crosses her
arms, immediately suspicious of the excuse.
“Well, he wants me to keep him company. Girls do it all the time.”
“No, they don’t.”
“We need to talk about something private.”
Regina narrows her eyes. “How private?”
“Guy stuff.”
“Guy stuff? Or older guy stuff?” Regina takes a step further. “Who was texting
your phone just now? It better not be—”
“It was my phone, Mrs. Mills!” Bran comes to Henry’s defense. He holds it up in
his hands for evidence, after making sure there is nothing incriminating on the
screen. “My mother was making sure I was safe.”
Regina frowns. For a second, the boys think that their lies failed, but then
Regina angrily stomps back into the kitchen, swearing a storm under her breath
about psychotic gingers, and comes back with a bowl of deceitful health
snacks disguised as unhealthy promises. “Your mother needs therapy,” she tells
Bran, before marching into the other room to vent to her wife.
Henry, in an amazing bout of strength, drags Bran back to his chair and wheels
him to the downstairs’ bathroom. When he first visited Henry’s home, he was
surprised by how spacious it was, even with Bran's wheelchair, it could easily
fit two more people inside comfortably. Henry is taking advantage of this when
he locks Bran and himself inside. Bran waves the cock defiling his not-phone in
front of Henry’s face, and the writer swipes it out of his hand, blushing
furiously.
“Sorry you had to lie for me, but my mom checks my messages when she thinks I’m
not looking. She’s probably doing it now while I’m gone,” Henry explains. If
Bran wasn’t a Stark, he would have found that information to be disturbing and
worrisome. Instead, he is a Stark, and his parents put cameras all around the
house, and in Bran’s bathroom because Catelyn is afraid he’ll slip and fall to
his death.
“How did you get it into my pants?”
Henry isn’t trying to be mean, but he’s definitely Regina’s child when he
bluntly points out that Bran can’t feel his legs. “It’s not that hard to slip
something inside your pants.” Henry pauses, grins as his mind conjures up some
perverse joke, and then shakes his head when Bran sends him a warning glower.
Bran frowns. He could counter that argument, but instead, focuses on the
curiosity burning inside him. He thinks about the picture, about the…sext and
asks what’s going on. “Did your boyfriend send…that?” Henry smiles, amused.
Bran glances over at the mirror and sees that his cherry red lips are the same
color of his skin.
“Peter has gotten himself into something dangerous again. One of his friends
moved here, so he doesn’t want me around.” The corners of the smile weigh down
into a frown. “But Peter does not handle celibacy well and if he doesn’t stick
his dick into me, he’ll take up the first offer he gets. That’s why he keeps
sending me these pictures. It’s his way of telling me he still wants me.” To
his surprise, Henry tosses the phone back at Bran. He tries his best not to
look, but manages to see that Henry did not respond.
“You’re not going to text him back?”
“Nope, because if he’s doing this, then that means he cares more about my
safety than getting laid. If that’s true, it means he’s getting involved with
someone really dangerous. So I’m going to punish him for it.”
The statement unsettles Bran, and though he could think of a number reasons
why, it does not stop him from asking about Henry’s relationship. “Why are you
with him? He seems…off.”
“Probably the same reason you’re still talking to Jojen.”
Bran is taken back. “What do you mean?”
Henry puts his phone on the kitchen sink. “Listen, I’ve seen how your mother
treats you. My mom treats me the same way, like we’re made of glass and can’t
do anything on our own. It comes from a good place, but…sometimes I want to
have some fun, too. Don’t you?”
Bran is inclined to agree, except he remembers the fight Henry and Peter had
after school one day, when Henry caught Peter slipping one of their classmates
a plastic bag filled with white powder and refused to see him for weeks. Peter
snuck into the school to apologize to Henry personally in the boy’s bathroom.
Bran frowns and asks, “But…is it the right kind of fun? Aren’t you afraid of
getting into, I don’t know, trouble?”
“It’s not like I’m joining his gang, or anything. I just hang out with Peter
and we do stuff,” Henry explains. “Besides, doesn’t it feel good to do
something wicked?”
Bran fiddles with his fingers. He musters up an amicable nod, and then dives
deep to dig out some courage. He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and asks,
“Like, what kind of stuff?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “You know, stuff. Peter really likes that he’s my
first—he has this major virgin kink because he wants to teach me everything. 
He loves tying me up and making me follow orders in these skimpy outfits, like
a sexy maid or, this one time he had me in a sexy Tinkerbell costume, which was
freaking weird. But you know, it wasn't like a red light for me or anything.”
Bran, whose face is already bleeding red, asks him for more details.
Henry has to think. “Well, he’s also a major exhibitionist. Sometimes, we’re
just making out on the couch, and his friends come over. All of a sudden, he
has to have me on my hands and knees, or you know, just my knees.”
Bran nod as if he actually knows, instead of just assuming from the various
details Henry lets on about his personal life. He’s not a kid, he knows about
sex, his parents just gave him the talk a few weeks ago—a fact that actually
de-ages him in some way—but he’s curious. And it may or may not be because of
the really nice, older boy who calls him up every day to check on him and make
sure he’s happy.
Henry asks Bran if he’s thinking about Jojen.
“What?”
“Well, that’s why you’re asking me, right? Because you’re thinking about doing
things with him?”
A lump finds its way to Bran’s throat. “I…well…I don’t know. I’m not looking
for that kind of relationship.” Bran wants a friend, who he can share his
deepest secrets with and build a bond of trust and love, and hold hands with
and maybe kiss every now and then. And while making out looks really good, and
Henry makes sex sound really, really good, Bran is man enough to admit he’s not
ready.
“Okay, maybe not now. But you’ll want it one day, and Jojen definitely wants
you. Have you thought about all the things you wanted to try out?”
“Oh…” It’s a good point, but the thought never crossed Bran’s mind. He wonders
if it’s because of his…condition. Suddenly, another fear strikes his heart.
“What if I can’t get hard?”
“What?” Henry sounds surprise.
“What if I can’t…do stuff with him?”
“Have you tried masturbating?”
Bran shakes his head. “No! I mean, I never wanted to.”
“You should give it a shot,” Henry suggests.
“I…but I don’t know how. I don’t know the first thing to do with another guy.”
“It’s okay, Jojen will teach you. It’s like I said, right? Older guys love
teaching things.” Henry winks, and Bran fails to copy his confidence. Henry
tries to soothe his worries by giving him instructions on how to give a decent
blowie, or how to curl his fingers so that he can hit his prostate. He talks
about rolling his r’s, and licking up the glans because that’s where guys are
most sensitive. When things get too explicit for Bran’s ears, he suggests that
Henry’s mother will get suspicious if they take too long. Henry freaks out, and
starts wheeling Bran out of the room.
He returns home the next morning, and curses the night before with Henry’s
name. He remembered his sleepover vividly, because while he was content with
staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine the location of the stars, Henry was
reading over his boyfriend’s messages and then finally submitted to his pleas.
He demanded Bran help him send a dirty, full bodied picture so that Peter could
be jealous of the fact that someone else saw him naked. The reaction was
perfect, and Bran wanted to die.
When Henry finally went to sleep, Bran was haunted by another concern. He
looked down at his paralysis, his scarred and unmoving legs, and wondered if it
was such a stretch to believe that someone would reject him for them. What if
his other parts didn’t work as well? The doctor never mentioned it, but it was
a possibility, wasn’t it?
The thought is on Bran’s mind when he rolls through the door. His mother is
frantic with worry, but Bran ignores her concerns and asks if he could go to
bed. Catelyn accuses Regina of letting her son run wild when she hears he did
not get any sleep. Bran soothes her concerns (and spares his headmistress the
drama) by saying it wasn’t her fault, he just has a lot on his mind.
“Henry’s place was a lot of fun,” Bran tells her, and in hindsight, his
sleepover was a turning point in his life. Catelyn’s face falls, and sends him
to his room. He knows he won’t be sleeping today either. All he’ll be thinking
about is Jojen, sex, and the possible inability to have either.
He passes by Robb on his way out of the elevator. Robb asks Bran if they could
have a talk, and while Bran intends to refuse him, he is convinced that this is
the perfect opportunity to have all his questions answered when he remembers
Arya’s earlier suggestion. Robb is dating Jon. Robb was dating Jon. Robb used
to be in a relationship with a man, and knows all the mechanics but has all the
common sense not to tell Bran what he does not want to hear. Robb is his
brother. Brothers are sworn to protect each other by the unwritten laws of the
bro code. Robb can keep a secret.
“Come in,” Bran offers, and tries not to yawn in his presence. His mind is
positively wrecked with fatigue. Later, he will accuse exhaustion as the
primary factor in his decision to ask Robb of all people for love advice.  
“I know it’s a bit late, Bran, and you’re probably going to tell me it’s not a
big deal, but I wanted to say sorry for not being there for you.”
“Oh that’s cool—”
“No, it is not,” Robb denies. “I’ve been using you to satisfy my own
loneliness.”
“That’s fine,” Bran interrupts again. He wants to get this over with. Seeing
Robb guilty makes him feel even more guilty for what he did to him. “What are
brothers for?”
“No, it’s not. I’m supposed to be there for you—”
“—you can be there for me now—”
“—I hope to. Hey, why don’t we spend some time together—”
“—Robb, I need to—”
“We could go out to eat, or I could hang out at the reserves tomorrow—”
“I need you to talk to me about sex!” Bran blurts out.
“What?” Robb’s eyes look like they bulged out of his head. “Sex? Like…”
“Like the common way to show affection, especially with people who love each
other a lot.”
“Haven’t you already gotten the sex talk?” Robb hesitates. “Maybe, we should
get dad to do this; he’s had a lot more experience.”
“No!” Bran protests. “It can only be you! Dad can’t help me here. He doesn’t
know how to do it…with guys.” Bran winces at his own explanation. “And I…like a
guy. And one day, I might want to have sex…with a guy.”
“Oh.” Robb’s face becomes furious. “Bran, I hope you’re not being pressured
into anything you don’t want to do. You can say no whenever you want.”
“I know!” Bran squeaks. “Why does everybody treat me as if I'm some sort of
invalid?"
"Bran, you're too young to know these things. Maybe you should wait a bit—"
"No!" Bran shouts. "I'm not too young to know. It’s not knowing that’s scaring
me. What if one day I meet someone special and I want to have sex with them but
I don’t know what to do? What if I can’t tell the difference between nervous
virgin jitters and ‘there is something wrong, I don’t feel safe?’ If I know
what to expect then I can protect myself! A guy won’t be able to convince me to
do something I’m not comfortable with by saying it’s normal if I know it’s
not!” Bran reasons, a fierce conviction in his stance. Almost instantly, he
feels like an idiot for making such a declaration. He waits for the
disapproval. Robb sighs instead. He mutters something like “you’re too young
for this,” and Bran’s face deflates. He is about to ask Robb to keep the
curiosity a secret until he sees his older brother take a seat on his bed and
asks Bran what he wants to know.  
“You’re really going to tell me?”
“You’re not wrong. I don’t want you to be taken advantage of by some creep who
makes you think that being scared is normal.”
Bran beams. He thinks about all the stuff Henry talked about, and things that
were on his mind before. They come out in a vomit of concerns and excitement.
“Uh, well…how much will it hurt? How can you tell who’s the top and who’s the
bottom? What is a gag reflex? What is felching? How do I decide on a safe word?
Who—?”
“Okay!” Robb makes a time out sign with his hands. He takes a deep breath.
Gods, who is teaching Bran these things? “Let’s start with the basics. Do you
know how two guys have sex?”
Bran opens his mouth, closes it, and then nods.
“Okay, you’re nodding but I don’t believe you. How do you think two guys have
sex?”
Robb listens to his little brother describe anal and oral sex with utter
technical precision, and without describing any sort of emotional attachment or
anticipation of the act. He makes it sound like a chore, something he has to do
to please his boyfriend, and that worries Robb more than anything. He stops
Bran before he goes any further. Bran furrows his brow, probably concerned that
he got something wrong or said something immoral. He remembers Bran’s previous
answers. He didn’t ask if it hurts, but how much it’ll hurt.
“First, anal sex is not a requirement between two guys. You can have great sex
with your boyfriend without there being any penetration.”
Bran is taken back. “But is that really—”
“Yes,” Robb answers before Bran can even finish his question. “Frottage and
oral counts as real sex. I think, when and if you’re ready, you should try it
once and see if you like it.  It hurts the first time, but that’s why you need
lube, and patience, lots of patience. And once you hit that prostate, gods, it
feels like heaven. If you get used to it and you trust your partner with your
life, you can start to go faster, maybe get more…adventurous, but not a second
earlier,” Robb warns. He’ll kill the guy who forces his little brother into
doing anything he doesn’t want. Hell, he’ll kill him for suggesting it.
Bran nods. He stares at Robb as if analyzing him, and considers his options.
Then, he turns away. He tells Robb that’s enough for tonight, and thanks him
for his help. Robb sighs and asks Bran to just speak his mind—he’ll be happier
for it and much less confused if he does. 
Bran gulps. “You said it hurt? Have you ever tried…doing it?”
“Yeah, of course.”
The nonchalance surprises Bran. “So you’re the bottom?”
Robb laughs, making Bran turn red with embarrassment. He must have asked a
really stupid question to get that kind of reaction. He tries to save face by
saying he needs to look over his drawings, it’s getting late and—Robb soothes
his concerns with an apology. “I’m sorry for laughing.” He smiles warmly, and
is now leaning against the wall next to Bran. “It’s a fair question, especially
with all the stuff on the internet now.” Robb looks up at the ceiling and then
back at Robb as he explains, “Bran, there is no ‘top’ or ‘bottom’ in
relationships. There are people who prefer penetration, and people who prefer
being penetrated, or both. There are guys who like giving head,” Like Jon. Robb
shakes the thought away. “And people who like to receive. It’s perfectly fine
to do both. I love being inside Jon,” Robb confesses.
Bran scrunches his nose in disgust, but does not stop Robb from continuing. He
may not want to hear about his brother’s sex life, but he fears he has to. “And
I’d be lying if I said having his cock inside me felt just as good. But it’s
nice, sometimes, to feel someone become a part of you. I know Jon enjoys it
both ways, but he accommodated to my preferences because he respected my
boundaries. In return, I listened to what he wanted, and we decided on what we
could enjoy together as a couple.”
“Was there anything you didn’t like?”
“Yeah,” Robb admits. “I’m not the first guy Jon has ever been with. He is,
however, my first boyfriend. I knew just as much as you did not when we first
got together. But,” Robb shakes Bran’s hair. He wonders why everyone loves
doing that so much. “He was patient with me. We talked about things we were
willing to try, and things that made us uncomfortable. Turns out, I really like
giving orders.”
Bran rolls his eyes. Figures Robb would be into that. Robb laughs at the
reaction, he grins and informs Bran that Jon really loves “giving head” just to
see him squirm. After he’s gotten a good laugh out of Bran and a pillow shoved
his face, Robb says that he trusts Bran’s instincts. “The person who knows you
the best is you. If you’re curious, that’s means you’re interested. But if
you’re unsure, it’s a good time to inform your partner you’re not ready.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
Robb thinks about the best comparison. “If someone suggests something to you
and you get butterflies in your stomach and a tingle down there, you should
look into it. If the suggestion makes you sick to your stomach and hide under
your covers, I suggest avoiding the act altogether. Don’t entertain it at the
cost of your own sanity, and don’t lead your partner on. If you feel more
comfortable further into the relationship, you can always go back to it.”
Bran feels relieved, except the words tingle down therering in his head like
the incessant church bells of a religion he doesn’t follow.
“I don’t know if I can get the tingle.”
Robb grins, unaware of Bran’s drop in mood. “It’s probably because you haven’t
gone too far yet but when it happens—”
“No,” Bran says softly. “I don’t know if it’s possible.”
Robb grows quiet.
“Robb, I haven’t felt my legs in years. I’ve never…touched myself. What if
I…what if I get really close to someone and it turns out I can’t be intimate
with them? What if they hate me for it?”
“No one can ever hate you, Bran.” Robb tells him. Bran frowns as if he doesn’t
believe him.
Robb sighs. “I’m not going to lie to you. I won’t say sex is not important,
because for me, it is. I love sex, I love having that intimacy with my
partner.”
Bran wonders if there’s a nice way to ask Robb to leave so that he could cry.
“But to some people, sex isn’t a big deal. Maybe your first boyfriend won’t be
satisfied with a completely romantic relationship. If he leaves you because of
it, that just means you’ll be single for the person you’re meant to be with.”
“But I really like him!” Bran blurts out. He sees the surprise in Robb’s eyes
and turns away. “If you really care about someone, shouldn’t you try your best
to make them happy? I want him to be happy because he makes me happy.”
Robb agrees with the logic, but Bran is his brother and his wellbeing is
paramount. “You’re not going to be happy if you’re obsessed with being good
enough for someone else. I...” Robb stops. Suddenly, the ghosts of his past
girlfriends tackle him with an amazing amount of fury. He remembers their
constant excuses for breaking up. “I am not a mother,” said Dany. “I am not a
wife,” said Dacey. “I’m not perfect,” said Talisa and Jeyne. When they broke
up, Margaery kissed Robb at his graduation and told him she was going to
Cambridge, not Edinburgh, and she never actually planned to leave with him in
the first place. When he asked why, she touched his face and said the girl he
saw in her was not who the girl she was.
Robb puts his head in his hands and whispers, “Fuck.”
“Robb?”
“It’s nothing,” Robb says. “Bran…this guy, he likes you, right?”
Bran bites his lips and nods. Robb takes his hand and tells Bran to call him.
“If he likes you, it’s because you’ve made him happy. And by your logic, he
wants to make you happy as well, right? If he knows you, he won’t…ask for
anything until you’re ready. If you’re meant to be together, then you’ll want
the same things and trust me, your first intimate moment, whether it’s losing
your virginity or sleeping underneath the stars, it’ll be perfect.”
The words are like a panacea to most of Bran’s worries. Bran thanks Robb for
his advice. Robb says no problem, and leaves the room so that he can collect
his thoughts. Bran attempts to salvage some courage in his muddled concerns,
and takes his cell phone out to contact Jojen. He wonders if he should text,
but decides the issue is too serious to risk miscommunication. He calls him.
“Hello Bran,” he answers on the first ring. His voice is smooth as velvet, and
Bran imagines cream cheese frosting on top of devil’s food cupcake and there’s
a delightful shiver up his spine. Bran guesses that’s part of the tingle Robb
talked about.
“Hey, Jo,” Bran wonders why his face is so hot. “I wanted to talk to you about
something.” Stupid. You just called him, Bran thinks, of course he knows you
want to talk to him about something.
Jojen tells Bran he can talk to him about anything. “You can’t even begin to
imagine how good it feels to hear your voice.”
Bran coughs, because the sentiment is returned but he can’t bear saying
something so embarrassing. He doesn’t know how the older boy can say those
kinds of things without shame—Bran would have an easier time burrowing a hole
in the sand and sticking his head in it.
“Bran?” Jojen sounds so concerned.
Bran takes a deep breath. “Jojen, I was with Henry the other night…” He
explains that they discussed relationships, and the intimacy expected of being
in one. With a minor tremor in his fingers, Bran confesses that he really likes
Jojen, and he wants them to go further. He wants a boyfriend. His heart is
practically exploding with excitement at the hope that they will meet in person
soon. “But I’m scared,” Bran reveals.
“Of me?”
“No!” Bran protests. “I’m scared of getting serious. I don’t want to get
attached to someone who might walk away for the first person who is willing to
put out. I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want me for who I am and
what I can or cannot do.”   
“Bran, there has never been a moment in my life where I wasn’t serious about
you. You are perfect. You're more than I deserve. Anyone who says otherwise is
a fool or a liar. You are the only thing that matters in this world. I don’t
care if every moment we spend together is in your garden playing with Summer,
or if all we do in bed is listen to the rain fall on the window panel. I can go
at your pace. Our first time together, it’s going to be wonderful because we’ll
both be ready. There are so many things I want from you, and it’s not only
physical. I want you in every way. And if you’re the one making the first move,
it will be more special because I’ll know for sure it’s what you want.”
Bran finds it hard to breathe. Jojen's speech made him overwhelmed. He wonders
how to respond; what kind of declaration he can make but he knows that nothing
he says can remotely match the passion of the older boy. Instead, he asks Jojen
what will happen if Bran is not ready for years.
“I’ll wait years,” Jojen pauses. “I'll wait forever. You give me life, Bran.”
Bran gulps to relieve his dry throat. He feels hot underneath his collar and
wonders if he should change into something more comfortable. “I—” What could he
possibly say? “What do you think of doing with me?”
“Are you asking me about my fantasies, Bran?” Jojen teases. His voice turns to
husk, and Bran can only imagine the way his eyes must be looking at him. He
fears that if he does not stop blushing, all his blood will leave his body and
make his head burst. “Are you asking me if I lie awake at night, thinking about
your body underneath mine? How I envision the way you would squirm when I lick
down your pretty nipples to your belly button? How I would just wrap my tongue
around your cock?”
Bran mouth is try. He finds himself envisioning Jojen’s hungry gaze, and
wonders if it would be wrong, a little too daring to ask him to continue. Jojen
does so regardless of any encouragement. “I would make you feel so good, Bran.
I would worship every part of you. I would suck your fingers until they are
dripping, and douse your skin with kisses. At night, I would take you to the
godswoods where I’d hold you in my arms and count the stars and pray that they
would fall so you could make wishes on them. I would never let you forget what
it feels like to be loved.”
He can imagine it, and he’s squirming in desire. “I want that,” he whimpers. “I
want to meet you.”
Jojen sounds elated. “I want to meet you, too.” There is a pause. “Call me
tomorrow, and we can schedule a meeting time.”
The phrase is more technical than Jojen’s usual manner of speaking, but Bran is
so immersed in arousal that he does not notice. He says goodbye, and drops his
phone on the bed. When he positions himself further up, he only makes himself
more uncomfortable. He frowns, and looks at his lower regions where he spots a
very unfamiliar, but absolutely distinguishable erection.  
Bran bites his lips. His door is unlocked but getting up to close it is such a
hassle. Bran weighs his options before he tugs at the waistband of his pants.
Slow, and with a lot of patience, Bran remembers.
“Who were you were talking to?” Meera asks when Jojen hangs up.
“Dr. Lector,” Jojen lies. “He wants to check up on my progress  since coming
here.”
Meera tries to read his face but Jojen is calm, his heartbeat is soft and
steady and he stares at Meera with clear eyes. After a few more moments of
suspicion and pause, Meera says, “That’s nice of him. He’s a good doctor.”
Jojen puts his cell phone in his bag. “His empathy to my situation is
astounding.”
Meera sighs. “How are you doing, Jojen? The property is big, but it’s not big
enough to hide you two forever. You’re bound to run each other, or at least see
each other once.”
Hopefully more than once, Jojen thinks. Meera does not have to know that. Jojen
sits down on their couch, a lovely piece of furniture, pure Italian leather,
which no one enjoys sitting on because it is too expensive to relax in, and
offers Meera a seat. When she does, Jojen immediately explains:
“Meera, you need to understand that my recovery is a working process. You can’t
go from being utterly consumed with the thoughts of someone as beautiful as
Bran, to not acknowledging his existence. I’m trying to respectful, but
attaining satisfaction in the matters of the heart has many causalities.”  
“What do you mean?”
“I’m saying I want to be loved; I no longer wish to stare at my affections from
afar. Dr. Lecter has encouraged to find an equal, not a fantasy and I’m
following his advice.”
Meera furrows her brow. She’s uncomfortable, because she believes Jojen but is
also too smart not to remain cautious. Jojen smiles; he brushes a curl away
from his sister’s face.  “Don’t look so sad, Meera. I hate it when you’re sad.
You look too much like our mother.”
“Jojen…”
“Though, we have to be grateful you aren’t as fragile, or father would lose a
daughter and a wife.”
Jojen hopes the matter is settled, as most conversations are when someone
mentions his mother. Before he can leave, Meera tells him they need to talk
about something else. She takes a wad of cash out of her pocket and places it
on the table.
“I found this in my coat last night.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Congratulations? Are you suggesting I scour my
wardrobe for loose change?”
“This isn’t loose change. That's over two hundred pounds! I bet if I checked
father’s wallet there would be an influx cash as well.”
“Father has gotten several new clients since moving. He knows how finicky you
are about taking money.”
“Because we talk about it. Together. You listen in the shadows and whenever
times are hard, we mysterious find a way to make ends meet.” Meera takes a deep
breath. “Jojen, are you working for Peter again?”
Jojen’s stance is unwavering. “I told you not to look so sad.” He wraps his
arms around his sister and ignores her stiffening. “After all these years, I
still cannot tell when you were most miserable: when I got arrested or when our
mother died.” The smell of carbon monoxide is almost off his clothes. He picks
up the money and places it in Meera’s hands. “Compared to that, me spotting you
a bit of cash every now and then is nothing to cry about. I want you and father
happy, because if you’re happy then I’m happy, and being happy keeps me sane.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next Chapter: Guest stars appear! Benjen makes an appearance.
     Ramsey appears. This story gets dark. The darkest this story is
     probably going to get is the next chapter and then it will return to
     normal.
     2. I don’t agree with the idea that sex is unnecessary in a
     relationship. I think some relationships will value sex above other
     aspects, and some people will value other aspects over sex. I think
     instead of dismissing someone as a jerk just because they break up
     with someone for not being able to supply what they want (like what
     else are they supposed to do, force their partners?), it is important
     for people to find the person they’re compatible with. I didn’t want
     the conversation with Bran and Robb to go all “yeah, he’s a jerk for
     wanting sex from you” and leaned towards the whole “Well maybe he’s
     not the one.” Got a little serious there.
     3. God, I’m sorry for not answering more commentary.
     4. I forgot today was Thursday. I was like “oh shit, I have to
     update.” This was not good. I am no longer ahead these chapters. I am
     on track. I only completed the next chapter instead of two. This does
     not make me feel comfortable because the last time I was on track; I
     didn’t update for a year. Anyways, Thursdays are the day I’m going to
     update now. It feels a good day. I’m done changing days.
***** Chapter 25 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter: some description of violence and heavy
     drug use by certain characters. Ramsey pops in and stays. Shit gets
     pretty dark here.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Myranda Kennel was female, early twenties, white, brown hair and brown eyes,
pretty or would have been if her face wasn’t completely torn apart. She was a
fighter, judging by the signs of struggle on her arms; she fought to the death.
Her fingernails were completely ripped off from her desperate attempts to fight
off her assailants—a pack of vicious dogs hungry for human flesh. Behavior
analysis points them to being hunting dogs, like hounds or possibly guard dogs
like Dobermans. For the life of them, no one at the precinct was able to figure
how such large creatures could walk the streets unnoticed.
“He’s escalating,” Emma points out. She just came in with an arm holding a
coffee tray and another bag full of pastries. Yoren wonders if it is an
American thing to always have snacks on hand. Today are apple strudels and bear
claws, all baked by her gorgeous and fearsome wife. Emma is one of the only
women in the murder force, and is also one of the few who actually manages to
stay married to her first spouse. She sees the pictures and points out that
Myranda wasn’t a prostitute like the others.
“She might have known the perp,” Yoren agrees. He takes his coffee and sips it;
the picture of leisure as he leans back on his rolling chair. “We got one or
two accounts saying that the women were propositioned by a couple. Maybe they
had a lover’s quarrel, or she wanted out?”
“Maybe she got jealous,” Benjen recommends. In contrast to his partner’s
backwards mobility, he moves over the desk to take an apple strudel from Emma.
His ass is on full display, directly in front of the commander’s office. Yoren
rolls his eyes at the view. Benjen is wearing his fuck me jeans. “This guy,
whoever he is, likes a chase. Maybe he got attached to someone and that pissed
off his partner. She got insecure and decided to take matters into her own
hands. Guy doesn’t like his toys being taken away, or he doesn’t like it when
someone disobeys his orders. Took her out for a hunt. She figured out that she
was the prey. Lesson learned.”
“Not everything is about jealousy when a woman kills,” Emma grumbles, though
she barely believes it herself. “She can be bystander—maybe she saw something
she shouldn’t have and he removed a witness.”
“She’s a pretty frequent witness, then. We have a paper trail on her. She moved
to every location the murders frequented. No more than an hour away from the
next spot,” Benjen bets. “I say she was in on it. It explains her moving
record, and why her murder is so different from the others. All the other girls
were taken away, hunted down, and then killed. She was just hunted down.”
“There are plenty of explanations, maybe—will you stop doing that? He’s not
going to look.”
“Doing what?” Benjen askes as leaned over to grab a pen, or a paper, or
something that would make his ass clench from outside the Captain’s, otherwise
known as the Lord Commander, window. He is strutting up a storm, practically
preening for attention.
“Doing that,” Emma accentuates that, because she knows Benjen knows. Everyone
in the precinct knows about Benjen’s daddy issues. “We have a case to work on.”
“He’s going to look,” Benjen denies. “They always look. It is only a matter of
time before he gives in to this perfect Stark ass.”
“He’s not going to look, he has more important things to worry about. Like dead
women in Yorkshire.”
“Well, not looking is not going to bring them back.”
“Aren’t you supposed to mourning?”
Yoren scoffs. “His sugar daddy died, not his boyfriend. The only one mourning
is his ass at the loss of an old, wrinkly prick.”
“Just the way I like ‘em,” Benjen admits. His tone is dry and welcomes good
banter. “And he wasn’t my sugar daddy—I wasn’t with Mr. Arryn for the money,
just the sex. There’s just something about being on top of a guy who is old
enough to remember Churchill that really gets me going.”
“You lost me at Mr. Arryn,” Emma retorts. “You called your lover by his last
name.”
“It made him hot. He loved being reminded of his age just as I much as I love
reminding him. His wife never appreciated the way he worked his cock, said he
was too old to please her. Turns out, she was just frigid.”
Emma rolls her eyes. She looks at the Lord Commander, who seems enraptured by
papers. “Either way, let’s get back to the case so that we may save some lives.
Can we all agree that the victim knew the attacker?”
“Aye,” Benjen and Yoren chimes in. Benjen looks into the metal plate and sees
the Lord Commander in the reflection. He is still not staring. He pouts and
asks how hot the coffee is.
“No,” Emma replies.
Benjen pours a bit of his mocha onto his pants. He makes a declaration to
undress.
“Stop it!”
Yoren laughs. “Ten pounds says he calls in Stark for some discipline.”
Emma agrees to the bet, and when the captain comes out, eyes full of fury,
ordering Benjen to make his get inside his office, she swears. Benjen walks
with a glide and smirk. He enters the office, and once there, he casually pulls
down the blinds.
Emma turns to Yoren, and also sees the entire precinct watching. “You’re all
perverts,” she reprimands.
“Better his ass than yours,” says Yoren. “That’s a sexual harassment suit
waiting to happen.” 
“People are dying and we’re betting on asses.”
“I’m betting—you lost.”
Emma rolls her eyes and gets back to work. When Yoren sees how sensitive she
is, he walks up to the board. “You’re right about one thing: he’s escalating.
Even if it was a fit of passion or something of the matter, if we let him get
away with this, he’ll think he can get away with more. He’s gotten away with a
lot already.”
The notion is frightening. Emma suggests looking at all the new residents that
moved within a twenty mile radius to the crimes. Ones who live in open areas
perfect for dogs to run and hunt, private residents, for example, or a home
that might have soundproof rooms. Yoren suggests looking at large spots of
land, particularly people with enough real estate that the crimes are so
distant, finding them would be equivalent to pinpointing a tree falling in a
forest.
Yoren has already prepared them. He talks about the few suspects they have,
particularly the ones with records. Some older criminals who got out of prison
and were recently released, and a few juveniles who are supposedly ready to
join ‘the outside world.’
Emma takes the files. “I can’t believe you guys don’t close records when they
turn 18.”
“Once an asshole, always an asshole,” Yoren remarks. He looks around. “Don’t
quote me on this, my money’s on these younger guys. Here are their files.
Messed up in the head, both of them. Seems like the type of thing loonies would
do.”
“Who are they?”
“First one is Ramsey Bolton. His father is Roose Bolton; he does military
contracts for Stark Industries. Ramsey moved here to manage the contracts while
his father is working in Russia. He has a history of violence and sexual
assault. He went to a detention center when he was fourteen for those reasons.
When he was eighteen he was accused of raping a classmate. Girl who accused him
died from an accident before there was a trail.”
“Well that wasn’t the most suspicious thing I’ve ever heard,” Benjen points out
as he comes back. To no one’s surprise, he does not sit down on his chair.
“Rough lecture?” Emma asks.
“The roughest.” Benjen smirks.
“Smart kid,” Yoren continues. He ignores the interaction for actual police
work. “After the incident, he deferred his admission to Oxford and studied
abroad at Yale University. He graduated in the top percentage of his class. His
psychiatrist says he might be a genius.”
“So we have an intelligent suspect with lots of money to move around, killing
young girls? This just keeps getting better and better. I don’t even want to
hear about the other one. My money is on him.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” lectures Benjen. “There’s more than meets than
eye.” He takes out the file on their second suspect.
“Second is Jojen Reed. He got arrested when he was a juvenile for stalking,
breaking and entering, and has gotten involved with drugs, both using and
selling. He’s more into little boys than girls, but his record states that he’s
not afraid to snap a finger or two to get things done. You’ll see how in his
record. Like Bolton, he’s smart. Unlike Bolton, he’s been tested. Qualified for
MENSA three years ago.” Yoren whistles. “We should look through the other
files, but my gut says it’s one of them.”
Emma’s eyebrow furrows. She flips through the file. She sees a familiar name,
and questions his legitimacy. “Is he related to Peter Pan?”
“The drug dealer?”
“Yeah.”
Yoren moves a couple of papers around. Benjen takes the faster route and looks
through his computer screen. He finds the file almost instantly, and spins the
screen around to show Emma. “Jojen’s mother was Pan’s mother’s sister. They’re
cousins.”
Emma slams the file on the desk. “Changed my mind. I think it’s him.”
Yoren chuckles. “Let’s not get hasty. Is there bad blood between you and Pan?”
“You could say that.” Emma really does not want to get into the drama of her
son and his hopefully ex-boyfriend. “All I know is, you have to be really
messed up to work with Pan.”
And if there are two words to describe Jojen Reed, it is ‘messed up.’
-
Jojen Reed can count his best traits on a single hand. His intelligence, or at
least the numbers he scored on a test when he was a child, is one of them. So
far, his IQ has been his guarantee when shit hits the fan. His mind is his
safety net and his curse. Long ago, it was the argument used to sway a corrupt
judge who was unable to handle how a man of Stark’s wealth can hold such honor
and not be swayed to provide a ‘donation’ towards the judge’s wellbeing.
Jojen sees the world in particles, in alternate dimensions and cosmic forces
unable to be understood by man, and that makes him attractive to prestigious
universities like Cambridge and MIT. He would never leave too far from home,
though, from either Bran or from his family. The latter, particularly, needs
him.
His second best trait, the one that reminds him of his beating heart, is his
devotion to his family. On his life and on his soul, Jojen swears he loves his
family. His father is a good man who stays by his side, even when he knew Jojen
was guilty of the crime against his best friend’s son. He was the one who got
on his hands and knees and begged Mr. Stark “to forgive Jojen. He’s my son,
Ned. I love him, please, I can’t lose someone else.Please, if you have any
respect for me, you'd forgive him.”
His sister is fierce and intelligent, and has worked to the bone to put herself
through school. She wants to provide a better life for him and their father.
She loves her father’s art. She loves how the wood speaks to a person’s being
instead of catering to the masses’ affection. She does not want him to give it
up, and so she hopes to provide for them. She loves Jojen, and prays every day
for his mind to hear reason and not wayward voices.
But we can’t always have what we want, Jojen thinks. He smiles to himself,
unpleasant and without amusement, because while he loves his sister and
commends her efforts, he knows that hardwork and labor is not enough. A degree
takes time, a job needs to fertilize before it grows into something
substantial. Meera has loans, and though her scholarships are effective, they
are not a panacea for her student debt. They need money, and Jojen loves his
family enough to find a way to provide it.
There’s a hotel within the city that enjoys hiring baby faced boys with smooth
voices. They judge the young men on their ability to smile and charm aging
women, sing praises with tongues laced with honey and cyanide to them. They
form a world where they can relive their golden years first, and their pasts
never. Jojen doesn’t even have to sleep with them. Just be there, hold their
hands while they tell him stories of their youth. It is not a fun job, but it
is legal and profitable in more ways than one. The women are eager to slip
Jojen a fresh tenner every time he throws them a wink or delivers a well-
illustrated premonition (“I’m psychic, I swear, and I see a desirable future
for you,” he purrs, just the way they like it and tells them anything but the
graveyards and crows he truly imagines), but it is also provided a believable
alibi to his family. They would much rather accept that Jojen is whoring his
time out to various grandmothers and fading duchesses than to worry about his
lingering hands in his cousin’s side businesses.
Jojen is a screw up but he doesn’t screw up. He’s smarter than half the boys
Peter employs, and because Jojen loves his family, even those who do not
deserve to be loved, Peter trusts him. He gives Jojen odd jobs every now and
then, and the pay is phenomenal and the benefits unheard of (seriously, who
else considers a bag full weed and a sliver of snow a ‘bonus’). Jojen supposes
that is his third best trait. He doesn’t waste his money on stupid shit. He’s a
sucker for the good stuff but he’s not an addict. He wouldn’t pay for this
crap, even though it feels like heaven, because that’s money Meera needs for
her tuition, and that’s cash his dad could use to buy a new knife for his
newest piece. That’s food on the table, and that’s fire in the hearth.
The jobs aren’t as dangerous as they were before. He makes deliveries most of
the time, and sometimes it is as simple as playing messenger for Peter’s
boyfriend when they have a spat. Then, Peter gives him the cash and in
sequence, he puts it in his father’s jeans or his sister’s jacket (though he
supposes he’ll have to find a new way to go at it—maybe start a savings account
or a safety deposit box that cannot be traced).
There’s nothing odd about today, except that it is fuller than usual. Jojen
took a morning shift from his coworker, and though it was slow, the women were
friendly with slippery hands. Afterwards, he made a few deliveries to the
estate, and avoided a cop who tried to proposition him for a baggie. He
politely refused and told him he didn’t trade. They both knew he was lying, but
without evidence, neither of them could act. Jojen has a gift for spotting
coppers. At the end of the day, he returned to Peter’s hideout. Everything went
perfectly well, except for the chill in Jojen’s spine that proclaimed a messy
evening. Sometimes, he truly hated his cousin.
Today, Peter has a guest over. Upon Jojen’s arrival, Peter’s eyes light up with
recognition of a smooth day’s work. He introduces him to the fleet of young men
who are too old, with hands too dirty, to be recruits for Peter’s lost boys—he
likes them young and uncorrupted, which these men certainly aren’t. In the
center is a handsome, chilling young man who smiles like his teeth are made of
knives and his tongue quivers for blood.  “This is Ramsey Bolton,” Peter
familiarizes. “We were cellmates in juvie. I invited him over to discuss his
hard work over the last few weeks.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Ramsey greets, and oh, how he sounds so excited. Jojen
hates it. He’s already imagining his death by a hundred starving dogs. Maybe in
another life, he wistfully dreams. “Would you happen to be this legendary Henry
I’ve been hearing about?”
Ramsey’s back is turned from Peter, so only Jojen sees the flash of surprise
that passes his cousin’s face. Then, he spots the irritation as Peter sends
Felix, his right hand man a look, and receives confusion in response. Now,
Peter is angry. He hides it as soon as Ramsey turns to face him.
“Actually,” Peter clarifies. “He’s my cousin.”
The air grows tense. Ramsey disregards it with a chuckle. “Oh, I just thought
because he looked so young…really, your family’s veins must be running with the
fountain of youth. I bet none of you ever age. I’m jealous. What is your
secret?”
Peter chuckles and smirks like he’s amused. He splits the cocaine into four
straight lines with a gift card from a toy store, and Jojen scoffs as if it
isn’t the most ironic sight ever. Then, Peter tears the paper decorated in snow
apart into perfectly even halves and slides Ramsey’s share over.
“Salute,” Ramsey announces. He grins like a trickster as he snorts a whole row.
Peter smirks, and sends an order to Felix with his eyes. Jojen watches with no
amusement when the boys, some as young as Bran, bring the other men some of
their own pleasures. While they enjoy their intoxicated pursuits, Ramsey
becomes relaxed. He leans to the chair, and peers his wily blue eyes onto the
gang leader. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“The thought crossed my mind, yes,” Peter admits. “I thought I’d gotten rid of
all the major competition.”
Ramsey waves off his concerns. “Oh, I’m not interested in ruining your
monopoly. I’m an honest man, now.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Ramsey chuckles. “Graduated from a fancy university in America, away
from trouble. Started anew. I’ve even got a real job now, working for my dear
old dad. No more off the book sales; all my crimes are sanctioned by the
government.”
“Good for you,” Peter praises. “But from what I hear, even if you’re not
dealing in drugs, you’re still dealing in bodies, or am I mistaken?”
“More like leaving bodies,” Jojen mutters without thinking. Ramsey is surprised
by his sudden input, but instead of becoming defensive, he laughs. His men
follow suit and laugh harder.
“Yes, old habits die hard. I haven’t found ‘the one’ to capture my heart
completely.” Ramsey sighs. “I thought it’d be Myranda; she was childhood
sweetheart. Her father took care of my father’s hunting dogs—I do love those
dogs. Loyal, savage beasts. Not like humans. Nothing so weak. Then, she got a
little mouthy, got boring,and while she was amendable to my games, she didn’t
have what it takes to keep my attention.” He moved towards Peter. “So I found
other playmates, and then she got jealous and thought she could keep my
attention by fucking another man. I decided to remind her who she was messing
with.” He snorts up another line.
“You were jealous,” Jojen points out.
Ramsey laughs, crude and rough. “No, she wasn’t enough to get my blood pumping.
I just don’t like it when my things think they have a mind of their own.”
Jojen is disgusted. He wants to leave as soon as possible, but Peter calls for
more celebration, more drugs and more alcohol to warm their bellies. Jojen
knows if he leaves he won’t be receiving his payment, so he steps outside to
escape the catastrophe and tries not to think of the crying victims and wailing
women, their bloodied corpses on the streets, and their nails covered in
excrement.
After hours and hours of tortuous shouts of glory, the noises die down and the
men are escorted to their cars. Ramsey is not stupid enough to not prepare a
designated driver, and another beast of man carries him to their car. Jojen
hands it to men like Peter and Ramsey. They know how to make their bitches
reliable.
Peter sees them out, and once he reaches Ramsey’s car, Jojen watches as they
embrace like old friends departing. Ramsey slips some bills into Peter’s hands,
and while the other man refuses, he is eventually pushed into accepting. They
hug again. Peter walks pasts by Jojen, and the lonely house encourages Jojen to
follow him inside.
As soon as they reach the living room, Peter pushes the contents of the table
onto the ground and lets the air become polluted with the fog of depravity and
addiction. “He knows!” Peter shouts. “He knows!”
Jojen frowns. It has been a long time since Peter has behaved in such a manner.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying that Ramsey Bolton knows about Henry.” Peter finds some more things
to destroy, artifacts and decorations get thrown to the ground in rage. He
grabs a poker for a fireplace he doesn’t have and starts whacking the ornaments
off the shelves. He accidentally hits one of his boys, and doesn’t look the
least bit guilty. “He knows because someone told him.” The boy groveling on the
floor looks fearful, and Peter takes it as a sign of guilt. He beats his face
first, and ignores his scream when he starts on the leg. “Did you tell him?”
The boy whimpers. Peter stabs his face into the ground. “I asked you a
question: did you tell him?”
Jojen stops his cousin from going further. “He’s too scared to speak. You’re
blowing this out of proportion.”
“You don’t know Ramsey,” Peter warns. “He likes weakness. He knows he’s found
mine, and I don’t have his. He has the upper hand. He knows something about me
that I don’t know about him. He can hurt Henry, and he knows that hurts me.
Fuck!” Peter drops the poker onto the floor. He starts pacing around the room.
Jojen reads it as a sign of the storm, the omen before the apocalypse.
Jojen reminds him that his dramatics serves no purpose, and neither does
beating his men until he finds a traitor that may or may not exist. “Henry’s
mother is a copper. Not even a lord can protect himself from a mother’s wrath.
Besides, you’re worried about the disadvantage, right?”
“I’m not worried, I’m angry,” Peter hisses. “What would you have me do?”
“Find someone he loves.”
“Ramsey loves nothing.” Their kind do not have attachments. “Everything he owns
always breaks before we come to love them.” Peter already expects the worst for
Henry, and his cock grows hard at his lover’s tears. Jojen wonders if he would
have killed Peter by now if he wasn’t family.
“Well, what made you desire Henry? Why has he lasted so long?”
Peter quiets for a second, and then he answers: “Because he’s broken.”
“What?”
“Do you know why I’m so fascinated by Henry? Because he’s broken and no matter
how hard he breaks, I know he can be healed. I know that no matter how many
times I shatter him to pieces, there’s someone waiting to put him together. He
has someone—someone who will love him regardless of what I can do to him.” Men
like Ramsey fear and crave that one person who can never be broken. It makes
them feel powerful and powerless at the same time.
“Then find that person and give him to Ramsey.”
Peter chuckles. “No…if Ramsey found out about Henry, it means he’s keeping tabs
on me. It has to be someone he can’t control, someone living outside his line
of sight. Someone I can trust.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to be responsible for bringing an innocent bystander into your
sick games.”
Peter scoffs. “I’m not asking for you to slaughter a baby and send it to the
altar. Find me someone broken. Someone pretty enough to catch Ramsey’s eye.
Someone who has enough people who love them that they could escape Ramsey’s
grasp but not enough people to shield them from their own self-loathing.”
“The world is filled with bastards, cripples, and broken things. You’ll find
someone without my help.” Jojen is not a good man, but there are things he will
not do.
Peter glares. He will not be denied. “Maybe I will go looking and find someone
incompatible. Someone who will just spark Ramsey’s wrath. Perhaps a stubborn
little Stark girl or boy…”
“Maybe I can burn your house down and everyone in it.”
“Like mother, like son?”
“Peter…” Jojen warns. Peter refuses to back down and when he looks prepared to
give names for potential victims, Jojen brings up another argument. “Even if I
were to give him someone, what’s to say he’ll keep them? People like that, they
throw away their toys even after they come to love them.” Like monsters, Jojen
believes.
“Kids who throw away their toys may one day become collectors. Ramsey wants
that ‘person to give his heart to’ and if there’s one thing you are good at,
Jojen. It’s finding a person’s true nature underneath the disguises they
display.”
Peter drops on the couch and asks for the profits from today, as if the matter
has already settled. Jojen hands him the total, and from it, Peter leisurely
counts it and then rewards him with his share plus a little extra on the side.
He always does this, and Jojen wonders if it is because he’s family or if he
knows the bit of generosity keeps Jojen coming back for more.
Before Jojen leaves, Peter repeats the order. “I’ll call you tomorrow to see
what you’ve accomplished.”
-
Because of Theon’s consistent presence in their house, Winterfell has a de
facto room for Theon with all his personal belongings from his clothes to a
safety stash of cigarettes that Mrs. Stark contributes to on her more stressful
days. While the Starks protested his original involvement with their eldest
son, Theon likes to think he’s grown on them in his own way. At least, enough
that they would leave him alone in the house and not be worried about missing
objects when they come back.
The Greyjoys are a notorious crime family stationed in Liverpool. They began in
the 1740s with the transatlantic slave trade—back when their businesses were
still legal. On their tax papers today, they are fishermen. Underneath it all,
they are common crooks who are slowly losing their power to young, bigger start
up criminals who know how to work the system with cool manipulation over hard,
crude force. Theon has never told anyone, but he suspects it is only a matter
of time before his older brothers get arrested for their recklessness. Asha,
who is born to rule, is simply biding her time for when they go too far. Their
father favors her as well. He knows that if anybody can bring the Greyjoy name
to their former glory, it is her.
Ever since Theon met Robb, he made a vow not to think of them again. His father
found him too soft, and unlike his sister, who wanted him gone to escape their
family’s hard life—she didn’t believe he could handle it, not her poor, weak
little brother—his father wanted him out of his sight. He already tried to be
the child Balon Greyjoy wanted, and hated himself for it. He hated how rough
his hands became when he punched a guy in the face, hated the people he
surrounded himself with, hated that he could never make someone smile unless he
was pretending to be some douche. He decided that if he could not be the
perfect Greyjoy son, then he can be the best friend and boyfriend to one of the
most powerful men in the world. Robb will go places, and Theon will be by his
side.
Ride or die, bitches.
And though it was a slow process, he knows the rest of the family is warming up
to him. It helps that Robb’s last boyfriend (former beau, ex, all words are so
delicious to his ears) is his cousin. Sansa, especially, has taken the
advantageous position of being his friend, especially considering he’s been
accepted as a transfer to Central Saint Martins, a school he knows she has her
eye on. When he is undressing, he takes a casual glance as his hands because
they’re still rough—but not from fighting or from hard labor like his brothers,
but from years of putting his bitterness to his work. “We do not sow,”his
family motto,can go down in flames, because Theon does sew and he does it
well. 
He puts on his swimming trunks and heads to his favorite place in the house—a
high tech twenty-meter marble pool with turbos and a waterfall. It is
extravagant, but one of the many prized facilities of the Stark estate. Catelyn
Tully was a competitive swimmer in her youth, and along with a grand sept, Ned
Stark completely refurnished their pool to cater to her childhood dreams of
being an Olympian. In total, Winterfell has two top of the line gyms with the
latest equipment, a dance studio, several acres for jogging through the
gardens, a playground, and north of their estate, they owned a stable.
The entire family is obsessed with fitness. They don’t care about
attractiveness as much as they prize their health and hard bodies. Theon was in
awe when he first visited. They have a paralytic kid riding horses, a ballet
prodigy, an obstacle course disguised as a playground for Rickon, Robb competed
in boxing and rugby, and Sansa, who he originally thought to be a run of the
mill lady, participated in track. For a while, he suspected Robb was a part of
a cult that wanted their members to become Olympic gods. It would not have
changed anything if he was, but Theon would like to know what he was dealing
with before they got married.
When Theon gets into the pool, his phone rings. He dips into the water and
ignores the lyrics “at worst, I feel bad for a while…” so that he can be left
alone to his thoughts. He knows who it is already. He tries to see how long he
can hold his breath.
Underneath the water, he remembers the text message he received a week earlier
from Asha. It was short, and rough, and demanded he come home. Their mother
misses him. Finally, in a gentler manner, she confesses her concern by saying
that he “was her brother, too.” For some reason, the women in his family have
always cared about him as much as the men don’t.
He remembers his mother fondly but not well. He can feel her hands on his
hands, teaching how to hold a needle properly and encouraging him to make his
little designs of seashells and crabs. She kissed him and loved him, even when
his father called him indulgent and his brothers teased him for being a sissy.
He remembers Asha as the girl who pushed him into the mud, and when he cried,
she told him to shut up and be a man. To fight back. To attack her. He kept on
crying, and the next morning, she bought him a chocolate bar with her own
allowance so that he would forgive her. He didn’t.
He remembers how his brothers once locked him in one of the boat’s cabins
overnight for a prank, and slept amongst the stench of fish guts and the
clacking of lobster claws. He remembers getting a cold from the sea water, and
how his father, instead of taking him to the hospital, put him in his room
without medicine and only gave him a thin blanket to warm up. He remembers his
mother crying, and his sister pounding on the door, trying to get in but the
lock was on and Theon couldn’t move.
Throughout his memories, he cannot forget his uncle who he was sent to live
with after Theon got expelled for assaulting another kid in school. Theon gets
out of the water to take a huge breath before diving back in. He lasted almost
a whole minute. The phone is still ringing. On his second time under, he thinks
about his uncle, Euron and wonders the ways he could die. As much as his other
uncles were indifferent to Theon’s presence, they were adamant in not allowing
him to be sent to their menace of a brother. Victorian destroyed a table and
called Theon’s father mad. Aeron asked him to reconsider and Balon, in his
unique brand of sadism, slammed a door so hard the hinges screeched like a
dying woman and the younger men shivered. Balon ordered them to stand down.
Theon heard horrible things about the man, and his mother warned him never to
be alone with him. For all the good it did, Theon quickly found out that
whatever Euron wanted, he got. If he wanted to make Theon submit, he would. He
tortured Theon in a way he would never confess to, not even to Robb. He keeps
those dirty sheets a secret, and denies those immoral trysts against the wall
as if his life depends on it. Theon is scum, he’s disgusting, and he’s a
fucking mess of a human being, but he’s not someone’s bitch. He won’t tell a
story to people who don’t care.
Robb was godsend when they met. He spent every waking moment with Robb and the
Starks, because as long as he was with them, with sheets that are clean and
clothes that were brand new because Mrs. Stark had bought the wrong size, he
was free from the Greyjoy influence.
As long as he has Robb, Theon is safe and he is secure and he is happy. No one
else deserves to be as happy—Theon deserves Robb. He’s suffer enough. He wants
someone who is good and kind and not as messed up as him. Robb will make him so
happy.  Being a Stark will be wonderful.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next Chapter: Jon and Robb finally face each other. Then, it all
     goes to hell.
     2. I’m not a Theon/Robb shipper. But damn it, I feel bad for him. I
     wonder if you all recognize the differences in Theon’s thoughts about
     Robb vs. Jon’s thoughts about Robb because I worked to put in the
     subtleties of why I prefer one relationship over the other.
     3. Jojen is super amoral in this story. But he loves Bran so that
     makes it all okay. :)
     4. Still on track, but not ahead. Maybe this week, I'll get to
     writing those two chapters.
***** Chapter 26 *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you for all the people who were so supportive and kind to me.
     The story has been taken down and I can finally put this behind me. I
     don’t know if Ao3 interfered or if the author did it on their own
     accord. Either way, I wanted to celebrate by posting this chapter
     early. :)
     I also want to thank 13SapphireStars13 because I wrote in a quote
     from your review. I'm sorry! Especially in light of what happened, I
     hope I didn't upset you. I will change it to something else if you'd
     like.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Robb’s father once told him that if he woke up with his head spinning like a
wooden top, it meant his life was out of focus. The only way to cure
disorganization was to do something simple, something so infuriating
straightforward that not even the world’s hardest hammer could bend it. Robb
left for the gym at a godforsaken hour to hit the punching bag like he was
slamming his fist into a a rugby rival's face. One whose illegal move was
missed by the referee. 
When he is finished and his knuckles are white and his hands bruised purple, he
walks into the kitchen. His head is clear and he muses that today is a great
day for pancakes. He gathers up all the ingredients, flour, blueberries from
the garden, fresh milk, and takes a whisk, pans and bowls from the cabinets. He
hums a eighties rock song from his father’s vinyl, grinning like a fool, before
he realizes that it is all for nothing. He cannot cook.
To satisfy his urge to break something, he smashes three eggs against the
cutting board and slides them into a bowl, shells and all. Suddenly, he
is furious. He cracks another egg. He smashes a few blueberries. He throws the
flour in the air. Had he not receive a notification from his phone, claiming
that the weather is perfect for a camping trip, he would have continued his egg
cracking vendetta.
Robb assigned the alert because he’d been planning to invite Jon and his
siblings on a retreat so that they could get to know each other. Robb thought
about sobbing his lungs out, but finds that the self-loathing aspect of his
soul was exhausted. He needed more batteries for his misery, because the ones
he was running on—the countless memories of Jon reminding him that he was not
‘relationship material’ and Robb ignoring every single word, was almost gone.
Today, he wants to purchase a new device.
Robb walks up the stairs with unbroken eggs, fresh berries and carries a sealed
bag of flour underneath his arm. Then, he knocks on Jon’s door.
Jon opens it on the fifth or sixth knock, and is only half awake when he does
so. When he sees Robb, his mind swallows shock and the serum is faster than any
caffeine pill. He stumbles out a “what morning you doing good here?” before
deciding on the polite “good morning’ should go first. Then, in attempt to
sound smooth because he is drained from working with the Baratheons yesterday
and spent hours last night digging a hole to bury his guilt corpse, extra fresh
and big as a giant, he asks how Robb is doing. 
Robb unleashes everything.  “I was making pancakes. I needed to clear my head
because the world was spinning and then I got hungry and pancakes, the
overwhelming desire for pancakes entered my body—no, not my body, my soul. My
inner being demanded I eat pancakes. Maybe it was because I went boxing and I
was hungry. Maybe it had nothing to do with the boxing. I could have just been
hungry.  But I needed pancakes. I got all the ingredients, stared at the
blueberries and eggs and you know what?”
“You can’t cook?”
“I can’t cook!” Robb agrees. He laughs. “But why did I get the ingredients if I
can’t cook?”
Jon does not know the answer. 
“Because pancakes aren’t actually pancakes.Pancakes is Jon and Robb. I need
pancakes, the same way I need you—please don’t give me that look—that’s not
what I mean! I need you to be by my side, Jon. I don’t care if it is as a
friend, a cousin, a brother but I need you. I want to start all over, I want us
to be together and love each other.” And maybe have sex—but Robb is not stupid
enough to say that out loud. “Please make pancakes with me.”
Jon is tired. He wants to sleep for another five hours, before he has to head
over to the Baratheon house to plan a picnic for his bosses. Yet, Jon takes one
look at that face, those perfect blue eyes he used to read in the morning,
because they were clear when it was raining and crystal when it was cloudy. He
sees the flour weighing on his shoulder, and trails downward to his knuckles
which are on the verge of bleeding and Jon wants nothing more than to kiss them
better and maybe make an ice pack.
Robb requesting his presence for breakfast is the most progress Jon has gotten
all week, and the act is heaven sent. Pancakes and reconciliation and a cute
Robb making him feel like soft sweaters and warm milk.
“Well, I don’t want you to burn down the house,” Jon says instead of 'I love
you.' For a moment, he is concerned that the humor does not make it through,
but Robb’s grin proves otherwise.
When they arrive to the kitchen, the place is a mess. Jon is thankful Aunt Cat
isn’t here to see this catastrophe. He questions the egg vomit in the trashcan
and Robb replies with a lazy shrug, saying his first attempt got out of hand.
Jon refuses to linger on the sentiment. He organizes the ingredients into one
pile, the measuring cups and the bowls into another, and the last was on the
stove with a slip of butter inside the pan. He does not turn on the heat until
he finishes mixing the ingredients. Robb watches, fascinated by the way Jon
swirls his wrist and the flick of his fingers when he adds in the yeast. He
says it makes the pancakes fluffier. Watching Jon in the kitchen is more
enticing than seeing him posing in his boxers. Robb, entangled with the
domesticity, attempts to build a conversation with Jon. He starts small.
“Do you remember how old you were when my mother taught you how to cook? You
were did so well. It’s like you were made to wear an apron.”
Jon hesitates to drop the blueberries in, and then rains them into the mix
unceremoniously. He seems wistful. “Eight, I think? Maybe seven? That was a
long time ago.”
“Why did you learn?” Robb asks. “I know Aunt Lyanna just dropped you off for
the summer. Were you trying to get along with mother, or was it because Aunt
Lyanna couldn’t cook, or…?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” Jon answers. He pauses. “I think it was after you won your
first rugby game. I couldn’t join you no matter how much you begged. I arrived
too late for the practices. But you came into my room and started crying about
how you thought you were going to choke the next match. You kept saying
'everyone is going to hate me, Jon. I’m the one who they’re counting on.’” Jon
scoffs, though the noise is tinged with delight. “Imagine if rugby was a team
sport.”
“In all fairness, I was nine.”
“I told you that winning wasn’t important.”
“That’s what losers say,” Robb answers before he can stop himself. The
sentiment was a phrase from his past, from the hot-tempered boy who would chase
after goals like girls, who held an illegal boxing match without gloves because
his opponent dared him to. The conceited nature of his own statement amuses
him, and he starts to laugh. “Okay, I was a dick back then.” He strides over
Jon’s side and swipes a berry from the bowl. Jon swats him with the whisk.
“Down,” he orders. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Sorry,” Robb grins sheepishly. He sucks the batter off the berry and chews. “I
couldn’t resist.”
“Either way, you won me over. I just had to make you feel better. I asked Aunt
Cat to teach me how to make you pancakes. You were obsessed with them.
Buttermilk, strawberry cheesecake, chocolate chips, but most of all,
blueberries.”
“You promised to make me a plate of pancakes for every goal I made.” Robb
pretends to be aghast. “I was bribed!”
“Yes, you were. Your honor suffered a great defeat.” Jon grins. “Death by
blueberries.”
“Practically medieval.”
Robb swears the kitchen became brighter with the blissful bells of laughter.
Robb creeps his wandering hand past Jon’s own. Jon captures the slippery digits
instantly. Robb plays off the gesture as a thief getting caught, and Jon is
none the wiser.
“Do it again. I dare you,” he challenges.
Robb complies. He plays the game, he aims for blueberry after blueberry, and
even throws in a few pinches of flour. Over and over again, Jon captures his
hand and intertwines their fingers. “Caught you.”
“For now,” Robb teases. He pulls his hands a way, careful not to linger in case
Jon fears the electricity pulsing through their palms. He feels it, and if he
allows Jon to focus on the magnetic force, he will run away like he always
does. He makes sure to escape Jon’s peripheral several times, just to keep the
game exciting, and lets Jon win at least half the rounds.
Jon cannot stop laughing. He only quiets down when Robb shushes him in fear of
awakening their entire family.
Once back on track of their breakfast, Jon continues the second part of the
storyline. “You grounded the ball five times, and scored a penalty kick the
referee should not have given you because you got fouled on purpose.” Jon
smiles to himself. “For such an honest guy, you’re just full of deceptive
moves, aren’t you?”
“I like to be unpredictable. Keeps things interesting.”
Jon hums. “I came up with a dozen new recipes so that you wouldn’t get sick of
them.”
Robb remembers the maple bacon chocolate with great fondness. “They were
delicious.”
Jon finishes making the batter and grabs the ladle. He turns on the heat and
lets the butter melt all over the pan. When the steel is completely covered,
Jon drops in the mix for the first batch. The mood lightens considerably, and
as stress as Jon is about their interaction, Robb cannot miss the smile on his
face.
He leans over to rest his chin on Jon’s shoulder. He is careful to place his
hands half a foot away from Jon’s hips. He does not want to scare him; their
progress has been too great. He makes an exaggerated breath and moans at the
smell of sizzling blueberries. The berries dye the batter with lightning strips
of purple. “Don’t tell mother but you’re my favorite cook.”
Any respectable young man would have requested Robb move away, but Jon is far
from respectable. He thanks Robb and ignores their proximity for the sake of
letting the sensation linger.
Robb makes a prayer towards his nether regions, and distances himself an entire
centimeter. “Do you want to go out sometime?” He murmurs, lost in the song of
their reunion.
Jon snaps his head in Robb’s direction. His eyes are wide and fearful. Robb
attempts to rectify his mistake.
“I meant as friends!” He clarifies.
The look on Jon’s face says he doesn’t believe him.
Robb takes a deep breath. He cannot sound defensive about the situation, or
else Jon will know he is lying. Robb is a terrible liar. The room for error has
passed, and Robb spares not a single second longer to reply. He maintains a
resolved stance.
“Jon, I’ve been through hell these last few days. Just because I respect you
and have accepted your decision doesn’t mean I can let go all at once. I miss
you.”
Jon is inclined to agree. He turns the stove onto a lower heat. “I…I missed
you, too,” Jon confesses. “These days haven’t been easy for me either.”
Robb considers asking if Jon has changed his mind, but brushes the optimism
away. If Jon wants him back, he knows he can have him. Jon is maintaining his
standpoint, regardless of who suffers from it.
“I spent some time talking to Bran and Arya. Turns out for kids, they’re pretty
smart. Smarter than we ever were at their age.”
“I could have told you that,” Jon replies. Despite the jest, the comment
alleviates the original pressure in the room.
“I realized that we...I’ve been going at our relationship the wrong way. I
admit, I don’t know you that well. The only thing to do about that is to be
your friend again. Jon, I want us to recover our childhood bond. When there was
none of these complications, none of these worries about sex or romance. When
we loved each other unconditionally and did not have to worry about what other
people had to say.”
Jon is moved. Yet he cannot fight his suspicions, and voices his concerns. “So
there’s no ulterior motive here? You don’t want me back?”
Robb could not bring himself to lie, so he fuddles with the truth instead. “I
do want you back—whether I get Jon Stark or Jon Snow, that's up to you. I want
to be by your side. That’s what I want.”
They wait a moment. Jon returns to the pancake, slightly burnt but still
scrumptious.
Finally, Jon agrees.
“Okay.” He flips the first layer onto the plate, and gets started on the second
part of the stack. “What do you have in mind?”
Robb perks up at the submission. “I was thinking we could vist the reserves! We
used to go all the time when we were kids, and…maybe make up the date we were
supposed to have.” Robb remembers waiting for Jon for hours because his flight
got delayed. When Jon finally arrived, Robb made the suggestion of camping in
the safe zones of the reserves instead of heading home together. He told Jon he
would wait for him. He did not expect Bran to try and follow them. Robb never
saw Jon that day or any day after until that fated meeting in Scotland.
“Can we bring Bran?” Jon asks softly.
There’s apprehension that does not deserve to exist. Robb does not hesitate to
agree. “I think that’s a marvelous idea.”
Jon finishes up the first stack with a conversation about their work and
school. Robb feels at home again when Jon tells him to get their utensils—he
can’t expect Jon to do all the work. The command is light and teasing. Glee
bubbles within Robb as he gets their knives and forks, and sets the silverware
next to each other so that the conversation is more amicable.
When Jon sits down, Robb suggests they do it this Friday. “The sooner the
better. I heard the weather will be lovely.”
Jon heard the same thing, and dread boils in his stomach when he turns
down Robb’s offer. “I have plans that night.”
Robb, for all intents and purposes, cannot sense an ill omen if it hits him on
the head. He asks if Jon is working that night.
Jon could agree with the suggestion, he could lie and soothe Robb’s concerns,
or he could be a man, suck up his fears through a soulless straw and tell the
truth. In the spirit of their comradery, he chooses the last option. If Robb is
serious about being friends, he deserves to know. “I…I actually have a date
that night.”
Robb pauses mid-cut of his perfectly golden pancake before returning to make a
perfect triangle. He bites into the buttery goodness, allows the creamy bread,
more soufflé than breakfast, to melt in his mouth. The blueberries pop, and the
butter skips on his taste buds. He chews as if the treat is a rare delicacy.
“Well, maybe we could do it on Saturday then. Either way, we have to ask Bran
if he’s available.”
Jon, in contrast, almost chokes on his own pancakes. He wants to ask how Robb
is so calm about the situation, but finds the question narcissistic at best. He
has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and says he'll put forth
the request. 
“So do I know who you’re going out with? Is he or she a friend?”
Jon is reminded of the man he’s been seeing for the last month. He rises his
hackles despite Robb’s lack of weaponry. The chime of innocence is the vocal
equivalent to a Trojan Horse. “I don’t think talking about him is a good idea.”
“Why not?” Robb asks. “If we’re going to be friends, I’m going to need to hear
about your relationships. You need to trust me, Jon.” Gods, his tone does not
miss a beat. He sounds like an inquisitive girlfriend rather than a jealous ex-
boyfriend. Jon knows better, he does, but he cannot help but be hopeful that
Robb is willing to let him move on and be happy. There’s a hiss in his mind
that’s screaming for Robb to act jealous, to demand answers from Jon and cause
a scene over him but he shuts that voice down. He needs to set an example.
Jon pours maple syrup over his pancakes. “His name is Willas Tyrell. He’s here
on business.”
Robb recognizes the name at once. “Of Tyrell Industries?" 
Jon is surprised. “Yes. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, no,” Robb answers. His mind is already conjuring up all the
facts he has on the Tyrell CEO, and a couple of theories as well. “I used to
date his sister, Margaery. She studied here for a year before going to
Cambridge. She told me their entire family is very close.”
Jon nods. “Willas says that as well.” The conversation is more comfortable than
Jon would have liked, and contrasts the awkwardness building inside of him.
Before Robb can ask him anymore questions, Jon announces he needs to get to
work. If he heads there now, he will be an hour early but Stannis respects
punctuality. He devours the pancakes in a flash, ignoring the obvious
stomachache that will come. Robb watches him from the corner of his eyes and
wonders how many cameras he has to hack to get the recording of Jon eating. He
does not finish when Jon does, but when Jon puts his dishes in the sink, Robb
surprises him from the behind with a hug.
“Have fun at work,” he tells Jon. He cannot resist placing a goodbye kiss on
Jon’s cheek. “I’ll see you when you get home.”
Jon meekly nods, and gets out of Robb’s way. The eldest Stark eats his pancakes
alone, and tries to unclench the hold he has on his knife. Old Robb would have
thrown a tantrum by now. New Robb is smooth. New Robb is going to get his shit
together.  New Robb is going to finish these delicious fucking pancakes, and
then he is going to go upstairs and do some work for the company. Before that,
he is going to stalk Willas Fucking Tyrell and make sure he is good enough for
Jon. He puts all the plates into the sink for the housemaids to clean and heads
to his room where his laptop awaits.
Before using his advanced search engine, Robb prepares himself for a good
looking man. If he is a Tyrell, he is guaranteed to be a supermodel in a
business suit or a god in a jersey. All of Margaery’s siblings are as beautiful
as she is. One of her brothers is married, strong as an ox with a mind to
match, kind and wholesome—Willas cannot be him. Her second brother is Loras,
soon to be married to Renly Baratheon—Robb attended their engagement party. He
knows Loras is about as sharp as a decade old crayon. He is not the type of guy
who could catch Jon’s eye. Willas has to be the oldest. That means he is the
CEO of Tyrell Corporations, which also means he has his wits about him or else
the infamous Queen of Thorns would never allow him to take the reigns over
their empire.
Fuck, Robb thinks, fuck his life for Willas being available. 
He uses a basic Google search first, finds a few articles about Willas’s
impressive work ethic and legendary achievements—at least by corporate
measures. The eldest Tyrell prefers to stay in the shadows otherwise. No
reports on his relationships. Not a single photograph of an affair. He has a
noticeable leg injury from a horse riding accident when he was a teenager.
Smart, graduated fourth in his class at East Anglia with a degree in business
and agriculture. Strongly involved in philanthropy, specifically in
conservation and world hunger. He donates a portion of his company’s produce to
feeding starving populations in third world countries, and spent a year in
Rwanda to personally provide aid.
Robb slams the computer screen down in anger. He is an angel. He even has that
wounded duck expression on his face whenever he talks about his injury. He
takes several deep breaths, before opening up his computer screen again.
No, Robb refuses to give up. If a man that perfect is single, there must be
something wrong with him.
Jon believes that their separation will be good for them, but that only means
that it is Robb’s duty to ensure that his cousin receives the best possible
partner. He loves Jon, and he is going to guarantee perfection. Robb moves onto
his advance search engine. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet. A man like
Willas has an electronic footprint whether he likes it or not; Robb is not some
teenage girl going through her crush’s Facebook or Twitter. He pulls out a
blank notebook and titles it Tyrell. He means business as he scribbles down
every single piece of information he can get.
Arya pops in after her workout to ask Robb if he can take her to dance
practice. She knocks on the door twice and receives no response. She knocks on
it again, and there’s nothing. Finally, she opens the door and sees Robb
hunched over his computer screen with an array of papers everywhere and a
notebook filled with illiterate scribblings. Robb has not looked up from the
screen once.
“Robb?”
Robb can type an estimated ninety-five words per minute, as evident of his test
scores and the flurry of dust he leaves behind when he obsesses over a new
project. Her older brother is immersed in his target, and believes no detail
can be spared when going forth on a new endeavor, no knob or nook should remain
unclaimed. It is what makes him successful in his academics and in his career.
Such a trait makes Arya worried when he focuses that attention on other people.
“What are you doing, Robb?” She asks, cautious of how he’ll react to her
presence.
“I’m taking your advice.”
“What advice?”
“I’m going to be Jon’s ‘friend.’” He does not look up from the screen. “You
were right. If I really love Jon, I would want him in any form he’s willing to
give me, and that is friendship.”
Arya is suspicious of the display of maturity, especially when his eyes gleam
manically.
“What are you working on?”
“Jon and I are going camping sometime this weekend.”
Arya stares at the scene before her, and wonders if she should play along or
question Robb’s motives. Camping is the playground of serial killers. “Good for
you…?”
“We would have gone on Friday but Jon has a date. With a guy. Who is not me.”
Arya has a lump in her throat. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” Robb laughs. He sounds delirious. “I am just so happy
that my ex-lover, the man I was supposed to marry, is going on a date with
another guy richer, smarter, and more charitable than me. It’s fucking great.
I’m so happy that Jon found someone worthy of him.” Robb’s focus never wavers.
He mutters nonsensical things like, “Martell…bad blood…Obie…who the hell is
Obie…”
Arya backs out of the doorway.
Robb catches her retreat. “What did you want, Arya? Is there anything I can do
for you after you’ve given me such fine advice?”
Besides not killing her, Arya states that she needed a ride but is sure Sansa
can take her. “She’s about to finish her jog anyways—you do…whatever this is,
Robb.”
“Thanks, Arya.” He puts down his pen. “Willas Tyrell seems like a wonderful
man—that’s Jon’s date. Despite having a leg a step away from amputation, he has
a clean bill of health. Blood pressure is currently a steady 110/80, though it
deviates. Sometimes, it drops lower depending on the hours he puts in at work,
and on other occasions, it heightens when he puts on a bit of weight. The
heaviest he has ever been was fourteen stone and four—right after his accident.
Stress eater. Mild case of depression. He’ll enjoy Jon’s cooking skills. High
cholesterol runs in his family. Last month, he placed in over eighty hours of
overtime—how on earth does he think he can give Jon the attention that he
needs—never mind. He has a 971 credit score—not surprising given that his
family is bloody rich. His national insurance number is—”
“That’s government information!”
“A government that uses our firewall systems. I can’t break into a house if I
know the security code.”
“You can if the house is in another person’s name and you don’t have their
permission to come in,” Arya protests.
“That’s a technicality, Arya. Say I kill someone and the cops come. If they
said there are no signs of breaking and entering, it’s not listed as such.
Therefore, I am not doing anything wrong.”
“No! Just…no, Robb.” 
Robb ignores her. “I think I saw him once, at graduation. He was taking
pictures with Margaery. Nice guy.” But then again, he thought Margaery was
nice, too and she crushed his heart and sprinkled the remains all over his
graduation gown. 
Sansa chooses that moment to return from her job. She pops in, effortlessly
beautiful with a sleek ponytail and classic Lululemon attire. Arya is reminded
of the models in those Victoria Secret commercials advertising sportswear. The
ones who look perfect when they should be dying. She knows she's never looked
like Sansa when she's finished a work out. 
“Arya, do you have spare earphones? Mine broke.”
“Sansa!” Robb shouts. Sansa stares at her brother incredulously.
“Robb?”
“Sansa!”
“I have them,” Arya interrupts. “Come on, they’re in my room. Let’s go.”
“Sansa, I need a favor from you.”
“Don’t answer him—”
“What do you need?” Sansa asks, a little breathless and fatigued from her
workout. She can feel the dead skin contaminating her sweat and causing erdu,
and she desperately wants to take a shower. “Is it going to be quick? Because I
really need a long, hot bath.”
“Do you have your phone on you?”
“Always,” Sansa responds. She takes it out and Robb grasps onto the monstrosity
of flamingos and polka dots. “What are you doing?” She asks as she tries to get
it out of his hands.
“I need Margaery’s phone number—found it. Thanks, Sansa!” He writes the number
down.
“Why do you…” Sansa recognizes the look in Robb’s eyes and immediately regrets
humoring him from the beginning. Instead of asking him head on for the truth,
she turns to her sister and demands an explanation.
“Long story short. Jon is going out with Willas Tyrell this Friday night. Robb
is not handling it well.”
“I am handling it just fine!” Robb denies as he takes out a two-year-old
notebook titled Margaery from his trunk of girlfriends past. Out of sick
curiosity, both girls sneak their way to the sealed trunk before Robb regains
the sense to close it. They find stacks of books on Daenerys Targaryen, Meera
Reed, even one coated with dinosaur stickers from his days with Dacey.
“He has Daenerys’ psych evaluation,” Sansa gasps. “From when she was seven
years old!”
“Is that half as bad as the list of potential organ donors in case they ever
get into an accident?” Arya brings up a page from Talisa’s notebook, listing a
series of relatives, their blood types, and any listing medical irregularities
to make sure their bodies did not reject the treatment. “Oh god, he has
blackmail and incentives in case they refuse.”
Sansa goes up to her older brother and slaps him on the shoulder with Alys’
report. “Why do you have all these?”
“Because I don’t have an eidetic memory,” he explains. “How else am I supposed
to know every single detail about my girlfriend’s lives?”
“You’re not,” Arya groans. Another thought occurs to her. “Okay, how on earth
did you not realize that Jon was your cousin with all of this here?”
“When I was presenting evidence on why we should rent a new apartment, I pulled
up his bank records. He got angry and threatened to move out if I did it again.
The temptation of using private knowledge on a daily basis was too great, so I
placed a block on any details relating to ‘Jon Snow.’” He has since removed the
block, but he does not tell his sisters that. 
The sad part of the explanation is that Arya becomes slightly more convinced
that Jon is as close as true love as it gets for Robb. Before she can express
her sympathies or voice her disapproval, Robb hands Sansa back her phone. He
proceeds to grab the both of them by the scruff of their necks and tells them
not to worry as he kicks them out of his room.
“This is for Jon. I am making sure that Willas is a good match for him.”
“What if he isn’t?” Sansa points out. “What if Jon just wants to be with
him—even if he isn’t perfect?”
Robb thinks about it, and Sansa, in the bleakest night with not a window of
salvation, sees a sliver of hope in Robb’s contemplation. Then, Robb brightens
up with the most brilliant idea.
“I could just kill him.” 
Sansa blanches. He shuts the door in their faces. Sansa and Arya do not collect
their wits in time for them to stop his self-imprisonment. They start pounding
on the door, and then they remember the time of day, and resort to gently
knocking.
“Robb!” Sansa hisses out. “You can’t kill Willas, it is illegal!”
Arya scoffs. “That’s never stopped him from doing anything.”
“Robb, you could get suspended!” Sansa corrects herself.
“Much better, but mention father,” Arya whispers. “That always gets to him.”
“Father will be very disappointed in you!”
“Only if I get caught!” His voice is muffled through the doorway. He opens it
to soothe his sister’s concerns. The look in his eyes resembles the ferocity of
a general facing down a treacherous deviant. He is powerful and in control and
he wants to slay his enemies and dance in their blood. “If Jon falls in love
with him and he turns out to be a serial rapist, he’ll be heartbroken. If I
kill him, I’ll make sure he dies a warrior’s death. Jon will be happy, and
he’ll think ‘well, my last boyfriend was a serial rapist so dating my cousin
can’t be that bad.’”
“He is not a serial rapist!” Sansa protests.
“Well I’m about to find out,” Robb claims as he shuts the door on them again.
Sansa rests her head against the door. “He can’t kill Willas! That’s Margaery’s
second favorite brother!”
Arya raises an eyebrow. ”Who’s the first?”
“Loras, but only because Margaery suspects Willas is playing dumb and might be
smarter than her.”
The truth sparks a discussion in her brain, as she nosily asks, “Who’s your
favorite brother?”
“What?”
Arya appears detached from the severe situation. Sansa is incredulous. “Is this
really the time? Robb is planning on killing someone!”
“We come from a big family. There’s bound to be a ranking. You must have
thought about this before. Hell, I’ve thought about this loads of times.”
“I love everyone equally,” Sansa claims as she returns to pleas. "Rob,  stop
this insufferable behavior right now!" Sansa likes Margaery, and she has a
feeling that the older girl might stop being friends with her if Sansa’s older
brother kills her older brother!
Arya calls bullshit. “Everyone has a ranking. Even our parents have a ranking.”
“What’s your ranking?” She asks, exasperated.
“Easy. Jon’s first—yes, I consider him my brother. You’re second. Don’t give me
that look. You taught me how to use a tampon. Next is Bran. Easy choice, he and
I played together the most when we were children. Robb goes next. Rickon is
last, but that’s more an age factor than an actual indicator of affection.”
Sansa sighs. She looks back and forth in case her other brothers have woken up
from the noise and reveals her own proclivities. “You first. Rickon second.
Robb third. Jon fourth. Bran last.”
“Bran is last?” Arya all but shouts.
“Shh!” Sansa almost groans at her sister’s big mouth.
“How can Bran be last? He’s adorable! He talks to birds and drinks juice out of
a bendy straw!”
“I don’t not love him,” Sansa defends. “I just get along with him the least.
Besides, you ranked Rickon last. Shouldn’t you feel ashamed putting our baby
brother at the end?”
“I have a justifiable reason for choosing Rickon. What’s yours for choosing
Bran?”
“We just haven’t been able to get along, okay? Bran and I drifted apart when
you were gone, and we don’t spend as much time together anymore. It’s nothing.”
“Sounds like something,” Arya mutters. Robb interrupts their moment by opening
the door to reveal Robb dressed up in business casual, a simple but suave
button up shirt coupled with a pair of dark pants. He is holding his laptop
case, and looks every bit the young professional Ned parades him to be. His
hair is slicked back, and he shaved. Arya does not know what’s more disturbing:
the fact that he keeps a shaving kit in his room or that her older brother, who
possess all the means to perform a murder, is now the equivalent of a twenty-
something Patrick Bateman.
“If you excuse me, I’m going to check out the Aldwark Hotel. They’re an old
client of ours, and I want to offer them a chance to update their security.
Then, I am going to have lunch at the Blue Wisterias.”
“Alone?” Sansa knows those names, and she knows Aldwark is the principal hotel
used in the area for housing business conglomerates. She is also aware that the
restaurant named is far from a rinky dinky drive through.
“Yes, I checked their guest list, and the hotel has a string of interesting
occupants that may be interested in hearing about the new advances in Stark
Industries.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“The restaurant has raved reviews, especially after the Tyrells started
providing them with their top of the line produce. A great chance for
surveillance.”
“Are you okay?” Sansa asks. Arya rolls her eyes because she already asked that
and Robb lied. Her brother is obviously not okay. He is so far from okay that
‘okay’ has divorced ‘fine’ because ‘fine’ was having an orgy with ‘disaster’
and ‘meltdown.’
“Sansa, I am in a good place right now. I’m going to focus on my work and make
father proud.” He pauses and turns around to make sure the door is closed. “I
hope you know I was joking about earlier. I wasn’t going to kill Willas.”
He leaves in a hurry and turns around to asks Sansa and Arya to explain to
their mother that he won’t be at breakfast today. When he is gone, Sansa asks
Arya if she saw it.
Arya groans. “Yeah, I saw it.”
Sweet tooth comes from the Tully side, the inability to cook is all Stark.
Tunnel vision is a Tully trait. Paranoia is a Stark’s curse and blessing. Tully
colors are red and blue. Starks are black and gray. They are all their parents’
children, except on some occasions, they lean towards more one than the others.
Only Sansa and Rickon can tell a lie without giving the truth away, all the
other Starks have tells. Arya taps her left foot. Bran looks to his feet.
Robb looks behind him.
Chapter End Notes
     1. “I could just kill him” –13SapphireStars13. I loved it a lot. But
     I hope everyone knows that it was their idea.
     2. Okay, game plan:
     August 25th (12:00 AM/Pacific Island Time): Chapter 27 Update
     August 26th-September 21st: Hiatus/Break
     September 22nd: Chapter 28 and Chapter 29 Update
     September 29th-: Weekly Updates Return
     3. Anyways! I will set up a Tumblr to take requests next week. I
     can’t guarantee I will complete them, but I will try.
     Will(s):
     Almost anything. I’m good with darker subjects like rape or underage
     It does not have to be GoT/ASOIAF. You can request other fandoms—I’m
     willing to expand my horizons. I am a major comic book fan and I
     still read manga. Um…and I watch a lot of TV. And I know how to read.
     I don’t play video games but I know the mythos of different series—I
     like the fanfiction. (Assassin’s Creed, Outlast, etc.)
     And honestly, I can research well enough for a one-shot of smut. For
     real.
     Won’t(s):
     No RPF(s)—I get too nervous imagining them that I cannot write.
     Scat. Major watersports—Not my thing.
     There’s a lot more, but I’m keeping it simple. There’s no limit on
     requests. If I don’t write it, I probably won’t say anything. If I
     do, I’ll send you a note. I don’t kink shame. :)
***** Chapter 27 *****
Chapter Notes
     Arya and Jaqen scene at the end. Yay.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Halfway through Guns N Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle, Margaery Tyrell picks up
her phone.
“Hello? Margaery Tyrell speaking,” she answers without a trace of guile.
Margaery has mastered the art of appearance; with a single question, she can
replace a complete stranger with a childhood friend and, a novice with
a professional. On his car speakers, she sounds every bit the rose she is. Robb
cannot help but smile. It is heartening to learn that she is happy and well. 
“Hey, Margaery, it’s been a while.”
“Robb?” Margaery laughs. For some reason, it reminds him of bells ringing. “Is
that you?”
“Yeah, it is." 
“Well, it has been a while!” She seems amused. Robb has not spoken to her in
years. With the following girlfriend, he had thought to make amends.
They agreed to leave their hard feelings in the composte and prepare the fields
for friendship. Robb is grateful she considers his contact charming rather than
bizarre. “How have you been?”
“Good,” Robb says at first. Well, he’s been worst so he’s not lying. “You?”
“Good,” she mimics. There’s light teasing in her voice that makes Robb sweat.
Out of all his girlfriends, Margaery was the most difficult. And though
deceptive and entirely too clever for him, he found her to be the most
intriguing member of his past. “I’ll be in my last year of Cambridge soon, and
then I’ll be starting my practice course. I’ve been getting loads of offers.
It’s all very exciting. Your company is one of them. Have you heard about
that?”
Robb has not, but he isn’t surprised. He knows that Margaery’s loyalties are to
her family in the end, but Stark Industries would be a fool not to acquire a
sample of her intelligence—however brief. Besides, Stark Industries and the
Tyrell Corporation are not in competition--not even close. “We’d be lucky to
have you.”
Margaery laughs again. “If I remember correctly, you’re at Edinburgh. Are you
in your third year now?” She asks as if she doesn’t know.
“Yes,” Robb answers, as if he doesn’t know she knows. “I just finished my
second year. Time flies by pretty quickly. My father has already tasked me with
a few assignments for the company. That’s why I called you.”
“Oh?” Margaery is intrigued. She enjoys talking business--it's her favorite
form of conversation. “So this isn’t a call of pleasure?” She is purring,
trying to get a rise out of him for the sake of a better deal.
Robb has become immune to her flirtations—a far cry from his puppy eyes and
everlasting adoration when they were dating. His tone is steady when he
confirms her assessment. He is not harsh, his poise is a blessing from his
mother. He is glad he will never have to find out what life would have been
like for him if he had his father’s social skills.
“It is,” he agrees easily enough. “I wanted to talk to you about updating your
security systems. We recently brokered a new deal with an overseas company.
Japan, to be precise. The new software runs substantially smoother than the
previous ones. We’re still in the testing stage but we’ve received positive
results so far.”
“Very impressive,” she praises. She tries her hardest not to sound impressed.
“But the Tyrell Corporation has already installed all the latest advancements
from your company. I’ve never felt safer.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that. Your business is appreciated.” Robb does not
falter. “I figure I should let you know, as a gesture of good will between us.
Since Tyrell Corporation is hoping to advance their production globally and
provide a bigger presence in the east, they might like to guarantee potential
partners of their commitment to those countries. Foreign agriculture does not
have the best reputation in the Asia, especially after the farmer’s suicides in
India and the riots in Nepal…”
“And how could a security company help us with this?” Margaery loves business
but she hates complications. Robb knows from experiences about the clippers she
keeps on hand whenever a bud needs to be nipped. She is on the edge of
defensive.
At least she’s interested, Robb muses. 
“Stark Industries, on the other hand, has been in league with countries from
around the world. Japanese corporations are constantly doing business with us,
and we have brokered several successful agreements with third world
nations—countries that your company is interested in renting lands from. I
would be happy to throw in a good word for you.”
“That would lovely,” Margaery tells him evenly. “I suppose you would like
something from us in return.”
“Did I not say to consider this as an act of good will?”
Margaery remains suspicious.
Robb laughs. “Well, my father has been very grateful to the support lent to us
by the Tyrell Corporation. Our reserves are prospering immensely. We’re hoping
to expand our safaris and would appreciate your continued support.”
“How philanthropic of you,” Margaery quips. Even over the phone, Robb can tell
she does not buy the entire story.
“We would also appreciate further alliances in the future. Say, a heads up if
anybody tries to interfere in our field.” He's heard from a few board members
that several Lannister members are aiming to expand their markets, and are
considering security as a field. 
“Of course.” Margaery sounds more secure in this agreement. “I think that will
be beneficial for both our families.”
"Wonderful. Would you be willing to travel north to discuss this in person? I
would love to see you again.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Stark?”
Robb laughs. He remembers why he thought he was in love with Margaery all those
years ago. Beyond the fact that she is beautiful and intelligent and all those
traits he admires and yearns to emulate, she is fun. Like Jon, she made him
laugh. And like Jon, she made him cry as well. He knows better than to dip his
wick in her quicksand again.
“Maybe I just miss you,” he retorts. He matches heat with heat, and there’s
nothing sexier than a man with confidence.  A lesser woman would have melted
like butter. But Margaery knows Robb only talks to women like that when he has
an agenda. He closes deals with that voice, and he acquires girlfriends through
his speeches.
Margaery suspects she’s in the former category.
“Unfortunately, I am busy for most of the week. And to be honest, Robb, I know
you adore your county but a semester was enough for me.”
“Got it. Is there anybody you know who would be willing to make the trip?
Someone you trust?”
Margaery does not even have to think about it. “You're in lucky. My older
brother is in the area for business. He’s almost finished but I don’t think
he’ll mind staying for a few more days.”
“Are you sure? I’d hate to keep him away from his family.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Robb imagines her delicate hands--the perfect
manicure, French tips or even a tasteful baby pink acrylic, brushing off his
concerns. “He’s quite infatuated with a boy he met there. I’m sure he’ll take
any excuse to stay longer.”
Robb tightens his grip on his steering wheel. “That sounds great. Can you give
him my number and have him call me when he has the time?”
“Of course.” Margaery pauses. For a moment, she considers asking if there’s
another reason he called. She does not doubt that business is a concern of
his—for as long as she’s known him, he’s always been committed to his father’s
company. When boys their age were still finding themselves, Robb was completely
aware of his wants and desires. She considered his drive as his allure and
simultaneously, his repellent. “I’ll set it up at once.”
“Thanks, Margaery. You’re aces.” She can see him grinning in her head, a
strings of pearls aligned to make a necklace a girl swoons for, and her heart
flutters with the memory of tussled sheets and bubblegum pleasantries.
“Bye, Robb.” She hangs up, and wonders if he’s single. Then, she giggles at her
own naivety.
After calling Margaery, Robb dials another number.
“Good afternoon. Martell Dynasties. You’ve reached the London office. How may I
direct your call?” 
“Doran Martell’s office, please.”
“May we ask who is calling?”
“This is Jory Cassel calling on behalf of Stark Industries.”
There’s a pause. He hears some papers being shuffled. “One moment please.”
He waits just that moment, and is immediately redirected to a Spanish ballad.
Robb cannot understand a word; he can barely speak the French he took his A-
levels in. Not like Jon, Robb admires, Jon’s French is lovely.
“Hello. You’ve reached Doran Martell’s office. He is not in right now. Can I
take a message?”
Robb snaps out of his thoughts. “Good afternoon. This is Jory Cassel. I wanted
to reschedule the skype appointment. Mr. Stark has become preoccupied with
another venture, something that requires the utmost attention. I hope you
understand.”
The implication is a little more than a threat. Everyone knows the reputation
of Eddard Stark is that he would never miss a meeting or avoid appointments
unless the issue is paramount. The woman is so concerned with the possibility
of involving national security that she does not acknowledge that no such
meeting existed before this moment.
Before she could find the inconsistency, Robb proposes a solution. “Since he
cannot make it next week Thursday, Mr. Stark would like to suggest his son take
his place.” He suggests an inconvenient time—one he knew Doran Martell could
not make.
“I’m sorry. Doran Martell is completely booked for that day.”
Robb hesitates long enough for concern. “We won’t be available for the rest of
the week.” He sighs. “Between you and me, the issue is not urgent. Stark
Industries simply wants to initiate a relationship with Martell Dynasties. We
would be more accommodating, except the CEO of Tyrell has a date,” Robb
perfects a beautifully-made, exasperated sigh, “and due to already existing
relations, we have to adhere to his schedule.” 
The secretary makes a sympathetic noise. “I understand, perhaps—”
“Excuse me. We’re receiving another message from one of our main vendors. How
about I call you some time tomorrow, and we can continue this conversation?”
“That would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Cassel.”
Robb hangs up. If he played his cards right, the message will get to the right
person. He checks his planner and finds there’s only one number left. He
decides she can wait. He wants to be at his full strength when he confronts
her. Robb scrolls down his playlist, and finds a new song to enjoy his ride to.
-
The gods of dance wanted Arya on the stage, for they invoked a charm of green
traffic lights and speeding grandmothers. Arya arrives miraculously early, a
salmon bagel contently in her belly, and well hydrated for the next six hours
of practice. Syrio seems surprised to see her, checks his watch once and then
checks it again a second time to be sure.
He tells her, “You must really want this.”
“I do,” she says, but only to herself. To Syrio, she nods in agreement.
She drops her bag in the carrier section and goes to stretch. There’s only one
other girl who arrives earlier than she does and it is Waif, her understudy.
Waif is glaring daggers and knives; she wants Arya to screw up in the smallest
matter to the big bang so that she can lord it over her. Arya refuses to submit
She is not going to be late, she is not going to screw up, and she is going to
dance until the stage is stained with her blood and the room reeks of iron.
More girls come in. Most of them are not in the performance, but participate in
the fundraising. All of them hope that their hard work and efforts will lead
them to being casted in the future, and for some of them, their theory proves
true. Syrio pays attention to everybody. When there’s a complaint, a whine
about the late night practices, a grumble about the unfairness, he hears it. He
sees the understudy that practices her heart out beside the star performer and
he’ll find something for her next time. 
The girls file in ten minutes after, and after twenty, everyone who is supposed
to be in the room, is. Syrio begins the conversation by thanking them all for
being there, and welcomes them to their summer training. He explains their
summer schedule, and congratulates them all for making it this far. When on the
subject of their grand performance, they must also discuss fundraising, and how
a number of the girls will have to perform at their opening party. Pyp asks why
the guys can’t dance with them, and Jorelle Mormont points out that girls bring
in more money.
“All the fat old pervs rather watch us shake our asses than yours. Unless, of
course, you’re eager to have your leotard-clad ass spanked.”
Pyp turns red. He keeps his mouth shut after that.
Syrio goes on for a while, discussing the order of their performances,
everyone’s roles and positions, how they must all work together to achieve
their goals. Dancing, he reminds them, is not made up of solo performances but
a solo performance of dancers. The line is cheesy and distressingly
heartwarming and brings a smile to everyone’s faces—except the Waif’s. She is
solemn and sulking in the corner where mushrooms grow and spider webs prosper.
“Bitch,” Arya mutters.
Jorelle asks if she said something, and Arya waves her off with a “nothing.”
Someone opens the door, and the smiles drop from their faces. With the fairy
dust of nutcrackers and witches, everyone’s posture is perfection. They preen
for the golden geese that have enter their peripheral. “Look at me,” says their
lithe bodies. “I’m special,” screams their eyes. All of the students in the
room have been dancing since they were three; all of them selected from hordes
of aspiring eight-year-olds hoping to become prima ballerinas and cavaliers.
It’s a lie when people say that ballet turns a person needle thin or gives them
nymphet nimbleness. The teachers pick the true potentials out when they are
young. Then, they enter the big leagues in hopes of joining the biggest league:
an actual dance troupe.
The girls can not stop their breath from catching when Jaqen H’ghar walks into
the room.
“He is as handsome as ever,” whispers a girl from the second row. Arya agrees
but has the sense not to say it out loud.
Jaqen’s pheromones secrete with his steps—the dust rises every time his foot
hits the floor and the chemoreception imbedded in every dancer is activated
with unusual amounts of sharpness. Out all the Faceless Men, he is the most
recognizable. His face is the envy of every dancer; half of the troupe’s full
houses are credited to his being.
The second person to enter the room is not as intriguing; she does not make
their loins wet with lust. She does, however, bring forth an air of excitement
and sunniness to their otherwise high pressured and stakes filled environment.
Lady Crane is a legend. She is one of the few dancers who has not faded in old
age; now gracing a movie screen instead of the center stage. “Not out of love,”
she defends, “But necessity.” Dance is cruel to the body, and at her age, she
can no longer perform the way she used to. She is a realist, but stands as a
beacon of hope to the girls and boys. Instead of dying off like the other
swans, or harboring her own nest of vicarious chicks, Lady Crane remains in the
business. She choreographs, she teaches, she performs—albeit not the way she
would prefers, but her livelihood is secured for the decades to come.
“For the next eight weeks, Lady Crane and I will be supervising the rehearsals
as directors and the original choreographers. Please show your deepest respects
for the woman who has taken time out of her busy schedule to attend to our pool
of misfits. If all goes well, you will learn plenty from her.”
“And hopefully, I will be educated by all of you,” she says, charming as a lady
in court. “May none of us become disappointments to one another.” Quicker than
lightning, a vicious gleam flashes in her eyes. The students shiver except for
Arya, who is exhilarated as an ant dosed on a sugar cubes and candy canes.
The students clap, and Lady Crane delicately thanks them for their
appreciation.
Syrio introduces Jaqen without having to. “And I welcome Jaqen H’ghar; you may
remember him from our auditions. He will be our primary liaison with the
Faceless Men and the male lead in the recital.”
Wylla Manderly raises her hand and asks where the other Faceless Men are. “I
thought they were supposed to be a part of the performance as well.”
“They have already learned their steps,” Jaqen informs. “They will be joining
us on the second week for cohesion. They prefer not to come until you are at
the level necessary to perform alongside them.”
"Oh." Wylla cannot hide her disappointment. While she is one of Syrio’s
selections and was invited to perform on stage, her role is curt and a little
more than a background accessory. She wants to meet the other dancers in hopes
of gaining leverage. Everyone knows that Arya is guaranteed a spot, and the
Waif is almost a sure thing. The others are still fighting.  
Once introductions are finished, everyone is ordered to their positions. They
do their daily exercises with agony weighing down their shoulders and nerves
threatening to explode with a single touch. Jaqen never stays in the same place
for long. He inspects the chosen ones with unsettling stares, and his gaze
lingers on an unselected few that could have made it but didn’t. He stops only
when he reaches Arya.
She is in the middle of a reaching Rond de Jambe when Jaqen places his hand on
her back and tells her to straighten her spine. She obeys and his hand reaches
just high enough to be registered as decent.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. His hand travels down her thighs, and he orders her to
keep her body parallel. His touch does not go away, not even when she returns
to her first position.
Arya can barely breathe.
“You should leave me alone.” She is taken back. Is that her voice, so calm and
composed in the face of danger? She has been doing this for far too long. Men,
and sex, and sensuality. “Everyone will say you favor me.”
“Does a man not?” He asks, and his sea borders the lands of curious and
charmed. He wonders to himself how much he cares as he places his fingertips on
her waist and admires the fragility of her body. Small and supple and easy to
mold and easy to break. Her bones are hard and her muscles tough. They are next
to the mirror. Their location, which Jaqen is sure is an act of provocation,
arouses him. As a boy, full of carnal whims and youthful passions, he used to
fantasize about fucking his partners over the Barres. He imagines Arya sitting
on top of the bars, spreading her legs for him while he splits her in half,
tips her over so that her ass is the only thing keeping her on the pole and she
is forced to watch herself in the mirror. Arya is tiny; when she is filled, she
appears obscene. He leans down and keeps his breath hot on her neck.
No one dares look at them. No one has the courage to break their position and
risk Jaqen’s wandering attention. They do not need to see them to watch them;
Arya can sense their disgust and relishes in their envy. She will play the game
if Jaqen likes, but she does not intend to ruin her practice in the process.
Syrio instructs them to move on to the next exercise. Jaqen releases Arya, and
without missing a beat, she resumes a proper attitude. Jaqen returns to his
scouting. He crosses paths with Syrio, who grabs his arm before he can move
onto the next row. He has to pull him down to whisper in his ear. Jaqen is a
tall man who is flexible to demands.
“You’re not the first instructor to sleep with his student and you will not be
the last. But you will be very carefulabout how you treat my protégé. She is
not a mouse to feed your snake,” Syrio hisses, and he sounds as if he just grew
a fresh threat on top of his newly shed skin.
Before Jaqen can respond, a quip in derision, a jeer about a teacher’s
inclinations towards his student, Arya captures his attention again. Her hands
move the way wind is drawn on paper—like waves in the sky. She is boneless and
for a brief moment in time, he believes he’s obsessed. Arya smirks when she
catches him staring. She forgets herself, and moves a second slower than the
rest of her classmates. She quickly returns to pace.
Jaqen chuckles. Syrio is not amused.
“Arya, that boy,” he emphasizes the contrast to Jaqen’s own title for her. Arya
is Syrio’s boy, and he will do anything to keep her from becoming Jaqen’s girl.
“-has a lot of potential. She will prosper under professional guidance.”
“A man can be professional while succumbing to his personal pleasures.”  
“Give her one and forgo the other. Let the sun illuminate the flower, and the
winds move the leaves. She does not need the hands of a praying mantis on her
form.”
Jaqen sighs. Syrio is a worrisome creature, and though Jaqen considers him a
convenient companion, he does not possess the strength to stop the younger
man's interest. Jaqen craves her again, and again, and as many times necessary
to get her to submit to him like the others. He wants to drown her with
pleasure--enough until she loses her voice and the feeling in her legs. He
wants the only thing to carry her on the stage is the vibrations of symphony
and strings.  
The exercises end and the lessons begin. Syrio walks over to Lady Crane, and
makes a suggestion Jaqen cannot hear. When they are finished talking, Lady
Crane sends him a derisive look, and walks over to Arya. The girl grins in
delight. When Syrio comes back to his side, he reveals that Lady Crane will be
giving Arya a private lesson.
“Was that necessary, friend?”
“Arya appreciates the assistance. She wants her solos to be perfect.”  
Lady Crane and Arya walk past them to get to the door. Jaqen’s fingers touches
hers, and there’s a spark that forces their gazes to meet. Arya is the first to
look away, but her timing to turn is slow.
Want, Jaqen believes, is not something men can control.
To his credit, the German stays for the entire lesson. He provides instruction
to the students—as he has been assigned to do, and through the flushes and the
terrified expressions, his insight leads to admirable improvement.  
When the first portion of practice is over, the students are given a break.
Jaqen offers them a chance to meet him in his office for notes, but does not
stay after class to give them. He walks past the glass window that contains
Arya and Lady Crane. Arya is bouncing; she is practicing her first solo—the
dance that begins the play. Arya’s character is supposed to be the picture of
innocence; a young, nubile heiress who rides horses amongst a field of lilies
and freesia. Arya, to several people’s disappointment and delight, performs it
with grace and familiarity. She is as much a spirit as Ariel of theTempest, and
her eyes extend a certain softness resembling teddy bears and cream.
“Mr. H’ghar?”
Jaqen turns around to see Waif. For someone so expressionless, she cannot
suppress her bitterness. She was watching as long as Jaqen was.
“Yes?”
“I want to talk to you about the upcoming performance.”
He figured a conversation was in procession. He wonders what took the
understudy so long to confront him; he knows her jealousy has been seething for
a while. He agrees to take her into his office; a loan from Syrio that held too
many possessions for him to feel at home.
Once the door is closed, Waif goes forward with her complaint. “Why did you
choose Stark for the role? I am the better dancer.”
No one ever accused Waif of subtlety.
“You are,” Jaqen agrees. “Far better.” The confession surprises Waif, who
expected a long line of excuses and an explanation that traveled in circles not
rays. Her disbelief is taken over by her outrage.
“Then why did she get the part?”
Jaqen ignores her. He looks through his collection of recordings.
Waif’s frustration grows.  “Did you sleep with her?”
“A man did.”
Waif makes a noise that imitates a drowning fish. Loud, bubbling gulps of
misery, and the sound entertains Jaqen. She was his favorite once. But she
bored him easily; she was all talent and no passion, a flawless design when he
desires the chaos of broken windows and faulty roofs. There is no beauty in
utility; no lust in function. Jaqen wants a hurricane; not the rain.
“So it’s true then, she—she got the role by sleeping with you.” Waif’s frown
turns into an ugly sneer. She is aghast to have lost her opportunity to some
slut. “That’s not fair! She’ll ruin the performance. She can’t do the part! I—”
Jaqen dismisses the allegation. He finds what he was looking for. “She received
the spot before a man and girl slept together.”
Waif is taken back. She recovers, and accuses him of lying.
“Why would a man lie?”
“So that—so that you can save your own face!”
“A man does not need saving.”
He tells her to take a seat while he places the DVD in the player. He begins
the video. Waif is alarmed by his nonchalance, and thinks of vengeance for her
disgrace before Arya’s obnoxious laughter is heard. She sees Arya’s audition
being played on the screen, starting from Arya’s introduction. 
“What style are we going to see today?” Lady Crane asked. 
“Contemporary,” she told them, before laughing again. Nervous giggles, Waif
concludes, they all nervously giggle when they are put on the spot. Waif never
succumbs to such ticks. She is proud of her restraint. She never laughs in the
face of adversity; she is the picture of professionalism. Someone cued the
music for Arya, and the Stark delved straight into her performance. She
became lost in her dance—Waif can see how her eyes cloud over before a quarter
of the piece is through. Her movements were organic and intense, and she was so
absorbed with her own arms and legs, she missed a beat.
Jaqen turns the television off and the Waif’s attention shakes. She cannot
think of the words to say, and finally starts with the obvious. Arya’s flaws,
which she has recorded every single day. “Her rhythm was off by half a second.
She didn’t follow the song.” Waif curses her syntax. She sounds petulant, not
instructive, and Jaqen can claim her resentment leads her to being
unnecessarily unfair towards Arya.
Jaqen returns the DVD to its case, and hands it to her.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Watch it. Watch it until blood pours out of your eyes and dyes your green red.
You are not wrong. In terms of technique, your work is perfection.”
When Waif opens her mouth to submit another objection, until Jaqen continues.
“A man does not want perfection, a man wants passion. He does not want
flawlessness, he wants effortlessness. Arya does not fake her motivations, she
does not need to pretend to be the girl, she is the girl. She captures an
audience’s heart with a single step.”
“I can do that!” Waif protests.
“A man noticed that you did not blink during her performance. Why is that?”
Waif is speechless. When she tries to answer, Jaqen silences her with his own
theories. “The girl enamors, she plays the Venus in a flytrap and captures a
person’s soul before they recognize themselves as prey. They see her sweat and
they imagine licking the water off her flesh. She stretches her legs, and they
imagine them wrapped around them. She seduces an audience. Can you seduce an
audience?”
Waif says nothing. Jaqen pushes further.
“Can you make a man want to fuck you?”
Waif has heard enough. She swats the disk out of his hands and storms out of
the room. She swears, before she leaves, that she will get the part. “I’m still
the understudy,” she threatens.
“That you are.” Jaqen is not the least bit concern. He has no doubt that Arya
will be on that stage, beside him, where she belongs.
-
After their independent practice expires, Lady Crane invites Arya for a spot of
tea and rum. Arya accepts the tea and forgoes the extra splash. “I still have
another three hours of practice,” she reminds her.
Lady Crane accepts the excuse. “That was a test,” she jests.
They laugh.
Lady Crane asks what she plans to do after retirement. The question is dismal,
but sensible. Arya takes no offence, for she understands that Lady Crane, out
of everybody, is sympathetic to the struggle of a body past its prime. Arya has
often contemplated the fate beyond her thirties, thoughts propositioned by her
mother and father. As the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, her financials
are stable. She will never have to marry well, or bear the agony of squeezing a
child out of her tight pelvic floor. She can continue to work behind the
scenes, passing on the sacred flame either as a coach and teacher, or work in
administration. Dance is a cult that does not take kindly to outsiders.
Otherwise, she can pull a Lady Crane and consider acting. She enjoys traveling,
and has developed a modicum of skill with roleplay.
“Marry well,” she answers. Lady Crane bursts out laughing, and Arya cracks a
smile as soon as she says it. Lady Crane reveals she has never been married,
but has taken many lovers.
“My taste in men range from vile to utter filth. I was never stupid enough to
marry; I knew myself too well,” she proclaims. “What about you?”
“Marriage, or men?”
“Both.”
Arya sips her tea. “I like men who are not good for me.” She thinks of Gendry.
“And I like men who are too good for me.”
Lady Crane hums. “The trials we women go through.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Arya brings forth her cup to salute Lady Crane’s glass of
rum. She drinks her hot chai and waits for the spice to scratch her throat.
Afterwards, she confesses that she’s not the marrying type. “I don’t think I
can ever be happy in one place.”
“I thought that, too, when I was your age.”
“What happened?”
Lady Crane smirks, devious as the devil, bold as a harlot. “I was right.”
Arya giggles so hard she ends up falling to her side. She wonders if Lady Crane
laced her tea with something stronger than cinnamon. She wipes a tear from her
eye.
Lady Crane finishes her glass and pours another.
"If you drink anymore, you won’t be able to stand for the rest of practice."
The retired ballerina's eyebrow raises. "I've been doing this a lot longer than
you girls have. I know what I can handle.”
When she is halfway through her second glass, she informs Arya that, “I only
ever drank after a performance, and never, ever before. When I could no longer
perform on stage, I kept drinking. If I didn’t have acting, I would be laying
on a couch for the rest of my life, smelling of booze and bonbons. Thank god
for my talent.”
Arya agrees, for she does not know where she would end up without her dancing.
“It’s a lonely life,” Lady Crane reveals. She is wistful. They are mere minutes
away from joining the other dancers. “You never stay in one place for too long;
you never have time to develop relationships. Every dancer is a competitor.
They can be your friend one day, and your rival the next. Ruthlessness, a trait
praised in men, is abhorred in women. Never listen to those laymen, Arya, and
never let your affections prevent you from achieving your dreams.”
Arya soaks in the advice. “Do you regret it?”
Lady Crane has been dancing since she was three. She is still dancing today.
She walks outside without her sunglasses in Paris and is immediately recognized
by half the city. She has more friends now than she ever has before, but none
of them are close enough for her to attend their children's baptism or stand at
a wedding. She enjoys her brief moments with her students. She is successful.
She is the dream.
“No,” she answers. “If given the chance, there is nothing I would do
differently.” She pauses. “Well, maybe fuck a few more men.”
Arya looks down at the sliver of tea left in her teacup. It is nearly the same
amount in Lady Crane's. They chink their glasses one last time, and down the
remains. When they are both finish, Lady Crane gets up, opens the door and
holds it.
“After you,” she invites.
Arya hesitates, and then walks out.
-
By the time the rehearsals are over, half of the kids have seen the light on
the other side of the tunnel and the other half are being spit roasted between
heaven and hell. Arya does not know which half she is on, but she is pretty
sure she’s seen purgatory on the way to heaven because hell is full of girls
like Waif.  
Syrio sends them all to the showers. He makes sure all of them have rides home,
and refuses to let them leave before he sees them off. When he returns to the
studio to get his belongings, Arya is there. "What are you still doing here?"
Arya informs him she wants to stay a little later for practice.
“I have a home, too,” Syrio prompts her. “And I am responsible for seeing Lady
Crane to her hotel.” He tries to sound teasing, but in reality, he is as tired
as the rest of them. These rehearsals always take a number on his body. “I am
not as young as I used to be. I can’t go on all night.” Lady Crane says nothing
as she waits on the sidelines for an answer. When Arya tells him to leave
without her, he refuses. He wants to see her get home safely.
“You let me close the studio before,” she reminds him.
“Before we did not have a killer on the streets. I must make sure all my
students are safe.”
Arya tries to counter the argument, but is met with the same firm opposition.
Before she can go forward with her “I am not a child” speech, Jaqen places his
two cents in.
“A man will stay.”
Both of them look alarmed.
“We should practice together for the sake of solidarity. A man barely had time
to spend with his partner all day. A man will take her home afterwards.”
Arya leaps on top of the saving grace. “See? Jaqen will stay.”
Syrio desires nothing more than to keep them apart. Alas, he is tired and Arya
is not the child he cradled into greatness. He tells her to be safe, and
descends to the parking lot with Lady Crane by his side.
Despite their lack of distance, Arya is concentrated on her dancing. Jaqen
complies by keeping his hands where they belong, and guiding her through her
positions. Their first dance was supposed to be full of fumble and inelegance.
Arya is too comfortable in her own body so Jaqen rectifies this by whispering
dark secrets and insecurities. For a moment, her confidence is lost and she
turns into a little girl, unready for the big, bad world ahead of her. They
practice the dance again, and this time, Arya performs well without the
instruction. “But not good enough,” Jaqen points out.
The comment frustrates Arya, who practices harder the second time they run the
routine and harder after that. When they finish, the night is pitch dark.
Arya’s phone rings like her mother is warning her of the second coming. She
grabs her bag and takes out the keys. Jaqen swipes them away from her.
“A girl can shower,” Jaqen advises. “A man will take care of the studio.”
“Do you even know how to close it?”
Jaqen gives her a look.
Arya sighs. “Fine.”
Syrio receives children from some of the wealthiest families in England. Though
he has a few girls and boys who come from lesser means, the fees he charges for
his privileged pupils make up for them tenfold. He receives heaps of donations
every year from numerous dance troupes for the opportunity of having first pick
of the litter. Their showers are always steaming, and their facilities are
never less than top notch. The have organic soaps and fluffy loofas for
cleaning, and shampoos and conditioners from actual stores instead of the
generic brands sold to hotels.
Arya moans when the water hits her muscles. For a while, she does not do
anything. She just stands underneath the shower head and lets the steam release
her pores and the water douse her. Her head hits the shower wall and for the
first time all day, she takes a break—she stops overworking her body, she stops
thinking about the future, everything just ends.
All at once, the pressure returns to her full force. She thinks about failure,
and what it means for her to falter during this performance. She remembers that
she is Arya Stark, and that things are expected from her because she isn’t a
normal girl—she’s a Stark. She is a girl who has been given everything: tutors
for when she falters, world renown dance teachers, the best equipment money
could buy—what does it mean for her when she falls? She should be the best
because her parents can afford the best when other people can’t even afford
mediocre.
Her thoughts consume her, and when she hears the shower door open, she does
nothing. She does not even turn around to confront the presence behind her.
Jaqen grabs the soap, and lathers himself up. Arya smells the salt on his skin
and finds herself more surprised that he can sweat than by the fact that he’s
behind her. She turns around. He walks towards her until her back is touching
the wall. For the longest moment, they just stare at each other. Arya makes the
first move. She runs her hands through his hair and lets her thumbs brush
against his cheekbones. Then she traces down his chest and he captures her
hands. He pushes her against the wall.
 “What do you want?” He asks her.
Arya raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean, ‘what does a girl want?’”
He leans down and kisses her. She responds favorably to his actions, and their
tongues languidly play with each other until he pulls away. Arya’s heart is
calm. He asks again. “What does Arya want?”
Arya craves the admiration from being acknowledge as the best. She wants
everyone to recognize her name beyond her family’s titles and lands; she yearns
to capture everyone’s hearts with her soul and not anybody else’s. She lusts
after Jaqen, but like all her lusts, she is willing to forgo him for the end
game. Arya does not want him. Arya Stark wants the world.
She pulls him into a kiss this time, like their first time. She has to be in
control because every aspect of her life is a result of her family’s
manipulations. She claws her way out of her mother’s dresses and her father’s
guiding hand, but she is still a Stark. A fact, she loves and loathes, and
Jaqen hopes to make a distant memory.
Jaqen grabs her hips and tries to wrap her thighs around him but she pushes him
away. He is taken back by the gesture, and rescinds from the kiss. He looks
into her eyes and she looks into his. She resumes their caresses, and allows
him to move downwards so that he can attack her neck. She gasps when he licks
and nips, but when he bites her, she pulls away again and slaps him—hard.
“No marks,” she warns him. “You don’t get to mark me.”
Jaqen touches his cheek. The pink of his bruise is covered by the steam of the
shower. The time he takes to recover from the action is enough time for Arya to
decide to leave. When her shoulder and his are side by side, he stops her. He
throws her back against the wall. His intentions are not to force her so he
isn’t rough. He puts his hands side by side of her face. He pauses, he doesn’t
hesitate. He waits for her to move. She stares at him but does not leave.
In response, Jaqen leans downwards to suck her breasts. Her buds are barely
blooming and her nipples are little more than ladybugs. Jaqen thinks they are
prettier than Persephone.
Arya bites her lips when he travels downwards. He licks her abs, perfectly
aligned from years of training. He gets on his knees and runs his tongue along
her pelvis, almost completely hairless except for a small patch. Arya likes
being prepared for anything. She’s always well shaven and smooth where it
matters.
Jaqen shows his appreciation by touching her pussy with his tongue and then
sucking on her clit until it becomes red and swollen. He divides his time
between kissing her labia and humming on her clit. The vibrations send a shock
throughout her body. She lets out a throaty gasp before clamping shut again.
“Fuck!” She swears. She doesn’t want him to win so easily.
Arya rests her cunt on his face and rides him like one of her family’s horses.
The water rains down on them, and stifles most of her moans. She interweaves
her hands into his long hair and pulls at it. He glares at her and digs his
tongue deep inside for revenge. He hits all the best spots, and lathers
constant attention on her lower lips. He does not fuck her with his tongue; he
massages her labia and reaches for her g-spot. His tongue brushes against it
several times but never hits it. He stuffs her with his tongue. He plans to
keep eating her out until she is screaming.
Jaqen does not have to wait long. After he makes a rather hard suck on her
clit, she lets go of her bleeding lip and wails. She orders him to go faster,
to make her come all over his face. She wants his lips dripping with her. She
promises to let him fuck her however he pleases if he lets her come this once.
Jaqen smirks, victorious, and abides to her wishes.
When she orgasms, she stains Jaqen’s face and turns his lips red. He gets back
on his feet and leans down so that she can taste herself on his lips.
“Disgusting,” she informs him as soon as they part. She is gasping. Her words
come out as pants. She sees stars and black splotches and wants to lie down and
catch her breath.
He chuckles.
“It’s an acquired taste,” he admits. “Would a girl like to go home tonight?”
So she’s back to being ‘a girl’ again. Arya wonders how long this man planned
to mess with her head. She sighs, because she knows that after a few minutes,
she’ll be restless again.
“We can go to your hotel,” she surrenders. For a long as the man is here, she
wants to get her money’s worth of his tutelage. In her head, she imagines of
all the positions a man as flexible as Jaqen H’ghar can perform.
Chapter End Notes
     1. I didn’t plan it but I am coming back on the first day of fall.
     September 22nd is the Autumn equinox. I am the bringer of leaves.
     2. Anyways! I set up the Tumblr page: sometimesimeow . tumblr. com
     The first post lists the rules (and there are only two posts so I
     guarantee you’ll see it). I've been afraid to reblog anything because
     I wanted to make sure the post was available to all eyes.
     For all the readers and writers of this world: may your stories be
     filled with smut and fluff and joy and tears. May the characters you
     read be true and lively. May the work you read be original. May your
     prompts be filled and your favorite stories updated. May your skin be
     cleared and people be nice to you. And may cyclists stay in their
     designated area and not transfer over to your car lane.
***** Chapter 28 *****
Chapter Notes
     Honestly, I took the whole ‘hiatus’ thing more seriously than I
     intended. This is my first chapter back and it is the only chapter
     until next week. I apologize. I know I promise two chapters.
     Fortunately, this chapter is very long.
     Warnings: Major dub-con sex scene. It’s a Ramsey dub-con sex scene so
     that’s the best it gets with him. Degrading language. I find it hot
     but others might not. It's at the end, and I'm a hundred percent sure
     you'll know when it starts.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Robb arrives at the Blue Wisterias at approximately 11:25 AM, positively
ravenous for a decent plate of Bavarian cream and strawberries, or a bowl of
salted caramel pudding. His sweet tooth is acting up again. He remembers his
father’s austerity and controls himself. He may have performed a king’s worth
of duties—multimillion dollar contracts are not exactly easy to manage—but that
does not mean he can behave like a barbarian. The waiter comes by and provides
him with some suggestions. Robb nods his head politely, but in the end, asks
for none of the recommendations. He wants something small to settle his
stomach, a chive blini with Crème Fraiche, quail eggs, and tarragon, and tells
the man to leave the dessert menu. Before he goes, Robb asks the man for the
wifi password. He pulls out his mobile. “I have some business to get done. Is
that alright?”
The waiter, used to the corporate types occupying his lunchtime slot, hands the
information over without a fuss. Robb thanks him and waits until the man is
gone to obsess over his phone The waiter is grateful. He has worked in customer
service long enough to know that when a guy like that comes in, consumed with
his numbers and statistics, he will barely notice his treatment.
For such a prosperous brasserie, Robb is disappointed by their computer
security. After connecting the wifi to a separate router, he is able to find a
way into the restaurant’s reservations page. He scrolls through the
appointments on Friday until he sees a golden star—how quaint—attached Willas
Tyrell’s name.
While Robb considers his agenda for Friday night, he receives a phone call from
an unknown number. He recognizes the area code instantly, and waits for a ring
or two before picking it up.
“Robb Stark speaking.”
“Buenas tardes, Robb Stark.This is Oberyn Martell, brother of Doran Martell.”
Wow. Wow. Robb catches his breath. Now, that is a voice he wants narrating his
sex life. He wants that voice. He wants to make love to that voice. He wants to
stick his dick down that—okay, no old Robb. New Robb can control his penis.
“Yes?” He squeaks. He takes a breath. Deeper, he tells himself. More masculine,
with the possible implication that his balls dropped. “Yes, this is Robb Stark.
I’m happy to hear from you. Have you called to schedule a meeting for your
brother?”
“Si, but unfortunately my brother is not well. His doctor has limited his
traveling capabilities to only the most crucial circumstances. I hope you are
not offended.”
“Oh, not at all.” Robb tries to curb his excitement. He does not want to appear
too eager. “It’s wonderful to hear from you, Mr. Martell. Are you in England
right now?”
“Please, call me Oberyn. And yes, I am in London as we speak. Though I confess
I am visiting for pleasure over business.”
"Oh,” Robb musters just the right about of sympathy to sound sincere. “I’m
sorry to disturb your vacation. I’ll call again next week—my schedule is
completely booked until then, but I can move a few things around.” He adds meat
to the pretense by implying that doing so will not be a problem. “With how
infatuated Mr. Tyrell seems to be with his new beau, I’m sure it won’t be that
hard for him to accommodate.” He remembers Margaery’s assurances. “If anything,
he will jump at the chance to stay longer.”
“Nonsense,” Oberyn interrupts. His voice carries a bit of an edge this time.“I
am always at the service of my brother. I hate for him to lose a potential
alliance.” Oberyn Martell had a reputation for being hot-headed and callous, so
Robb is surprised by the tact he displays when he asks Robb about the Tyrells.
“I hope the Tyrells are comfortable with you contacting us. They have a habit
of making accusations against our good name.”
Ah, the infamous horse riding incident. There are a number of ways to answer
the question, and Robb has a million excuses listed in his head. Thanks to
Willas’ emails, he knows the perfect response. “Willas Tyrell has nothing but
praises for you and your family. He was the person who recommended we speak.”
The compliment lightens the mood, even over the phone. Struck by cupid’s arrow,
Oberyn turns a new leaf during their conversation. He praises Willas with the
ease of a bard. “I have traveled the world and have yet to meet a man quite
like Willas. He is a diamond amongst coal.” He pauses. “It is quite unlike him
to have canceled on you so suddenly. He is a professional in every degree. Do
you know of the circumstances regarding his withdrawal?”
“Yes, though that might have been my fault."
"Oh?"
"See, my cousin is staying over for the summer, and I made the folly of
introducing them.” Robb chuckles first for authenticity, and second to clear
his throat of cupidity. He cannot afford to sound like a spiteful lover. “I
should have known he would fall for Jon. Everyone does.”
Oberyn says nothing. The silence upsets Robb, who needs the fury of a thousand
fighting men and the jealousy of a hundred harpies. So he continues his
praises and is careful not to sound too love stricken. “I hope this does not
sound as if I am being advantageous, but I am grateful Jon has found someone
worthy of him. He is my beloved cousin. I love him more than life. And Willas
seems like a wonderful guy. Jon deserves that.”
“Is he truly as amazing as you claim?”Oberyn is doubtful. Angry almost, that
Robb can even make such a comparison. “I have never met anybody worthy of
my…friend. Ever. I doubt such a being exists.”
“Jon is perfect,” When Robb realizes how defensive he sounds, he coughs. “I
mean, he is a beaut-attractive young man. I swear, the way his curls bounce on
his shoulders is reminiscent of sprites hopping on waves, and his smiles are
like diamonds. Rare, precious diamonds and you’ll find yourself digging to the
ends of the earth for a chance to get one. He can make anybody’s heart skip a
beat. I swear, you don’t want to get me started on his body—I mean, he’s quite
fit. In a completely objective way. Because he’s my cousin. Only my cousin.”
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.So much for not being in love. Before Robb can
retract his ode, Oberyn asks:
“What does this Jon do?”
“He’s a nanny.” For now. “And the way he is with children—gods, one time we
were at the park and this kid got lost, bawling and screaming and would not let
anybody near him to help. We tried to get him to the playground but he wouldn’t
follow anybody. Jon was magic. He held his hand and got him to trust him so
that we could find his parents. He did everything he could to make him happy.
He played with him, talked to him—he was just…he was an angel.”
Robb slams his head against the table. Why does he keep doing that? He receives
his dish at that moment and the waiter quickly retreats.
“Willas loves children,” Oberyn admits at last. Robb perks up. Oberyn is
wistful when he relishes how doting Willas was on his offspring. “I have eight
daughters. My oldest is barely younger than him. You can imagine how terrified
I was of introducing my girls to him.”
“Did he liked them?” Robb is hopeful for a ‘no.’ The thought of a chink on the
golden statue that is Willas is orgasmic.
Oberyn laughs. “He loves them, and they love him. All the time, they ask me and
my girlfriend, ‘when is Uncle Willas coming to visit?’ or ‘I miss Uncle
Willas.’ I watched them play in the water gardens all day, and to compensate
for his leg, he would make up these new games so that they would not feel
guilty for leaving him out.”
“Great,” Robb mutters. He says again, louder, how happy he is to hear of the
fact. “He and Jon have something in common.” 
Oberyn scoffs; he resembles a bitter horse. “One thing you should know, Mr.
Stark, is that Willas wants the fairy tale, not the movie. No one has been able
to convince him that perfection is not an option. He wants true love. He wants
the perfect wife. He hates sharing and compromises and mistakes.” The older man
sighs. “It’s a shame he has never been able to find that someone who can give
him what he wanted.”
Robb swallows to satisfy dry throat. In order for the words to come of his
mouth, they claw his tongue apart. “Well, maybe they will have something
special.”
“Perhaps.” Oberyn returns to his usual state—vibrant and passionate and full of
life. “Or perhaps he will fail—like all the others who could not meet the
impossible Tyrell standards.” Robb hears a voice over the phone. Oberyn
responds in Spanish, before returning to the conversation. “I can meet with you
this Friday. I’ll take a plane immediately.”
“Are you sure? I’d hate to cause trouble.” Robb means it this time. Then, he
almost slaps himself. No, he thinks. This is for Jon and making sure Willas
Tyrell is the man he claims to be. To that, he needs to clean up those
revolting loose ends. 
“No trouble at all. How about I fill your empty slot? Hmm? We can have dinner.
I know a wonderful restaurant. Have you ever heard of the Blue Wisterias?”
Robb takes all his doubts and pounds it to dust. He focuses on the grand prize.
Everything is falling into place, and he will not allow anybody to catch the
pieces before they land—not even him. “Yes, I have. Willas recommended it to
me.”
Robb can practically see the smirk on Oberyn’s face. He hears another word,
perhaps the Spanish equivalent to ‘figures’ and agrees to let Oberyn make the
reservation.
“I look forward to meeting you.”More importantly, Robb looks forward to
reuniting Oberyn with his friend.
-
Robb departs the restaurant with two cheese tarts, a Battenberg cake, and
sticky toffee pudding for his mother and little siblings, sans Arya. The last
time he brought her dessert during a training season, she threatened to throw
out his laptop. On his way home, he develops a craving for some brandy snaps
and stops by a grocery store to pick an instant pack. He spots a cartoon of
raspberry ripple on accident (and he swears it was an accident—never mind that
the two items are four aisles apart) and picks it up for Bran. If Sansa was
with him, she would have accused him of eating away his guilt—Robb would deny
it. He is not guilty of anything.
He drops everything off in the kitchen and asks one of the maids to get him a
bowl and some chocolate syrup. Once she hands it over, he carves out two scoops
and douses the frozen confection with layers of hot fudge syrup—just the way
Bran likes it. His little brother will worship him.
On his way upstairs, he hears his little brother on the phone and waits for him
to finish.
“A lecture? A physics lecture?” There's panic in Bran's tone. “Do you…I don’t
think I’ll be good company for that. I’m rubbish at any science that’s not
anatomical or cannot be made into a landscape painting.”
There’s a pause. Robb assumes the guy on the other side is persuading him
otherwise. Suddenly, Robb is relieved. How harmless can a guy be if he’s
planning on taking his little brother to a science convention? No shoulder-yawn
moves, no necking in the night, just a dark room where all potential sex appeal
is wiped off by the aging professor on stage explaining antimatter and star
cycles.
Bran giggles and he sounds adorable—albeit flirtatious. Their sexual
inclinations are a result of their fused Tully-Stark genes. Their sexual
prowess came from their Tully side, and their inability to control or recognize
their urges was all Stark. At least Robb knows the actions are subconscious. He
hears Bran submit, “yes, he will give it a shot” and “no, he cannot be angry at
him if he falls asleep.” They say their goodbyes, and Bran hangs up. He is more
red than the raspberries in Robb’s hands.
Robb makes his grand appearance with a bowl of slightly melted, but still
delectable, ice cream. Bran is ecstatic and reaches out for the bowl.
“Thanks, Robb!”  Once in his hands, he devours it. “What’s the special
occasion?”
“Isn’t that my question?” Robb teases. “It seems you and your mystery man
finally set a date.” Bran blushes. He mutters about the invasion of privacy,
but can’t stop his smile. “It’s nothing special. He wants to take me to a
lecture. Some famous physicist is coming here to discuss the theory of
universal…waterfunctions? Wavelengths…? Wave…”
“The theory of universal wavefunction,” Robb corrects. “Also known as the
Everett Interpretation, or MWI, the many-worlds interpretations.”
Bran stares at him.
“Parallel universes.”
Bran groans. “How do you know these things? How does everybody know these
things?” He digs his face into a pillow. “Jo is going to think I am an idiot.”
“I have to take physic courses for my degree,” Robb clarifies. “You’re not an
idiot. Just because he knows something you don’t, does not make you any less
brilliant. It just means you have a lot to learn from each other.” 
Bran chomps on his early dessert. “I guess.”
“You’ll be fine. He is going to love you. He probably chose this as a first
date so that he can impress you.” Inside, Robb is squealing with excitement.
His little brother’s first date. With a nerd—someone who could not possibly
pressure anybody into having sex. To think, he was actually worried about Bran
getting his heart broken by some pervert with a fetish for wheelchairs; the
kind of guy who uses the pick-up line: “I know your legs don’t work but I bet
your tongue still does." He is safe. 
Bran finishes up his ice cream. When he is about to ask Robb about his day, he
gets a phone call. The caller’s name flashes on the screen like a scarlet A and
before Bran can swipe the treacherous device out of Robb’s peripheral, the
older boy lunges at it. 
“Robb, I can explain—”
“Why the hell is Willas Tyrell calling your phone?”
 “I-I…I…wrong number?”
“He’s on your contact list!”  
“A so wrong it’s right number?”
“Bran!”                                     
“I’m sorry!” He takes back the phone to cancel the incoming call and
accidentally presses answer. No! Bran screams in his mind. Willas’ perfect,
stupid, incredibly grateful voice comes through the phone and thanks Bran for
all his help.
“Hey Bran. You probably already know this, but Jon said yes. I called him today
to confirm the date—clingy I know, but he seems like the type who would
bail—and he told me he was looking forward to seeing me again.”
“That’s nice, Willas!” Bran squeaks. Robb is growling. “But this isn’t the best
time—”
“I want tell you how grateful I am. There’s no way I could have done this
without you.”
Bran blanches. He acts in the name of personal salvation, telling Willas that
there’s no way this has anything to do with him. “Oh, I don’t think you can
blame it all on me.”
“No, I owe it all you to you.”
There's a pair of scissors in Bran’s craft's container that Robb eyes with a
discomforting about of consideration.
“Really? I didn’t do anything. At all. Nothing.”
Robb returns his gaze onto Bran and he is glaring daggers—no, he’s shooting
lasers.
“Are you kidding?” Willas laughs. “When I told him you gave me his number; he
knew that I had gotten your stamp of approval. If it wasn’t for you, none of
this would be possible. Bran, you brought us together.”
Robb takes a step closer. Bran whimpers.
“Anyways, I’ll let you get back to your business. I’ll see you soon!”
Willas hangs up. Bran prepares his defense. “Robb, I can explain.”
“Can you, Bran? Or should I call you Brutus?”
“Robb! I’m not Brutus! I didn’t betray you!”
“Of course not! Brutus didn’t give Ceasar an explanation. Brutus just stabbed
Ceasar. Like how you just gave Willas Jon’s phone number.”
Bran rolls his eyes. He doesn’t feel that bad. He’s guilty of giving out his
cousin’s phone number, not murder.
“I’m sorry, Robb. I really am. But…it’s not like you two are still together and
Willas is a great guy. He’s funny and nice and he really likes Jon. They’re
super compatible. I mean, they both love animals and traveling and food.”
The appeasement infuriates Robb more. “Great, Bran. So you found a better me
for Jon. Why don’t you just rip out my heart and feed it to Summer?”
“Hey!” Bran protests. “First of all, Summer doesn’t like human flesh. It’s too
bony and lean. Secondly, you’re supposed to be getting over Jon. Why are you
behaving like this?”
“I am behaving like this because I found out that you were never on my side. I
bet you wanted us to break up!”
“I did not!” Bran doesn’t know what he wants. “I was on your side—no, I am on
your side. But I want the both of you to be happy. You’re the one who told me
that just because two people like each other doesn’t mean they’re meant to be
with each other.”
“And what about me?” Robb protests. “What about my happiness? I want Jon to be
happy—more so than anybody. But what kills me is the fact that my little
brother thinks I’m not good enough for the man I love!”
“Robb, you need to be reasonable. You’ll just find someone else—”
Bran shuts his mouth mid-sentence.
Robb becomes deathly still.
“Robb, I didn’t mean that.”
“No, you did.”
“Robb, please.”
“You think he’s just another fling. You all think that.” Robb almost punches
the wall. “After all, I’m Robb Stark. I get a new girlfriend every single month
and I can’t find one person to stay with me—but that’s okay because there’s
plenty of fish in the sea and I keep swimming. Everybody assumes I’ll just ‘get
over him.’ Let me tell you something. Jon is my first boyfriend. Do you think
it was easy for me to accept that I was suddenly into guys? Because it wasn’t.
And I’m not. I’m into Jon. Jon is the first person I have ever wanted to give a
real ring to, not some mass produced item from Kays or a Harry Winston trend. I
was going to ask father to give me the family ring to propose with. I wanted to
take all of us camping instead of springing on an engagement like I did all the
others because I needed him to like you all. I needed you to like him because I
wanted us to be a family—not Robb and his new girlfriend, or Robb and his
future wife. For gods’ sakes, I don’t even use a condom with him! So no, Bran,
Jon is not some fling. And you think he is, and that’s why you thought it was
okay to give Jon’s number away to someone who deserves himbecause I don’t.”
Bran is taken back. The horror of what he’s done finally settles in. He feels
like compost in sewage water. “Robb, I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are,” Robb agrees. “Maybe Willas can send you a fruit basket to make
you feel better.”   
-
On the third floor, Sansa and Theon share a sewing room that’s the size of an
average studio. It has dozens of mannequins, several yards of fabric, and beads
and ornaments carefully organized into separate containers. There’s a
stereotype about how messy artists are, but Sansa and Theon refute the claim
with their existences. They compartmentalize everything in order for their
personal belongings to not cross paths and have a middle ground where they
share their goods—paired with a sign-in sheet consisting of what is borrowed,
the length of the lend, and the amount being taken.
Today, they are sitting together on the neutral ground’s couch. Theon flips
through her portfolio and provides his input on which design he thinks she
should keep and which should be removed. Sansa has the oddest obsession with
dragonflies, and so he all but crushes her soul when he ends up eliminating
half of the dresses that contain the insect.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a theme.”
“I like krakens and mermaids but I’m not going to embed them into every suit I
make. Stop it, Sansa. You aren’t Kate Spade launching a new collection. You’re
an applicant who needs to show the admissions office you have flexibility in
the midst of your distinguished aesthetic.”
Sansa glows. “You think I have a distinguished aesthetic?”
“Yeah, the same way I think dirty sex is awesome but will still refuse to fuck
in a mud pit.”  
Sansa purses her lips in disapproval at the analogy. Theon ignores her to list
his favorite sketches. “You should shoot for twenty-five to thirty different
looks, and you’ll need quality photographs for the finished product. If you've
used any couture technique, those need to be highlighted in the photographs.
How long do you have again?”
“A year and a half.”
Theon raises an eyebrow.
Sansa blushes. “It’s good to be prepared. It’ll take me months to make some of
these dresses.”
Theon rolls his eyes, though inwardly, he respects her dedication. “You don’t
have to make all of them—just the best ones. You might come up with something
better later and there’s a chance it’ll contrast with the original theme.”
Sansa grimaces, but nevertheless heeds his advice. She gathers up her papers
and divides them over on her side. She asks Theon if she could get the
portfolio he submitted to Saint Martins. He scrummages through his
belongings—grumbling the entire time—and tosses his flash drive over to her.
“Here.”
He hopes his pieces don’t psych Sansa out. Their styles are completely
different—Sansa aims for timelessness, chic and classic outfits that can be
worn throughout the decades versus Theon’s flamboyance and couture.
Sansa thanks him, and her smile is the second most genuine and heartfelt smile
he has ever received. “You smile like your brother,” Theon comments, and
there’s degree of fondness he cannot remove from his voice. He figures a
compliment would not hurt the situation—given that Sansa may be the only future
in-law who likes him.
He tries not be unnerved when her smile drops. Hesitantly, she puts the goods
in her bag and asks Theon if he’s still in love with Robb.
Theon shrugs. His faux nonchalance fails him when he glances at his reflection
in the mirror and sees his anxious expression. So he tells Sansa that it’s none
of her business, and she should focus on getting into a good school rather than
his love life.
Sansa sighs. “Listen, Theon, I’m grateful you’re helping me but…I know why
you’re doing this, and it’s not out of the goodness of your heart. You want me
to like you."
Theon glares. "Why the fuck would I care about how you think of me?"
"Fine, let me correct myself. You don't want me to like you, you want an ally.
You think getting at least one of Robb's siblings to be on your side, you'll be
able to win his heart.”
Theon glares at her. Who does she think she is? “And you’re such a saint? We've
shared this room for years, and you only started talking to me when I got into
your dream school. You’re using me just as much as I am using you.”
To his annoyance, she does not deny it. The accusation does nothing to stop her
lecture.
“Be that as it may, I think you should…" Sansa rubs her temples. "Theon...it's
time to get over him." 
What. The. Hell.
“What?”
Sansa winces at the shriek. “Listen, I’ve been watching Robb for the last few
days…and there’s something about this break up that’s really messing him up. I
mean, he’s always been a bit crazy about his girlfriends but with Jon…it’s on a
whole other level.”
Theon is adamant about keeping the code of clean in the sewing room, otherwise,
he would have knocked over a few pins by now. “Jon was a fling,” Theon hisses.
“All of them, they were just flings. Robb doesn’t know what’s good for him. He
doesn’t know what he wants.”
“And you do?” Sansa challenges. She gets up. “Theon, you’ve never given Robb
the opportunity to genuinely fall in love.”
“So it’s my fault Robb has shit taste in people? None of those girls were good
enough for him—if they were, it wouldn’t have been so easy to break them up.
They weren’t right for him.” Not like he was. Theon was perfect for Robb. Theon
is his best friend. 
“No,” Sansa denies. “Theon, I am not accusing you of anything.”
“But you don’t think I’m worthy of your precious brother. Not like those
whores.”
“Stop,” Sansa orders. Some of those whores are her friends. “I’ve been a front
row witness to all of your past manipulations. I am not saying you are the only
one to blame because I don’t know if any of those relationships would have
lasted with or without your interference. What I do know is that those girls
were never given a fighting chance to be anything more than an infatuation. And
with every new relationship, there was a ticking time bomb attached to it. Robb
behaved like a buffoon because of it. He was terrified of things blowing up in
his face that he rushed into love too fast and snipped too many of the wrong
wires in the process.”
“What do you want, Sansa?” Theon growls. “I’m not giving up on Robb.” He is so
close—the opportunity for his master plan is finally coming to an end.
“Give yourself a chance to be happy,” Sansa advises. “Forget about Robb. Be the
best friend you can be, and find someone who loves you for you and not the
façade you put on to get close to Robb.”
Theon’s phone decides to ring. There’s only one person it could be, and Sansa
begs him not to take it. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never missed
Robb’s call.”
“And I’m not starting now.”
Theon picks up the phone.  
“Hey, Robb.”
“Theon? Gods, it’s good to hear your voice.”
Theon’s heart flutters in delight. Sansa shakes her head in disappointment. She
knows Robb means nothing by it, but her heart breaks by how effortlessly Robb
leads his best friend on.
“Listen, I’m sorry for avoiding you these last few days…I just…I needed some
time to think. Can we meet up? I really need to talk to you.”
Theon’s heart skips a beat. This is it. This is his moment to shine and no one,
not even Robb’s family can stop him now.
“Yeah, of course. I’ll meet you anywhere.”
Sansa rolls her eyes. Theon glares. To further infuriate her, he tells Robb
that he will do anything “to hear his voice again.”
“How about we meet up at the bar? I’ll get us a private table and we can talk.”
“Sounds great, thanks.” Before he hangs up, Theon pauses and then confesses to
Robb that he really misses him. “I hope I’ve haven’t done anything to upset
you.” His voice is laced with sincerity and saccharinity. Sansa’s stomach
churns at the contrast between Theon’s smirking face and the pitiful nature of
his speech. He’s lied to Robb far too often if such a combination exists.  
Robb’s guilt radiates through the phone. He reassures Theon that he alone is
responsible for their distance and he wants to make it up to him. Theon
forgives him easily and says he will meet him as soon as possible. When Theon
hangs up, he is grinning. Sansa frowns.
“See, Sansa? Robb and I are finally getting our happy ending.” He puts his
phone in his pocket. He grins. The time has come. He is going to find love, or
die trying.   
-
Robb and Theon meet at the pub where Robb’s relationship with Jon ended. To the
Stark heir, the location is the unsexist place he can imagine: a reminder of
booze filled regrets, a bar wet with tears, poor judgements and ill made plans.
Numerous girls and a number of guys go up to him for a chat. He turns them all
down, saying he is waiting for someone. Theon arrives when the latest flirt is
shot down. He glows when the girl sends him a glare. Yes, Theon grins. That’s a
glower of jealousy. She is jealous of him.
When they meet up, they hug like lovers—not friends. Robb leads him to a
table—there’s a private room prepared for their VIP guests and Robb is
basically royalty in these parts. He orders for Theon like he always
has—because Robb knows Theon’s favorite drink. Theon wants to call this their
first date, but realizes that’s too tacky. He’s a man of class after all.
They start their conversation with small talk. Robb must be overwhelmed with
guilt if he’s too nervous to look Theon in the eye. The older boy finds it
adorable, and takes Robb’s hand. He assures Robb that there are no hard
feelings. He understands that Robb needed some time alone to collect himself
after the breakup. Besides, it is not like his life revolves around Robb
either. “I’ve been working on my designs, and I’m helping Sansa with her
application. Do you know that she’s a year ahead?”
They laugh about it—the way couples do. They get their drinks and Robb takes a
long, hard chug. He almost slams the glass on the table.
“Theon, I know this sounds out of character for me, but…I’m going to try and
let Jon go.”
There’s a tourney of candy knights and popsicle lances jousting inside of
Theon’s heart. This is it. This is fucking it. Theon swears he’ll start praying
again after tonight. He’ll visit his fucking weird-ass church and go swimming
every day in the testicle popping, balls-freezing ocean if the Drowned One
gives him Robb, once and for all.
“I mean, I’m still crazy about him, and there’s just one last thing I have to
do before I completely let go.”
“What?” Theon asks. He’s clenching his fists so hard his manicured nails are
digging into his skin and causing baby cuts on his hands. He leans forward
enough that he might fall over the table.
“Jon has a date this Friday. The guy seems…adequate.”
That fucking slut. That stupid twat. Theon can think of a million different
insults and none of them taste as delicious as the savory sensation of Robb
finally being his. Theon nods his head so rapidly it just might fall off.
“And?”
“And I think he might make a decent match. For now. But I…I just want to make
sure. I have a plan—” Oh god, one of Robb’s ridiculous plans that have a fifty
percent success rate and a fifty percent ‘burn the building to the ground’
rate. “—And it’s brilliant. I’ll be able to see this Willas Tyrell’s true
colors.”
Theon pretends to be interested. Robb lost him at “completely let go.”
“And then you’ll be over him?”
Robb chuckles. “Well, I don’t think I’ll ever be—”
Theon cuts him off. “But you won’t pursue him after this?”
Robb shakes his head. “Not unless he goes after me. I think it’s time for me to
get a grip. Enjoy the single life for a while.”
Theon’s heart drops. “What?”
Robb motions the awaiting waitress to fix him another drink. She already has
his favorite prepared. “Cheers,” he tells her, all charms and style. Theon
snaps his fingers to get his attention.
“What did you say? About being single?”
Robb nods, and sips instead of chugs. This time, he enjoys his whiskey and the
accomplishment of attaining maturity for the first time. He feels more like a
man now than ever.
“I haven’t been unattached since I was twelve. Arya was right—I don’t know
myself that well, and maybe it is time for some rediscovery. Perhaps…I was
meant to fall so madly in love with Jon so that no one could replace him
afterwards. I think this is the best decision for me. I can focus on other
things.” Like stalking Willas Tyrell, ruining his life if he does Jon harm,
and/or potentially killing him and getting away with it. 
“But…” Theon chokes up, he grasps for salvation with his hands and there’s
nothing to hold onto. Finally, he takes his drink and gulps down his lager like
it’s water and his mouth is on fire. Then, he takes Robb’s drink and lets the
liquid burn his throat. He needs it. Robb warns him to slow down.
“Theon, is something the matter—”
Theon responds by grabbing Robb’s collar and kissing him. He smashes their lips
together with more finesse than actual romance. He’s panicking, and it shows in
his sloppy tongue and chapped lips and the taste of rich whiskey and cheap
beer.
Theon releases him when he runs out of air.
“I love you!” Theon confesses.
Robb touches his lips. He stares at Theon, jaws drop and eyes wide with shock.
“I’ve loved you since we were schoolboys and you were this sexless nerd who
wrestled me on the ground and gave me a hard on. I love your family—even if
they can’t stand me half the time because they’re the only family I’ve really
known. I love that your mother knows my size and pretends to buy clothes on
accident because she knows my family would never pay for them. I love that your
father set up a fake scholarship so that I could attend the school of my
dreams. Your siblings are the most annoying brats in the world and I love them.
Robb, I want to be with you. I want to be a Stark.”
Theon stares at Robb like he’s a god, but Robb cannot reciprocate. He looks at
Theon as if he’s seeing him for the first time, and unfortunate, there are no
hearts in his eyes and his skin is flawless—free from cupid’s arrow. Robb is
sorry, but worse of all, he is pitying Theon, as if he just discovered how
poor, how useless, how unimportant the Greyjoy is in the grand scheme that is
Stark. 
“Theon…”
No, Theon thinks. This isn’t supposed to happen. Tonight is a fairy tale. Robb
is his prince, and he is the princess whose been given his voice back.
“Theon, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way.” Robb’s eyes glistens
with tears. Theon gets up from his chair. He tries to run for it. Robb calls
him back, and on reflex, Theon stops. They do not face each other.
“Theon, you…you are my best friend. I don’t…I wish I felt the same way.”
The kindness feels worse than a flat out rejection. For the longest time, Theon
has been avoiding the truth, the notion that Jon isn’t special, that Robb could
suddenly fall in love with the man whose been here for him the entire time. But
no, Robb won’t even try for Theon’s sake. The Stark reaches out for Theon’s
hand but Theon shoves him off. “Don’t touch me,” he spats. “Don’t…fuck you,
Robb!”
Theon runs out of the room with Robb calling his name. He took a cab to get
here and he’ll need one to return home—Robb’s home. Theon curses and tries not
cry. A cab means waiting on the corner and giving Robb the opportunity to catch
up to him and persuade him to forgive and forget and Theon is tired. He is so
tired of playing the best friend. He wants to be the boyfriend. He wants so
desperately to be the one that gets obsessed over and bought gifts and treated
like a prize.  
He hears Robb come closer, and he reacts badly. He grabs a guy, the closest guy
that looks relatively decent through his tears, and forces their lips together.
The act invokes a minimum amount of silence and a few awkward and interested
looks.
Before the young man could counter with a negative reaction, Theon makes his
intentions clear.
“I want you to fuck me. Here. Now. In the bathroom, in your car, I don’t care.
I want you to make me scream.”
The shock disappears from the man’s face and a malicious grin replaces it. For
a second, Theon regrets ever making the offer. He has no time to linger in his
stupidity when he is dragged to the nearest bathroom, outside of Robb’s reach.
Theon is thrown like a ragdoll into an open stall and his head hits the
concrete wall. The man locks their compartment.  
“Fuck you!” Theon shouts. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The man grabs Theon’s hair and shoves his face against the closed door. “Ramsey
Bolton.” It sounds like he’s bragging. “But you can call me sir, or master.”
Theon turns his head to spit in his face. “Fuck you!”
Ramsey slams his head against the wall again. Theon whimpers. Ramsey gets
harder. Fucking sicko, Theon thinks. He struggles to get away. Ramsey holds him
back, grabs his jean button and rips it off. “That’s exactly what I’m planning
to do, bitch.”  He leans in to whisper in Theon’s ear. “That’s what you asked
me to do, you stupid slut.”
He presses his hard on against Theon’s crack. He’s impressive, and with a
different personality, he’s exactly the type of guy Theon would have a one
night stand with. Theon’s pride orders him to fight back. He made the mistake
of propositioning the sick bastard, but that does not mean he should stay to
regret it. When he tries to elbow his assailant, the move is met with a harsh
slap on the ass.
“Listen, I’m not the bad guy here. You came onto me. You shoved your cunt in my
face and asked me to jam my cock down your throat. What was it you said. ‘I
want you to make me scream,’” Ramsey mocks. “Well, I want to screw your pretty
like bitch brains out. You’ve caught my eye the moment you walked into this
pub. You’re the prettiest hole in this dump and I’m not leaving until I pound
your brains out.”
Theon’s cock is straining against the door. Ashamed and red with humiliation,
he asks Ramsey if he truly meant it. “You think I’m the prettiest person here?”
Ramsey thanks some god he doesn’t believe in. Fuck, he must have done something
special in his last life if he manages to catch a bitch with low self-esteem
and an ass that would not quit. “Considering everyone in this shithole is
equivalent to a subpar mongrel, I wouldn’t take that as a high compliment.
Serves me right for listening to an idiot’s recommendation.” Theon’s face
faltered. He returns to struggling again, and almost succeeds until Ramsey rips
off his boxers and shoves his finger in his ass. Theon yelps. He fights back
harder.   
Ramsey loves a good rollercoaster. “Gods, this ass is a treasure. Tight as a
noose, just the way I like it. I take back what I said. You should be proud of
this desperate hole. I bet guys are just lining up for a chance to get in. In
fact…” Ramsey scissors Theon with force. Tears welled up in Theon's eyes.
Ramsey leans down and whispers his final verdict. “I think I’ll pass. I don’t
like used goods.”
Ramsey releases Theon from his grip. He buttons up his own pants and sighs
dramatically to convey his disappointment. He mutters, louder than his usual
grumble, that he cannot believe he almost wasted his spunk on damaged goods.
“I’m not damaged!” Theon defends. His pants are still unbuttoned. His face is
wrecked with red eyes and dried tears, and his lips—those sexy, pink, cock-
sucking lips—are quivering. If this bitch is not ready to get on his knees in
the next ten seconds, Ramsey is going to force his cock down his throat. Shit,
he should have just raped him when he had the chance. “You’re a fucking
psycho.”
Ramsey pretends not to care. “Whatever. Get out of my face. I’ll find some
trollop to ride me before the night is through—even an ugly virgin is better
than some pretty slut.”
Theon twitches. There’s that look again. That semblance of hope that appears
whenever he’s being complimented in the worst way. Pretty, he likes being
called pretty. Ramsey uses it again to make sure.
 “You said I was tight.”  Theon points out. He’s petulant now.
Ramsey corners Theon and leans in until their lips are almost touching. “Yeah,
and I meant it. But I’m sure pretty boys like you know how to keep themselves
nice and snug for their next master. It keeps the cocks coming.”
Theon grimaces. He says, this time with falsified confidence, that he’s “better
than all the whores and virgins in the room.”
Oh, and Ramsey does not doubt it. “Prove it,” Ramsey challenges. “Give me what
you promised.”
Theon knows it’s a trap—he’s not stupid. But he was planning on getting fucked
anyways, and he really wants to prove this son of a bitch wrong. He turns
around and shoves his ass out.
Ramsey lines his cock against Theon’s twitching hole and rams it it in, setting
a rhythm of ruthless pounding from the start. “Fuck!” He shouts. He has to grip
on Theon’s hips for balance. “Fuck, your cunt is better than I imagined.”
Theon moans at the intrusion. His eyes watered. The violation is brutal and
arousing, because while Ramsey goes in without lube or consideration, he’s also
a master in hitting Theon’s prostate every single time. The violation gets
worst when Ramsey starts speaking.
“Fucking hell, you’re better than a fleshlight! I bet you love this! Being made
into someone’s personal slut—bet you love the thought of being my private cock
sleeve. You really lucked out tonight, because I’m going to ruin this hole.”
Ramsey controls the pace at all times. When Theon’s knees begin to buckle,
Ramsey shoves him further against the door and goes to town on him. Numerous
times, Theon attempts to match Ramsey’s thrust. Instead, he clenches down on
the hard cock, making him tighter than ever.
Ramsey swears a storm. He calls Theon’s vile names, and makes even more
disgusting promises, starting with how he is planning to indoctrinate Theon
into being a cum dumpster, and make him forget that his head is filled with
anything but thoughts of cock.
At last, Ramsey releases a huge load into Theon’s ass. He’s so distracted by
Ramsey's flaccid cock being removed from his ass that he doesn’t even have the
sense to worry about the lack of protection. He slumps to the ground. Drool
pours out of his mouth.
Ramsey cannot control himself. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” he gasps.
As soon as he says it, he regrets it.
Theon smirks, and though debauched and ruined for all men, he knows he’s gain
the upper hand. “I told you so.”
With any other whore, Ramsey would have smacked him around for being so cocky.
Instead, he sees the pretty hole dripping with his spunk and wonders how many
loads could he shove in his ass and force him to guzzle down his throat. The
possibilities are endless.
“I should keep you.” Ramsey winces at the affectionate tone. He amends himself
by saying that, “It’s always nice to have a bitch on hand.”
Theon continues grinning.
Ramsey gets up, and instead of demanding Theon to stay, he offers to pay for
his cab ride home. “It’s the least I could do for a decent screw.” At this
point, he plans to ruin him with a few extra bills—make him feel really cheap
and whorish.
The word ‘home’ sparks something within Theon, and the boy begins groveling.
He’s reckless and stupid and this results in a terrified, passionate kiss.
Before Ramsey could protest, Theon is already on his knees, taking ahold of
Ramsey’s limp cock. He does not bother to breath before he bends down and
swallows his cock whole.
Ramsey closes his eyes and groans. Theon scraps his teeth on the sides—just the
way he likes it. The action makes him feel huge.
Theon manages to force an inch down his throat.
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,” Ramsey mutters. “I’m definitely going to keep you.”
Chapter End Notes
     1. Hello everyone! It’s so nice to be back! I actually swore off
     fanfiction for the entire three weeks. My philosophy was that if I am
     absconding from updating then I should do the same for reading. It
     was torture.
     2. I’m sorry to say (again) that this is the only chapter being
     updated this week. But I swear, the chapters will be consistent and I
     won’t be taking any more hiatuses until next year. I pray that this
     is finished before then.
     3. I have decided to take three of the five prompt requests. They
     will all be oneshots. I'm sorry, but I can't do anything more than
     that right now. I am still open to taking requests.
     4. Next chapter: Jojen and Bran’s date! Fluffiness to counteract the
     tragedy that was in this chapter!
     5. Thank you all for your support. I hope you guys have a great
     autumn equinox, and if you're from Austrailia, a great spring. The
     mercury retrograde is over with. If you're into astrology, this means
     that life is going to get a lot better. Have a great fall!
***** Chapter 29 *****
Chapter Notes
     Nothing to warn people about except one (and a half) guest appearance
     (s).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Bran changes his outfit four times before Jon drags him into the car dressed in
a pair of sweatpants and a black t-shirt that showcases his nipples when the
temperature drops the slightest degree. Jon deals with Bran's concerns with the
patience of young man experience with squabbling siblings and elderly disputes.
Despite this, he is not immune to irritation and cannot help but roll his eyes
when Bran frets about the matter in the car. He theorizes that such a blatant
display of mammary glands appears sluttish, and that's the last thing he wants
to display. "Class not ass," he quotes--and the proverb is vaguely reminiscent
of Aunt Cat or Sansa, but Jon can honestly expect Theon saying such a thing as
well. 
“He’s going to think I’m a tease, or that I want him to attack me and get him
arrested!” Bran moans.
Jon reassures him that he has nothing to worry about because Bran looks fine,
and this ‘Jo’ is already half in love with him. Jon has read the texts. He's
listened to the conversations. He knows the older boy is bonkers about Bran and
reassures him of this. Bran heads his assurances as if they are raindrops in a
monsoon. He wants the date to be perfect. Jon takes a different approach and
reminds him of his familial lineage. "There's no way someone with siblings like
yours can be remotely unappealing." Bran has those same Stark and Tully genes,
and in combination, they produce visual royalty like Robb or Sansa, or
unconventional scene stealers like Arya and Rickon. While Bran falls into the
latter category, there is little to be ashamed of in the looks department.
When they arrive at the science museum, Bran makes a heel face turn and demands
that they go home. Jon puts his foot down. "You're going on this date. You will
have a wonderful time with a boy who worships you and you will be happy."
Bran begshim to reconsider. Jon repeats his answer and unlocks the car’s doors.
“Flutter away,” Jon orders. “You have a couple of hours. We told your mother
you’re working on a project at Henry’s house. If the date is not what you
expected..."

“I go to the bathroom to text you discretely and we pretend there’s a family
emergency.” Bran gasps. “Do you think anything will go wrong?”
Jon gets out of the car to gather Bran’s wheelchair. Then, he opens the door on
Bran’s side. “Nothing will go wrong. You just have to give it a shot.” He helps
Bran onto the device and leads Bran to the entrance where he is expected to
meet Jojen. There are several people who fit the age range, but the one who
catches Bran’s eyes is a tall, fair skin boy with eyes that can only be
described as drop dead gorgeous (or Green Lantern's ring if one is in a comical
mood) and is looking at his phone like he’s waiting for somebody and gods be
damn, Bran is not ready to go out with a man that looks like that.  He tries to
turn around but Jon has a firm grip on his handles and rolls him towards the
fountain. When he is close enough, Jon makes a dash back to the car. Bran is
close to hyperventilation when he does so, and tries to follow him, or at least
protest his treacherous ways when someone calls out his name.
“Bran?” He hears. Bran shuts his eyes. He is too late, and he needs to cut off
the gorgon’s head in order to win the princess. He bites his lips and turns
around. Jojen is staring at him, and there’s no mistaking the look in his eyes.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
Jojen thanks the gods he decided to brave through his nerves sober. He would
have regretted his high until the day he died if he missed a moment of Bran’s
exquisiteness. The boy is every dream, every fantasy, every wish he’s had since
the day he was born, and having him in front of him was like drinking ambrosia.
He introduces himself as Jojen, and calls Bran stunning. He pulls back his
intensity when the younger boy blushes and looks away.
“I like your shirt,” he tells him. “And great idea with the sweatpants.”
“Really?” Bran is doubtful. Jojen is wearing a button up shirt with slacks—he
looks every bit the model student his intellect implies he is.
“Yes. The lecture will be long so I’m glad you opted for comfort. You’re so
clever, Bran.”
Bran lights up at the compliment. Jojen takes the initiative to wheel Bran
towards the slope. He breaks down the complexities of parallel universes
through analogies and metaphors. The last thing he wants is for Bran to be so
frustrated with the terminology that he leaves. Jojen’s inadequacy will not
prevail today.
“…And the best thing about today’s lecture is that Dr. Wheeler is going to
discuss how alternate universes interact with each other. A lot of physicists
shy away from the topic because it borders the science fiction.”
“Really?”
Jojen nods. “There’s a lot of stigmas attached to it.” He grins. “It is a good
thing you’re interested in science fiction.”
Bran nods his head and tries to keep up when Jojen returns to his lesson plan.
Bran appreciates the simplicity of Jojen’s explanation and links to the
vocabulary to his late-night cramming session. Minutes before the lecture
starts, Jojen gives him a corner tour of the museum where they touched these
plasma globes and blue electricity traces to Bran's fingers.
Bran giggles and Jojen’s heart skips a beat. If only one of Jojen’s friends did
not recognize him, he could have devoted his last five minutes to Bran.
“Well, I'll be damned! Jojen Reed, is that actually you?”
And for the first time since they met, Bran saw Jojen wince. The older boy
turns around to exchange pleasantries, but Jojen’s shields rise like the Great
Wall of China and he locks up his emotions like treasures in a vault. His
manners are impeccable and his tone is polite, but his posture is tense and
unforgiving. Bran wonders what cause the change in demeanor, but Jojen returns
the greeting with falsified contentment.
“It’s been a while, Myles.” Jojen, out of respect for etiquette, asks how his
family is doing.
“Oh the usual…my older brother is trying to take over the world and Beckett is
getting involved with rugby.” The youth shudders. “Sometimes, I wonder if we’re
actually twins.” He glances over at Bran and introduces himself. Bran notices
his accent is off—a mixture of Irish, English and American.
“Myles Fowl, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Are you a friend of
Jojen here? Or perhaps doing one of those ‘big brother-little brother’
schemes?” He scowls before Bran can answer. Truth be told, Bran does not know
how to answer. There’s too little time to explain his relationship with Jojen.
His friend? His date—? Each suggestion makes him feel as if he’s jumping the
gun and walking backward at the same time. “My professor tried to manipulate me
into one of those charity projects—said it was my duty to help nurture another
great mind into this world. Bullocks and bullshit, I swear. He just wouldn’t
stop! I had to make it clear to him that every moment away from my lab is the
dismantlement of a greater mind.”
Jojen raises an eyebrow. Myles must have read this as a sign of disapproval. He
rectifies his faux pas by saying he admires Jojen for his dedication to the
scientific community. Bran seems like a worthy pupil. Before Bran can correct
his mistake, Jojen beats him to it by clarifying that he is not Bran’s mentor.
“We’re on a date.”
Myles, who Bran initially reads as pompous and vain, turns a furious shade of
red. The boy stutters out a response that is incomprehensible, and the Stark is
fearful he’s made things difficult for Jojen. What if the boy found him
unworthy? Did Bran accidentally cause Jojen to be an outcast from his friends?
“Oh! Wow! Boyfriend! Okay! He’s very cute…you’re very cute!” He praises. Bran
is taken back by the compliment. He did not expect such a positive response.
Myles laughs nervously. “Well, I see why you’ve taken a break from the center.
Shame, the program has not been the same without you. How long have you been
dating?”
Again, Jojen answers, “Just this week. This is our first date.”
Myles nods furiously. “That’s great news! I couldn’t drag one of my partners to
these events. If I had someone that is—shame that everyone I meet at school is
a prat with a single digit IQ—you think for a school promising the most
challenging curriculum in Europe, there would be better conversationalists. The
Citadel…what a load of crock!” Then, he hesitates and stares at Jojen
strangely. “Well, if he’s not the reason you’ve gone missing, what happened?
You’ve been out of the program for over a year! Seeing you here…it’s like
you’ve come back from the dead!”
Jojen tightens his grip on Bran’s wheelchair handle. He decides that the only
way out is to force an uncomfortable conversation in. “My mother died.”
Myles blanches. He struggles to find the right words, and goes for a shamefully
generic response of “I’m sorry, what happened?” The genius cringes at his own
ineptitude.
“Suicide.”
Two of the three young men are startled by the confession. Bran’s eyes widened.
Jojen sends him a pitying look and squeezes his shoulder to indicate that he’ll
explain later. Bran could push, but holds Jojen to his silent promise and keeps
his concerns muted.
The statement is the last nail in the coffin, and Myles bids his adieu. “The
lecture is about to start and I need to get to my seats—I’ve already reserved a
place in the front.” He offers a chance beside him, but Jojen politely refuses.
The future physicist rolls Bran to the disability seating. The location is
plush and vast in space—to which Jojen explains that ‘Stephen Hawking made
waves for the handicapped.’ They sit down.
As soon as Dr. Wheeler arrives on stage, there’s a sudden round of applause
that Bran is obligated to join in. The man is much younger than Bran
expected—early forties at most. There’s a certain nerdish charm he exudes when
he talks about his childhood in America, his obsession with Dungeons and
Dragons, and his love for his friends. The childhood interlude leads into his
theory. Bran is taken back by the claim that “the foundation of the multiverse
relies on the understanding of Brane cosmology’s theories,” he finds the
discussion intriguing. He makes mental notes to keep it for his future
plotlines.
Jojen half listens to the lecture, and half watches Bran out of the corner of
his eye. His date is paying attention to whatever he can, and though there are
occasion flickers of confusion, Bran remains alert and awestruck. His hands are
rested on both the armrests. Jojen has an opportunity.
He inches towards the virgin palm. Bran’s fingers twitch and Jojen retreats. He
curses his cowardice and tries again. The hand is right there, so petal soft
and snow white. He slinks closer and closer until he’s an inch away. Bran’s
finger clench when the doctor lets out another vibrant proclamation—Jojen isn’t
listening. Bran returns to normal and leans against his chair. Jojen can feel
his warmth. He withdraws from the heat to develop a game plan. His schemes are
cut short when Bran squirms and makes a move to place his hands on his lap.
Jojen acts instantly. He grasps onto Bran’s hand and links their fingers
together. He forces them on the armrest. He makes sure not to look at Bran in
the eye. 
Jojen did it. His heart is pounding in anticipation but he did it.
He held Bran’s hand.  
And Bran is not pulling away. If anything, he’s encouraging their intimacy by
curling his fingers so that their digits intertwine. Jojen gasps.
He is holding Bran’s hand, and Bran is allowing it.
If he bothered to look at Bran’s face, he would see an equally red, love-
stricken boy. 
The lecture finishes with two utterly wrecked young men holding hands. Forced
to let go, their parting does nothing to cure Jojen of his paralysis. His dazed
mindset continues when he wheels his date to the dining area and does not
diminish—not even when he orders his meal. When they get their dishes, Jojen
relishes in the sensation of Bran’s skin.
“So…” Bran begins nervously. He nibbles on his chips. Jojen wants to be one of
those chips. He swears at his lack of self-control. “That was interesting…”
“Was it?” Jojen draws out; thoughts tunneling through the crevices of his
brain. He can barely remember a word spoken, still enraptured by his progress.
They held hands, Jojen moons. He recovers enough to ask Bran if there’s was
anything he didn’t understand.
“Most of it,” Bran admits, a nervous, sheepish smile following his confession.
Jojen chuckles and the noise makes Bran swoon. “I got that alternate universes
are based on…string theory?” Jojen does not correct him so Bran assumes he’s on
the right track.
“Correct, but Dr. Wheeler used the example of a tightrope, but I think that’s
an outdated image.” Jojen grabs two of Bran’s chips and lathers sauce between
them. He smirks at Bran’s pouting protest. “So let’s start small. I want you to
think of each chip as a parallel universe and the sauce is the spacetime
between them. Now, imagine yourself as a fly. You can hop on one chip, but if
you try to get to the other chip, the sauce stops you.” He mashes the chips
together. “However, if we’re following Einstein’s law of general relativity,
the spacetime can get warped. And notice how the chips are getting soggier
before the movement?”
Bran nods.
“So do our universes. Every action or change to the spacetime affects our
current universe.” Jojen suddenly forces the two sides together, leaving
potato-ey, saucy, mess. “For the two universes to meet, there’s need to be
energy—an intense, massive amount of energy. And if you happened to be in the
sauce when that happens…”
“You die,” Bran squeaks out.
Jojen nods. “Everything caught in the spacetime gets decimated. Fortunately, or
unfortunately, depending on who you ask, you won’t be able to find an
institution with the means to produce a proper experiment.” Jojen chuckles. “So
we won’t be meeting the alternative version of ourselves anytime soon. No
princesses or dragons for us.” Jojen sends a sly look over to Bran, and the
sultry expression alone makes him squirm. “Though I imagine the other me is
having the time of his life calling you, ‘my prince.’”
Bran coughs up his soda. Jojen offers him his water bottle. When Bran recovers,
Jojen asks how long he has him until. Bran reveals he is supposed to be at home
at six, and Jojen checks his watch. He lights up.  
“I get you all to myself for two whole hours? I must in heaven.”
Bran rolls his eyes. He recognizes Jojen’s sincerity but finds himself building
an immunity to Jojen’s flattery. He has to find a way to keep his heart from
bursting with every compliment. Nevertheless, he believes his heart fluttering
around Jojen is a permanent condition.
Taking a break from the science conversation, Jojen asks about Bran’s week. He
listens with his full attention, as he always does when Bran talks about his
life. He leaves out his familial drama, and the absence of his siblings in his
discussion raises a dozen red flags.
“Is there something wrong? You haven’t mentioned any of your siblings.”
Bran swallows his own saliva. “No…there’s just nothing going on right now.” He
will not be the one to ruin the mood. Things are going great—way better than
anticipated. “I mean, Arya is doing her dance thing and Sansa has a boyfriend
and Rickon is being Rickon…he’s always getting into trouble…things are fine.
Boring, really.”
“What about Robb?” Jojen asks, and the pointedness of his question is as
unnerving as a nun. Bran gulps and is about to sputter another lie when Jojen
stops him. He reaches over to grab Bran’s hand and reminds him that, “You can
tell me anything.”
Bran lower lip quivers. “Robb is…Robb and I aren’t getting along right now.”
Somewhere in their universe, a cat runs across the room, trips his owner, and
everything on the table spills to the floor. Bran mimics the experience and
misery pours from his mouth. Jojen is as attentive as ever and not once does
his adoration falter. At the end of Bran’s rant, Jojen reassures him that he is
not at fault—his brother’s love life does not rest on his shoulder and he has
no right to blame him for any of the follies.
“But I gave Willas the number—”
“—which would have only happened if you thought Willas was worthy of it. Jon
trusts your judgement and so do I. It’s on your brother if he doubts you.”
Really, Jojen sighs, Robb appeared to be a more sensible man when he was dating
Meera.  “I would have given a suitor my sister’s number if he met my
standards.”  
The comment lifts bricks and boulders off of Bran’s shoulders. While he
inwardly knows Jojen to be biased, the relief of being told he is not at fault
is immeasurable. He smiles.
“Thank you, Jojen.”
Jojen stares at Bran. There are millions of universes where Jojen Reed exists,
and not one of them would have been able to resist Bran Stark’s smile. Jojen
leans forward, and Bran catches his breath. Bran’s entire body tenses, his
breath is held still, and the hair on his back rises. His lips pout
subconsciously and he bites them for a second—a moment where flesh meets teeth
and the interaction results in red, apple delicious red.
Then, Bran’s phone rings.
They freeze. The phone keeps ringing, and they rise to action. Jojen pulls
back. Bran retrieves his phone. Both of them scream in silence, and once the
moment has passed, they yell at the heavens above for their misfortune. Jojen
curses his eagerness—he’s going too far, too soon, and the universe is
cockblocking him for it. Bran needs further wooing, more intimate discussions
and dates consisting of star gazing in the gardens. On the other side of the
kiss that never was, Bran swears a grave punishment to whoever interrupted
their date. He was so sure that Jojen was going…
“Hello?” Bran answers, sour as a lemon. He glances over at Jojen to make sure
he isn’t insulted. To his relief, the older boy casts an understanding smile.
If anything, he is curious.  
“Bran I need your help!”
“Rickon?” Bran raises an eyebrow. “Rickon, I’m kind of busy—”
“Shh! Don’t talk so loud!” Rickon interrupts. There’s some shuffling over the
phone. “They might hear you!” His voice is hushed, but the urgency of his
whisper is loud and clear. Bran almost hits his head. He loathes to imagine
what trouble his little brother has gotten into.
“Rickon, what did you do now?”
“It’s not my fault!” Rickon defends. As if realizing who he is talking to, he
changes his tune. “I mean…it is my fault. Completely my fault, but that doesn’t
matter now! I’m trapped, Bran. Trapped!” He quiets down, and Bran swears he
hears a high-pitched giggle in the background. There’s an absence of breath on
the other end, and Bran can practically see his brother on the other side,
hiding his breathing through inane measures and curled up in a ball for
discretion. Then, the giggling dies down and he hears a door shut. Rickon
speaks again. “I was tricked! Bamboozled! Lyanna Mormont, she—” The laughter
returns with an accompanying trail of footsteps. Again, the door slams and
Rickon regains his voice. “Bran, I need you and Robb to pick me up. Don’t tell
Jon. Or Sansa. They’ll kill me if they find out.”
Find out what? Bran wants to ask but deep inside, he knows he’d rather not hear
the answer. “Where are you?”
“At the Mormont house, keep up, Bran!” Rickon chides. Bran rolls his eyes.
Rickon proceeds to give him the brief explanation of his predicament. He spins
a tale of infiltration. Lyanna Mormont was having her bimonthly sleepover and
he was determined to get access to Shireen’s innermost secrets while also
shielding her from Lyanna’s influence. Lyanna must have seen through his
plans because she installed a program that prevented anybody from leaving the
house without inputting the passcode. He was stuck, and the girls were
arriving. To get him out, Bran needs to get there, distract the girls, and get
Robb and to override the alarm codes.
Rickon is about to give further instruction when Bran cuts him off by informing
him that he and Robb are not speaking to each other. Bran is tired of letting
people walk all over him. Jojen is right. He will not apologize without
wrongdoing. He’s having fun on his date, and Robb is being completely
illogical. Rickon is a troublemaker, and it is time for him to face the
consequences of his actions.
“I’m busy, Rickon. Whatever you did, you need to take responsibility for it.
You’re not a baby anymore.” Bran takes a deep breath. “I won’t help you.”
Silence.
Bran awaits the storm.
Nothing.
The muteness alarms Bran more than a thousand screams. Was he being too harsh?
He held his ground but wonders what he will do if Rickon hangs up. Oh, the
eleven-year-old will never forgive him if Bran’s callousness leads him to lose
his first love!
On the other side, Rickon is stunned by this newfound assertiveness. He finds
his voice. He does not have many moments left to talk and will not waste it. He
starts by telling Bran that he is sorry for ruining his date, and he adds that
he genuinely means it. “I love you. I hope you’re having fun. Is he nice?”  
Bran stares at Jojen, who stares back. They smile at each other. “He is,” Bran
agrees.
Rickon says he’s glad to hear it. Then, he reminds Bran that he is not the only
Stark who is not where he is supposed to be. “When you’re finished, are you
going to get Jon to pick you up? I mean, you’re not calling mum, are you?”
Bran’s throat dries up like a grape in the Sahara, and he takes his entire cup
of orange soda and downs it like an alcoholic with a bottle of whiskey. That
little shit. Once sated, he finishes up hacking the dribbles that went into the
wrong tube and wipes his mouth. He whimpers to Rickon that “he’ll be there.”
“Good.”
Bran is left with a dial tone. His mind runs through a thousand apologies. I’m
sorry, my brother fucked up. I’m sorry, I have to stop my brother from doing
something stupid. I’m sorry, my brother is ruining my life but I really like
you and I would love to reschedule our kiss. He hears the chiming of keys and
jumps to the worst conclusion. Jojen is up and preparing to throw away the
trash. Bran’s heart sinks. Jojen is abandoning him. He’s leaving him and Bran
will never see him again and it will all be because of Rickon and stupid,
impulsive ways—.
“Let’s just get rid of the rubbish, and I can give you a ride instead of your
brother.” Jojen offers a kind smile. “We can even plan our next date—something
you love.”
Bran gapes. “You want to see me again?”
Jojen is surprised by the question. “Of course.” He pauses. “Do you not want to
see me again?”
“No!” Bran squeals. “I just…I thought that…Rickon…”
“Your little brother got into trouble and now you have to bail him out. It
happens.” Jojen immediately thinks of Meera. “I love how important family is to
you. I am not going to condemn you for it. If anything, it makes me love you
more. So let’s do this. We’re going to call your older brother, save your
younger brother, and figure out where we’re going on our second date.” Jojen
takes ahold of the handles. “You ready?”  
Bran considers responding but knows that nothing short of a love confession is
leaving his lips. He nods instead and is pleased when Jojen directs him to the
parking lot. He swoons. Jojen even knows his preferred ‘rushing’ speed.
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next Chapter is where Ramsey and Theon left off.
     2. This chapter I will finally start responding to reviews again.
     Thank goodness.
     3. I was in the middle of revisions when this screen suddenly got
     deleted and I had to start over. That was not fun.
***** Chapter 30 *****
Chapter Notes
     Ramsey appears in this chapter. He's with Theon. Might be triggering.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
At three o’clock in the afternoon, Robb and Theon have set a personal record
for longest ever post conflict limbo. Robb had been dialing Theon’s number like
a man on crack, and every redial acted as a hit. He tried tracking down Theon's
number, but wherever the Greyjoy was, there must have been a satellite in the
vincinity that was making the signal bounce.
Robb tries calling the number again, but when he hears the voice mail pick up
his call, he throws the infuriating device onto his bed. He marches out of his
room and across the hall. He barges into Jon’s room. There’s no one there. Robb
remembers that Jon drove Bran to his friend’s house—a lie, Robb growls, because
Bran was on a date. Robb enters Bran’s room and sees a pile of clothing on the
floor. “That treacherous tart,” he hisses. He heard the crisis this morning and
knew the little traitor was terrified of screwing up his chances to suck dick.
And he isn't alone. Robb imagines Jon’s intentions are not far off from his
little cousin, Jon craves a solid member in his mouth, is probably creaming at
the chance to be with Willas and suck that limped leg’s golden dick. Because
Jon just loves to suck cock. He is a cocksucker and Willas is a dick. Robb
leaves for Arya’s room and when he gets in, unsurprisingly, she’s gone. Oh
right, she told them that she was at dance practice but he knew the truth. Arya
was a paranoid munchkin who always locked her door unless she was too excited
and the only thing that made her excited was dance and dick. She was sucking
dick like the rest of them! He sends an accusational glower to the second
oldest Stark’s room and kicks the door down. He sees underwear on the ground
and picks it up. He clenches onto them in anger. Black panties! Black panties
on the ground meant she was wearing the red ones and red panties meant dick
sucking! His sister is a whore. He should have known. Sansa is a part of the
licentious community of cock loving Starks. He knows where she is—sucking her
boyfriend’s dick. Sucking more dick than all of them combine. Everyone in
Robb’s family is leaving him to become a bunch of dick suckers and that’s not
fair!
The mania launches fireworks in his head as he compiles thousands of inane
theories consisting of his siblings disloyal and dishonest behavior. He needs
sweets. He’s desperate for some cream—he knows his mother has a secret stash
somewhere. He’s ready to grab a bag of sugar and a spoon and shovel it in his
mouth like a dead body in a trunk. He goes upstairs to look for the goods. The
kitchen is too obvious. The maids are there. He does not want to be seen. He
walks pasts his parents’ bedroom and freezes.
Panties. They hang on the doorknob, mocking him. No, worse than panties, he
thinks. His eyes narrow at the lace.Red panties.
Without permission or prompting, he barges into the room and catches his
parents el flagrante, soiled in sin, his father’s dick poking out of the sheets
and his mother’s face caked in semen. Those hussies! They scramble to hide
their shame. His mother speaks first. Aye, this must have been her doing. She
must have seduce Robb’s father with her seductive wiles; the same hereditary
techniques she passed onto her dick loving children.
“Robb!” She scolds, and oh how clever she is to turn the tables on him. “What
have we told you about coming in when mummy and daddy put a pair of pants on
the knob?”
“You were sucking dick!” He accuses furiously. He turns to his father. He
glares. “You were letting her suck your dick! How could you? What kind of
example are you setting for your children? That two people can suck dick
whenever they want? As long as there’s consent and boundaries are respected?”
That is exactly the kind of message he wants to give to his children.
“Robb…we’re married.”
“Oh, so you’re using the married card again. Well, that does not give you a
free pass to stick your cock inside my mother whenever she asks for it. You
need to learn some self-control.” Robb’s indignation, which he often confuses
with passion, is blazing. “And chastity! What ever happened to chastity? We
Starks use to have a community; one that puts our family first and our loins
second! If one person in our family is not having sex, then no one else can
either.” Robb nods at his own proposal. The wheels turn in his head as he
develops plans for voice activated chastity belts and fingerprinted tongue
locks.
Ned sighs at the irrationality. He checks on his wife, who is both concerned
about her son’s behavior and annoyed that he caused her orgasm to flee. Having
dealt with years of Tully temper tantrums, he knows exactly what to do. “You’re
distraught,” he points out. Robb is displeased by the diagnosis. He is about to
protest when Ned makes room in the center of the bed. He urges Catelyn to do
the same. She groans.
“Ned, I think we should…”
“Robb is upset. He needs to lie down and think about his feelings.” Catelyn’s
mouth is still open, but she complies with the demand—if not a bit reluctantly.
Ned turns to his eldest son. “Let’s talk about this. Come. Lie with us.”
Catelyn tries to leave, but Ned stops her. “Stay. Catelyn, our son needs us.”
“Ned, we’re not exactly dressed for this conversation,” she grits out.
“I don’t mind, mum. I know what you did,” Robb chimes in, sounding resigned
with a touch of bitterness. He crawls onto the sheets and rests in the center.
He waits for his mother to lie down again. “Less clothes mean less secrets.”
Ned nods his agreement. His cock is already flaccid. From his point of view,
the appropriateness of the situation is a nonissue.
Catelyn ignores the dysfunctional scene before her and gets back on the bed.
Robb snuggles closer to her. His affection causes her to sigh and submit to his
plea for comfort. He is their first born. They are prone to doting on their
children but how could they not with such lovely babies? Ned, who is not a man
to spare the rod, simultaneously does not hesitate to reward his children for
every and any accomplishment they achieve. He, like Catelyn, often felt
unsettled with the presence of moaning spawn.
In the bed, a womb of wool and fur, Robb reiterates the timeline of his broken
heart and subsequent betrayal (leaving out the scandalous detail of his little
brother’s affair—he’s not so angry as to betray his own kin) and his fight with
Theon, who refuses to pick up his phone. The worst punishment for a stalker is
a disappearance. He ends the rant by lamenting the birth of Willas Tyrell. His
mother lets him lie on her bare shoulder and strokes his hair. She spoils him
with praises, calling him a strong, resilient boy who will find a way above
these circumstances. Inwardly, she cheers at the hope that her nephew has found
a distraction from her son. Willas Tyrell, she muses. The only way Jon could
have done better was to stay with Robb. While Catelyn celebrates Jon’s newfound
romance, Ned simmers in his own suspicions. He tastes each piece of information
and swallows it with a grain of salt. Willas is as smart as he looks—using
Ned’s nephew to get to his son. He could sense the predator in the man; a
vicious beast who is willing to play with the heartstrings of an innocent boy
for the sake of feasting on the flesh of a babe. He will not make the mistake
of accusing the CEO outright—he’s had too many problems in the past concerning
that habit—(Cersei Lannister still sends him Joffrey's blood test every
birthday) but instead voices his approval Robb’s methods
“Willas Tyrell, I’ve met him. Nice, but he seems…soft.” Conniving is the right
word. “Jon enjoys being active. He deserves someone more…adaptable to a
sportsmen lifestyle.” As soon as he says it, he’s proud. His wife is wrong—he
can be tactful. Why, he's as sly as a snake!
Catelyn disagrees on the spot. “I knew his mother. She was my upperclassman at
Glenlola. Willas is a fine young man and I’m sure he’ll make Jon very happy.”
She squeezes Robb’s shoulder. “Surely, I raised a boy who wanted the best for
the people he loves.”
Robb whimpers because she did raise such a man and he hates disappointing her.
He recites the mantra in his head. I want Jon to be happy. I want Jon to be
happy. Jon is happy with--. Me. Willas. Me. Willas. Robb's head is wrecked
trying to find the ending to that sentence. Thankfully, his father pulls him
away from his thoughts and forces them face to face. 
“Robb, I raised a man who can pick his battles. A hunter, a wolf, a man with
instinct and integrity. If you feel something is off about Willas, act on it.
Follow him around. Make sure he is never around Bra-Jon. Jon should be
protected.”
“Ned! Robb’s poor behavior should not be encouraged. He needs to think things
through like a gentleman—not a half-crazed loon!” She rubs her son’s shoulder.
“Listen, my little king, some relationships are not meant to be. Like your
uncle Brandon and me! Where would we be if I, against all odds and criticism,
refused to take my chance with your father?”
“You did not take a chance—you seduced me,” Ned grumbles. He follows in after
with his own retort. “And think of all the problems we could have avoided if
your grandfather looked past my brother’s exterior and saw him for the
hotheaded, unfaithful man he was.” His blood boils at the memory. Several
holidays ago, he gathered up the nerve to ask his brother how he could be
unfaithful to a woman as beautiful and bright as Catelyn Tully. They were young
then. The twenty-year-old shrugged and told him he couldn't resist--"There are
too many fishes in the sea. You can't expect me to eat Tilapia my whole life."
The fist fight that followed was brutal. Catelyn cried--for she was a lady and
ladies cried when their loved ones are being taken away by EMTs (they also
developed a spontaneous phobia of hospitals, which forced her to spend the next
few days in the Stark estate being catered to by Ned--Catelyn demanded it was
the only fitting punishment while slyly undressing her future husband with her
eyes). 
“Ned.” Catelyn warns him. Her memory of her stripping off to reveal her skimpy
bikini in their once shoddy pool--a great risk for she could not pinpoint Ned's
exact affections towards her but knew she had to take a chance on this
wonderful man who loved children and learned all his staff's names because he
understood the value of hard work. “Robb should let Jon and Willas be.”
“A small investigation never hurt anybody. Except the guilty.”
“Ned!” The storm rears their grey clouds and his parents begin their
disagreement. Robb takes one final breath. He absorbs the comfort of his
parents’ scent, made heavier by their mid-coitus sweat and leaves the vicinity.
Once Robb returns to his room, he hears his phone ringing. He dives onto it.
“Hello?” he answers. He expects to hear a hesitant request from Theon, either
to pick him up from whatever shithole he's crawled in or a copper requesting a
pickup for someone that needs to get out. 
“Robb? It’s Bran.”
“Bran?” Robb clenches the phone a bit tighter. He holds back his irritation and
focuses on the anxiety in his chest. Bran and him are technically not on
speaking terms, so if his little brother is calling, it must be serious.
“Yeah, I’ll explain to you later, but I need you to meet me at your old
girlfriend’s house. Rickon’s in trouble.”
“Which one?”
“The tall one.”
Dacey? Robb, who is worried but not stupid, asks if Rickon is in trouble, or
trouble.
“Both.” There’s an exasperated groan shared by the two of them. Robb hears
someone over the phone ask for directions. Bran responds with a “left turn on
the next street.” That must be Bran’s date. Robb's heart aches. He hates being
single.
“Okay, I’ll get there as soon as I can.” He hangs up, grabs a coat, and his
keys. When he goes downstairs, he ends up running into the last person he wants
to see. Jon is blissed out and content with the world, which means he’s either
worked with one of those attention-seeking Baratheon brats, or had wickedly
good sex. Robb acts up his rush by dashing past Jon and pretending not to see
him. Before he could walk past his cousin—wearing body spray layered with sugar
glazes and vanilla—he catches a glimpse of Gage’s Mellow Yellow and Green Dots
Delight box, and stops in his tracks.
“Do you have cake?” Jon grins.
“I wanted to celebrate Bran’s completed comic book,” Jon announces with a wink.
Jon and Bran used the phrase as code for the latter’s romantic indiscretions.
“And one of the kids is having a sleepover. I wanted to celebrate so I stopped
by a bakery on my way back. I'm saving strawberry tiramisu when she gets back.”
He smiles to himself. Robb’s heart flutters. Jon loves those children--he'll
worship theirs. “It’s Shireen’s first sleepover so she’s super excited.” Jon
becomes aware of Robb's frantic appearance and asks if anything is wrong.
"Nothing," Robb lies. For there's nothing he wants to do more than bask in
Jon's happiness and share a moment of domestic joy, a little bit of cake and
tea on a cold night where they share their day's stories and think about the
future. Jon, not entirely convince, lifts up his bakery box. “Okay, well I got
you a sunflower cake with extra sunshine.” He heads into the kitchen to put
them away and puts some molasses into his step. Robb wants to use this
opportunity to escape, but he immediately recognizes the trap. Running away
from cake is as suspicious as it gets in this family. He waits for Jon to come
back to say goodbye.
When Jon comes back, cake less, Robb's resolve crumbles for a brief moment. Jon
asks about Robb’s plans. “Where are you heading off to? A pub?”
“Uh…yes?”
Jon raises an eyebrow. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Out of habit, he teases Jon’s about his authoritarian approach. “Are you going
to spank if I give you the wrong answer?”
Jon bristles, His face turns red with embarrassment and he bites back a clever,
flirtatious retort. He’s been working with children for too long and Robb
happens to be the worse of his charges. “Where are you going? Honestly, this
time.”
Robb considers lying but knows that’ll take too long. He settles for a half
truth. “I’m picking up Rickon from a friend's house. The party ended early.”
Jon frowns. "Did something happen?"
"Not sure. He just needs me to pick him up."
"Why you? Why not mom or dad or me? He knows I was out."
"Well, I am his big brother," Robb points out. He savages some indignation and
puts it into his next question. "Why? Do you think he can't rely on me to pick
him up?"
Jon does not take the bait. He can tell the difference between Robb's fake
indignation and his genuine irritation. “Where is he?”
Robb sighs. “At Dacey Mormont’s house…don’t ask why, I don’t—”
"Get your keys. We need to leave."
"What?"
Jon grabs Robb’s wrist and drags him down the hall. The action is sudden and
rough, a tragedy for it forces Robb to ignore the enjoyment of Jon’s skin.
“We have to leave immediately. He’s going after Shireen.”
“For murder?” Jon groans. Fucking hells, where did they go wrong with this boy?
“No, he’s spying on her!”
“Oh well, that’s not so bad.”
“Robb!”
“I mean that’s horrible. He should respect Shireen Baratheon’s revulsion of his
presence and keep a healthy, court-agreeable distance.”
Jon sends him a look saying he does not appreciate the sarcasm—the same look he
used to send Robb when he asked for help with the housework of their flat, and
Robb's attempts failed so miserably that Jon had to send him to the couch so
that the Stark would not get in the way, and his only response to his jail
sentence was a saucy grin and a sly innuendo. Robb manages to produce the same,
sexual gaze, but holds back the comment.
In the car, Jon calls Bran to receive further details. He is livid—and Bran
does everything he can to call him down without incriminating Robb. The reveal
that “Robb watches you, too” will help no one, least of all Rickon—who is
trapped in a closet in the least metaphorical manner the proverb could mean.
Bran explains the situation with lots of speed and little finesse. Jon suspects
the soft-spoken boy theorized that leniency is a companion of confusion. Bran
is dead wrong. Jon absorbs the information and prepares a devastating
punishment for Rickon once they get him out.
When Jon hangs up, he repeats the information—mostly as a note to himself but
since Robb is in the car, he pretends to make a conversation. “Okay, so Rickon
took a cabbie to Dacey Mormont’s house for ‘unknown reasons' and now he's
trapped there and can't get out.” Had Robb not recognize the dire situation, he
would have laughed at the air quotations. “Because he did not plan ahead, he is
now trapped inside a house with no forms of escape. The codes are changing
every hour—”
Robb interrupts by saying it’s the latest in home technology. “You connect the
alarm to your phone and change it upon request. They must be doing it for
individual rooms.” He is predictably hushed for not reading the mood.
“And we have to save his ass. Perfect.”
Robb shrugs. Rickon is his brother so he'll support him whenever. Robb looks
down at his phone and checks for any messages. He tries calling Theon again,
followed by a text with the denotative message of “My brother is in trouble.
Meet me at Dacey’s house.” And the connotative implication of “I’m emotional
guilt tripping you so please come before I break out the broken leg
possibility.” He sends the message and sighs. He hopes this one gets through at
least.
Jon sees his panic and tells him not to worry about Rickon.
Robb scoffs and says he’s not worried in the least. “Rickon is a survivor. He
can handle himself.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Theon’s not picking up his phone.”
“Again, what’s the problem?”
Robb sends him a tired look. Jon sighs, and asks what happened between the two
of them. When he came home this morning, there was no sight of him. His morning
was too pleasant for his liking.
Robb keeps the storytelling to a minimal. He’s already revealed too much to too
many people, and he does not need Jon to know the main issue of their fight had
to do with Robb’s ignorance. Jon has always been suspicious of Theon and early
in their relationship, tried to insinuate foul play. Robb didn’t believe him
back then but he understands now that Jon was correct. His pride refuses to
give Jon proof of his naivety; his heart needs space to contemplate it freely.
Theon is in love with him and there’s not a thing he could do about it.
“I told him I wanted to stay single for a while and he got really upset. We
started saying mean things.” Lie. “And accusing each other of wrongdoings.”
More lies. “I have to apologize. I was too honest and it broke Theon’s heart.
I’m worried. I have no clue where he is and it’s scaring the shit out of me.”
Jon uses his free hand to hold onto Robb’s. He reassures him that everything is
going to be alright. Theon is probably out with some one-night stand and if
he’s gone for this long, that means he's having both the best and the worse sex
of his life.
“What makes you say that?”
Jon grins for the first time since he heard about Rickon’s escapade. “Robb,
Theon’s resilient. The only way for someone like him to get over a guy like you
is to have the dirtiest, raunchiest sex possible with a complete asshole who
will ruin him. Trust me, whatever happened last night, it'll make him forget
about you for days.” He makes a left turn. “That’s what I would do.”
-
For a man who rejects any similarity to the bastard, Theon and Jon are true to
their impulses. Theon rests on a king size bed, wrists bound on the bedposts,
mouth stuffed with a ball gag, and a crimson blindfold over his eyes—silk,
because even though Theon’s refused to be someone’s bitch, Ramsey forced him
onto his bed anyways. He complained so much about the quality of his handcuffs
that the Bolton bastard relented with his higher end goods. Theon’s body is
covered in cum; there are fresh splotches of semen on his torso, his legs, his
ass; the places that aren’t dripping are caked on and crusted. He is boneless
from release. He cannot move, and he stopped protesting ages ago. Right now, he
could be replaced with a sex doll and no one would be able to tell the
difference.
His unresponsiveness does nothing to deter Ramsey’s orgasm. If anything, the
creep likes it better if the bondage is any indication of his inclinations.
Ramsey shoves his cock in Theon’s face and slaps his cheek with it. He wants
his money shot and rubs himself so hard that Theon wonders if he plans on
hammering out his teeth. Ramsey unleashes a large, husky moan and shoots all
over Theon’s face.
“Fuck, that’s good!” Ramsey announces. He drops down beside Theon and sounds
all proud of his orgasm—as if this one masturbation sequence was better than
Theon’s hole and his mouth or his fucking smooth hands that have been lathered
with hand cream every single day since he discovered shea butter. His
indignation inspires him to shake his hackles and make a demand of release
through his muffle.
Ramsey contemplates the action. “If I let you go, you have to promise not to
attack me again.”
Theon nods frantically. Ramsey sighs. He regretted the offer as soon he made
it, but there’s something about the way Theon begs that drives him crazy. As he
undoes each tie, he’s already contemplating all the potential problems to
occur. The bitch is a mouthy one and it’ll take more than an eighteen-hour
fuckfest to rid him of that attitude. Oh well, he muses, at least he has the
punishment to look forward to.
When Ramsey removes the last ribbon, Theon spits out his ‘chew toy’ and throws
it across the room. He lunges at Ramsey and knocks him on his back. He tries to
choke him and Ramsey laughs harder than he has his entire life. The sound
incenses Theon, who moves in for a punch. Ramsey kicks him off in response.
They wrestle for a good amount of time, tumbling in the sheets, falling off the
bed. Theon’s pushing and screaming profanities, scratching any part of Ramsey’s
skin he can get his hands on. In the end, Theon’s body has experience hours of
forced orgasms and his eyes have reached parts of his skull he has never
thought possible. He rolls onto his back to experience the sweet sensation of
rest. His body has been used—he feels raw, violated, and oh so wrecked.
Ramsey asks if he’s ready to behave. He crawls over to Theon and nuzzles his
neck. If it weren’t for the wandering hand fingering his hole, he would have
thought the action was affectionate. Fortunately for Ramsey, Theon’s limp
figure doesn’t have the energy for a fight.
"Sod off, you fucking asshole. I told you I didn’t want to be tied up.”
“But you enjoyed it.” Ramsey sucks on the flesh. Theon stifles a purr of
approval—he is sucker for attention. “I could tell you would. Bitches like you
pretend to be so much better than us plebs but that doesn’t stop you from
getting down on your knees whenever the thought of a long, hard fucking makes
itself known.”
“I’m not a bitch.” Theon scoffs. “And you’re not a pleb. This flat costs at
least a thousand pounds a month.”
“Actually, I don’t pay rent. I own it.”
“Fuck you.” Ramsey giggles, the calling card of a child whose prizes mischief
or an unhinged stranger with a chainsaw. Nonetheless, the fatigue is eating
Theon’s sanity and he begins to adapt to his one night stand’s strange
proclivities. He’s been called far worst by his family members and the asshole
did just give him the best sex of his life—not that he’ll ever admit it to this
lunatic.
The cock touching his thigh hardens. Theon regains the strength to push his
assailant off. “We just fucked for hours.”
“What’s your point?”
“Hours, you twat!” Theon struggles to get out of his grasp. “And I bet I wasn’t
even conscious for most of it, you fucking rapist.” He grabs a nearby shirt,
and sniffs it. It’s not his, but it will do for a quick escape.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.” Theon looks for his phone to message Robb. The Stark must be worried
sick. He’ll have to start all over again now that Robb knows about his feelings
for him. He groans. Robb will never trust him alone with one of his lovers
again. Then again, Theon realizes, Robb is now dedicated to his own self-
discovery—without girls. This means he won’t have to watch Robb get moony eyed
over some undeserving twat. Yeah, he can work with this new ‘single, find
himself Robb.'
“Looking for this?” Ramsey asks. He waves Theon’s phone around like a master
lording over his dog with a treat.
Theon curses under his breath. “Give it back.”
“Your boyfriend’s really worried about you,” Ramsey points out (He’s glaring—no
staring at the words on the screen. He’s not jealous—there’s no way he’d be
concern over some cheating slut.). Theon is livid. Ramsey is reading personal
text messages from Robb for Theon's eyes only. He musters all his strength to
rescue the device from the psycho’s hands. Ramsey easily fends him off. He
pushes Theon back on the bed and climbs on top of him.
“‘Theon, I’m sorry.’ ‘Theon, we need to talk.’ Theon, please pick up your
phone.’ Wow, he must have really fucked up!” Ramsey grins. His bends down to
deliver a vicious and bloody bite on Theon’s neck. Theon screams. He struggles
to break free but he can feel the teeth lodge in his bone. He finishes it off
with languid lick on the scar. “I wonder what he’ll do when he sees my mark on
you. Maybe he’ll figure out what I discovered in seconds—that you’re nothing
more than a pretty whore. A warm fleshlight that knows how to clench and cum
upon command.” Theon whimpers. He turns away so that Ramsey cannot see his
tears. The Bolton forces him to face him. He grips onto the boy’s hair, and
hears him whisper. “…notmyboyfriend.”
Ramsey pauses. “What?”
Theon sniffles. “Robb’s not my boyfriend. We’re friends.” The confession
distracts Ramsey enough that he lets go. Theon uses the time to wipe away his
tears. “We got into a fight at the pub and I didn’t want to go home…” he
explains.
“You live together?” Ramsey sounds doubtful. Then, he gets angry. "You lying
slut. Do you honestly think I believe that I bullshit?"
“Only for the summer!" Theon clarifies. "And it’s not just us—we live with his
family. It’s his parent’s home.”
Ramsey scoffs. “He still lives with his mother?”
“For the summer,” Theon defends. “And he goes to school, too. He’s at top of
his class and he’ll run Stark Industries one day and…”
“What?”
Theon shuts his mouth. Shit, he didn’t mean to say the last part. “Your friend
is a Stark? He’s…he’s Robb Stark.” There’s an undeniable chill in Ramsey’s eye.
Theon panics, and tries to recover by saying he exaggerated. Ramsey hears
nothing of it. He mutters something to himself, phrases of connected fates and
vengeance. Theon takes the shot and aims for his phone. Even in his scheming,
Ramsey stays aware of his surroundings. He pulls back before Theon can swipe it
from his hand. He reads the new message. “It’s seems your friend is having
trouble with his brother. A Rickon?”
Theon does not give up. He keeps on trying until Ramsey clutches onto his neck
and kisses him until his lungs give out. He throws Theon on the bed and gets
off. The younger man wonders what’s in store for him, and reminds Ramsey of the
pre-existing conversation. “Since Robb’s not my boyfriend, you can’t make me do
anything for you. I can’t be blackmail. Just let me go—” Ramsey interrupts
Theon’s ‘persuasion’ with a pair of jeans. He tells him to get dressed.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he offers.
“What?” Theon’s fingers clutch onto the pants. He holds them up a bit higher,
as if the denim will shield him from Ramsey’s manipulations.
Ramsey holds his hands up in innocence. “You don’t have money for a cabbie, nor
any means of going home. I checked your wallet. So, out of the goodness of my
kind, merciful heart, I’ll give you a ride.”
Theon’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Well, I can’t just let you wander the streets alone. My conscience would never
allow it. There’s a serial killer out there. He might hurt you.”
“Like you care.” Ramsey chuckles. “Nope! But I don’t want my new booty call to
disappear on me so soon. Thanks for the number. I’ll trust I’ll be seeing you
very soon.” Theon thinks about protesting that ‘he’s never given the twat his
number’ but settles on a succinct: “I rather eat pig shit.”
Ramsey’s grin grows larger. He puts on a t-shirt and draws closer to the
younger man in a predatory fashion. He gets on his hands on knees but there’s
nothing about the action that seems submissive. He’s crawling towards the
Greyjoy like a tiger or a wolf. “Don’t be like that, Theon. We had such a
lovely time last night.” He strokes Theon’s cheek. The softness unnerves Theon,
whose only experience bruises and scratches under Ramsey’s hand.
“What will you do if I refuse?”
Ramsey stares. In a single moment, he grabs Theon until their chests are
touching each other but their lips are an inch apart.
“If I don’t see you again, I’m afraid I will become very upset. I’ve developed
a…taste for this body of yours. I intend to have my fill.” He licks the spot
where he marked Theon. Theon shivers. “I’m going to give you back your phone.
Then, I am going to drop you off a few minutes away from your intended
destination so no one sees us together. In return, you are going to pick up all
my phone calls—no matter where you are. I don’t care if you’re on the toilet or
getting fucked by another man--and it better not be the latter-ever. I don't
need some diseased whore in my bed." Theon whimpers when he tugs his hair. "I
call. You answer. I tell you to get on your knees. You bark. If you don’t…well,
let’s not get to that point.” He brushes away Theon’s hair. He rubs his finger
on Theon’s lips. God, he loves that mouth. He’s tempted to break a few teeth to
get him really slurping him in.
Theon falls victim to an esurient manchild who fucks his mouth with vigor and
viciousness. Theon’s mouth gets ravaged and raped by Ramsey's tongue. As soon
as they part, Theon whimpers out his approval. Ramsey leaves the bed to get him
a new pair of clothes. Theon will be wearing his old ones from last night. He
will not take a shower. “Be careful about letting people get too close to you.
You reek.”
-
Jojen offers to stay with Bran until his brother arrives, but Bran turns him
down. Logically, Jojen is relieved. Robb might recognize him from his brief
stint as Meera’s boyfriend and that might lead to some accidental revelations
to their wolf mother. Things are going too well for Jojen. Once Bran and him
are officially lovers in mind, body, and soul, bound by the gods and forces
beyond the earth, no one can tear them apart. But for now, their bond is
fragile and the egg must be nurtured before the raven is born.
He is, however, reluctant to leave Bran’s side. “Would it be too much to ask
you to call me after this fiasco is finished? I want to see you again.”
Bran blushes. “When?”
“Every day,” Jojen blurts out. He laughs at himself. Bran doesn’t know how
serious Jojen is, and every bit of his honesty could be interpreted as jest.
“Whenever you’re available? I just want to see you. Gods, being without
you…it’s just unbearable. I wish I could come with you but…”
“It’s family business,” Bran clarifies. He takes Jojen’s hand in his. Jojen is
taken back, as the action is the most forward Bran has been all day. “I would
love to hear from you again. I…I had a really great time. I’m sorry it ended so
soon.”
Jojen squeezes the offered palm. “I did, too. I…” His words die on him when he
sees the incoming lights. The street is completely empty. Few people are
willing to travel this far for the sake of anything but business, and at this
time at night, there was either the worst business to be had or no business at
all. The latter is almost assured, given that the former would never alert
anybody to their location using headlights. Jojen stares at one of the
familiar, incoming cars. His eyes narrow.
“That’s my brother…I…” Bran smiles at him. “I’ll call you tonight. I want to
see you again, too.”
“Do you know I look forward to the most, next time?” He attaches a suggestive
look. Bran turns red as his mother’s hair. Jojen leans down, and Bran panics.
He did not prepare for this to be the moment. Instead of closing his eyes or
leaning forward to reciprocate, he freezes. Jojen pauses midway to tell Bran,
“the perfect first kiss.”
Bran’s heart tackles his ribcage. It wants out, and into Jojen’s arms. Jojen
reluctantly leaves and tells Bran to be safe. He carefully leaves when the
lights are drawing near—enough brightness for a distraction but not enough for
seizures. Jojen disappears while Bran is still wincing. Soon, his brother and
cousin come running out and a few minutes later. They hug. Both of them ask if
Bran was alright waiting alone, but Bran tells them he wasn’t alone. Before
they could read into his enigmatic statement, he points out that Jojen waited
until they came.
“A man of mystery,” Jon notes wryly.
“Shame, I’d like to meet him,” Robb agreed.
Bran is immensely grateful it did not come down to that. There’s a reason why
Sansa has not brought her boyfriend home yet. About ten minutes later, Theon
arrives on foot. They know he must have been given a ride—and no one believes
it was by cabbie, as evident by the huge love mark on his neck. Theon gives
them a cover story of a bug bite. Jon remarks that he must have been bitten by
a radiative centipede for a hickey that big. Theon asks him to “sod off.” A
fight brews between the three of them. Bran attempts to intervene but is met
with ignorance and dismissal. Finally, he prepares a dog whistle he cares for
Summer and blows. The noise is supposed to only work on dogs but…
“What the hell was that?” Robb asks as he shuts his ears. Jon had winced at the
frequency, but the sound did not physically pain him as it did Robb. Theon was
unaffected.
Bran puts the whistle away. “Now that I got your attention, let’s get straight
to business. What are we going to do about Rickon?”
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter is a recap on how Rickon got himself into this mess.
     It's one of my shorter chapters. The next two will be focused on
     Rickon, Shireen, and Lyanna because I've been ignoring them for a
     while.
     2. You can still send requests to my tumblr page: sometimesimeow.
     There's no ask button so you'll have to message me. But there's a
     Willas/Jon story fourth on my lists of requests from the comments.
     3. Hackers suck. Last week, I got one of my emails hacked. I made a
     website to showcase my original work (because I don't like fiction
     websites--too hard to navigate) and that got hacked, too. One of my
     credit card's info got stolen. It got to the point that I started
     laughing because so many bad things happened that all you can do is
     laugh. And they're all first world problems, too. :) :) :)
     4. I finally figured out the ending to this story. You are still
     welcomed to make requests for the story because I don't know what
     happens exactly in the middle but the ending--done.
***** Chapter 31 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Lyanna Mormont has three stuffed bears carefully seated on her windowsill and
her bedsheets are made of plain blue wool. Her closet contains a healthy amount
of skirts, pants, and dresses—jeans are folded next to the sweaters, and her
accessories are located in the same drawers containing her shirts and
undergarments. She owns a bookshelf with several classics and textbooks and
organizes her assignments in alphabetical order. Anything from the previous
year is disposed of immediately. When he was snooping, he noticed that Lyanna
receives exemplary marks on all her assignments. She has another container
filled with her football activities but they are located near her hamper for
efficiency. Rickon has been stuck in the closet for hours—he's memorized every
single detail of the slayer’s room, and he finds the place absurdly dull for
someone so remarkably interesting. If anything, her austerity tells more of her
personality than the thousands of flowers and gemstones filling up Sansa’s room
or the layers of dirty clothes in Arya.  He becomes annoyed—there’s something
unnerving about someone his age being so mature. He wants to mess up her bed or
knock down her books. She’d kill him—but he’s been in the closet long enough to
hallucinate the benefits.
Rickon sighs. Being alone with Lyanna, or the lack of Lyanna has gotten him
more invested than he liked. He should have never come, but now that he’s here,
he cannot leave. Literally. He’s stuck. And it’s all Lyanna’s fault.
Lyanna, for all her adult mannerisms, finds an outlet torturing Rickon. She
pretends not to care about him but relishes in the fact that she can claim an
imaginary moral high ground. They are a year a part in school, Lyanna’s
reputation is known throughout the academy. The teachers are terrified of her,
but the students respect her enough to leave her alone and do her bidding at
will. He should not be as surprised as he was when Lyanna extended her
friendship to Shireen. She sought the best for her empire (and there was no one
better than Shireen Baratheon) and was determined to rid herself of her
enemies—namely Rickon. From the moment she’s met Shireen, she could see how
Rickon felt about her and launched a war against him, beginning with an
invitation to her sleepover.
Jon called him overdramatic. “Lyanna may be…precocious, but I think her and
Shireen will get along. Davos and Stannis already met her. She’s made a good
impression on them.”
Rickon groaned. It was a trick, he tried to convince his cousin. Jon brushed
him off.
In a way, this was all Jon’s fault. His inaction forced Rickon’s hand. When he
overheard Jon promising to take Shireen to the party early—Lyanna requested
they “prepare” beforehand, Rickon took initiative. He called one of his minions
and they called Catelyn Stark to sanction a sleepover. Ten minutes later—Rickon
will have words with the little bastard about that—the Frey child called
Catelyn Stark to ask if Rickon could stay over. Catelyn agreed without
hesitation—it’s not like he’s Bran, Rickon muttered to himself. He shook his
head. This was no time to be feeling resentful. Catelyn dropped him off
promptly, giving him more than enough time to call a cab and drive all the way
to the Mormont manor. Most of the residents were already out, and Rickon knew
enough of the location to sneak in. The Mormonts were long time employees of
the Starks and his family kept blueprints of all the houses they provided
services to.
Here’s where Rickon should have known something was wrong.
Rickon knew the security codes and lock combinations to the Mormont gate. He
knew the right passageways to go through at all the right times. He even, to
some degree, knew where all the hidden surprises were because the Mormonts
loved a good old fashion bear trap hidden in the grass. He did not know,
however, who was in the house and who was leaving. The fact that he was able to
get in without being seen should have struck him as odd, but being a prideful
young boy, he ignored it. Rickon is not an idiot but he’s a Stark in love and a
Tully in training and that disastrous combination leads him to perform acts of
face palming, mouths gaping, and fist balling stupidity that not even Robb can
condone.
But Rickon ignored his better instincts. He was the type of person to travel
straight because everyone knew that the fastest way out of the forest was to go
through it. He managed to sneak all the way into Lyanna’s bedroom (a discovery
made through several trials and errors) before the inkling that something might
be wrong occurred to him.
Rickon’s intention was to do a quick in and out job—secure a few cameras in
carefully placed locations and be on his way. He did not expect Lyanna’s room
to be so…open. There was no place to hide a camera except in spots that were
either too high or too secluded to be effective. He walked towards the closet
to inspect the espionage potential. Before he could finish his scan, he heard
footsteps coming towards him. He sprung into the closet and slammed the doors
shut.
“I thought we were going to bake cookies.” He recognized Shireen’s voice
anywhere. He swooned.
“We are but we should change. You have a pretty dress on. We should not let it
get dirty.”  
Shireen denied the sentiment. “I brought pajamas. That’s what I’ll be staying
in most of the time so I can just stay in this and change later.”
Lyanna paused. Rickon breathed a sigh of relief. If Shireen could convince
Lyanna to go back into the kitchen, then Rickon could use the opportunity to
escape. Lyanna was determined to make Shireen and Rickon suffer.
“I already borrowed sweats from my older sister. Here. Take it.”
Shireen’s nimble fingers captured the tossed hand me downs. She was helpless,
mute, unable to deny anything Lyanna forced upon her—be it her sister’s
clothing or her friendship. She asked for privacy to change and Rickon
swallowed his spit the wrong way. He choked. Both girls were alerted by the
noise. Lyanna turned her attention to the closet. Her eyes narrowed. Rickon
huddled to avoid being seen. For the longest time, Rickon believed she would
investigate the sound. He surprised her by turning back to Shireen.
“What was that?” asked Shireen.
“Nothing,” Lyanna pointed out. Her response was fast—too fast. “My house is
very old. Sometimes the pipes get stuck and rub together.”
“Oh.” Shireen made no sudden movements. She remained clothed in her personal
wears.
“What’s the matter now?”
“It’s just…” Shireen’s face burned. “I’m not used to dressing in front of
others. Can you wait outside?”
“It’s my room.”
“I know but…”
“We’re both girls. I live in a household filled with only women. I’ve seen your
parts my whole life. I have your genitalia.”
Shireen struggled with a response. Rickon suffered indignation on her behalf.
He almost tore apart the closet doors to come to her defense and had Shireen
not brought her shaky fingers up to her dress, he would have. Rickon froze as
the barest hint of skin appeared on Shireen’s neck. He salivated when she undid
her second button and fell apart when he caught sight of her pulsing scars.
They were layered on top of her skin like flat Twizzlers and bulged out like a
three-dimensional tattoo. He thought they were stunning—but Shireen lacked the
same affection for them. She was an utter wreck when she began to remove her
dress.
Flashbacks of her younger years came forward, and her shoulders were burden
with the cruel jeers and disgusted looks of her classmates. She remembered
sitting out for her swim days because the kids refused to enter the pool after
her. They were afraid of being ‘contaminated’ and their parents were equally
resentful. She could never forget the way the girls in her locker room would
stare or the incident where one crossed paths with her and demanded to go to
the nurse’s office because she was sure Shireen infected her. Despite the
severe circumstances, Shireen withstood the abuse for as long as she could to
prove to herself and her family that she was not a crybaby. She was
strong—though not as strong as Lyanna, who grew impatient with her whimpering
and swiped the garments off her body so fast Rickon’s pervasions remained
unsatisfied. Lyanna’s position was strategic and purposeful—she placed herself
directly in front of Shireen and covered the closet view.
Shireen gasped. She closed her eyes and prayed for the best.
“Here,” Lyanna said. She did not miss a beat when she forced her sister’s shirt
into Shireen’s hands.
Shireen opened her eyes. She expected Lyanna to walk away afterward but the
girl stood there—staring. Her gaze was neither hurtful nor pitying. She seemed
intrigued, a sentiment confirmed when she asked Shireen about the source of her
scaring.
“They look like burn marks, but those are skin lesions underneath them. I've
seen them in pictures of sclerosis. What happened?”
Shireen got dressed immediately. She tried to keep her voice calm. Lyanna’s
gaze was unnerving as they were inquiring. “An experimental treatment. I
have—had scleroderma.”
Lyanna raised an eyebrow. “Going through an experimental treatment seems a bit
much for an autoimmune disease.”
“Diffuse scleroderma,” Shireen clarified, letting her indignation slip out by a
sliver. “It started to affect my lungs and heart so I couldn't breath properly.
My parents signed me up for an experimental treatment and it cured me of the
major symptoms but…”
“The scars are permanent.”
Shireen nodded. “Sometimes I get the spots but the burns from the treatment
cover them up.”
After her curiosity was sated, Lyanna did not speak of the matter again. She
moved onto business: their sleepover. “There will be seven of us altogether.
This is the first time we’ll be…making desserts instead of ordering them or
buying them premade. I expect there to be no complications—no ovens blowing up,
no stoves being lit on fire, none of the stuff you typically see in a kitchen.”
“What kind of kitchen do you have?”
“One that’s highly flammable.” Lyanna sighed. "My house is old, Shireen." 
Shireen laughed and felt relieved when Lyanna smiled in response. She was a
frank creature of a humor as dry as year old paint, but every new discovery
made Shireen elated. She was delighted to be this person’s friend. She listened
on as Lyanna discussed the night’s future. She wondered what kind of friends
Lyanna would have. Would they be as straightforward and fearsome as the girl
herself? When Lyanna stated she liked people that challenged her, did she mean
they were akin to Shireen? How would they handle her presence within their
sisterhood? Shireen heard that hazing situations were common in cliques and she
did not know if having a girlfriend was worth it. Although…
Shireen took in her surroundings. She was in another girl’s bedroom. Her
sleeping bag was located next to the closet and marked her territory for
tonight’s slumber. She was going to bake cookies with this strange girl she had
met twice, and be joined by half a dozen girls whose names she didn’t know.
Lyanna Mormont was the type who said whatever was on her mind and twisted the
knife without reserve. Shireen felt safe with her. If she was the ringleader in
her group—and Shireen had no doubt that was the case—there was no way she would
select someone who would make Shireen feel uncomfortable.   
“What’s going on in your mind?” Lyanna pursed her lips. “Tell me. And don’t
lie, I can tell when people lie.”
Shireen hesitated and then brushed her hair behind her ear. She got into the
habit because Davos encouraged her to show her pretty face.
“I’ve never had a female friend before,” Shireen admitted. “I’m not sure what
I’m supposed to do.” She was ashamed of the confession. Lyanna had loads of
girlfriends. She must think there was something wrong with Shireen if girls
didn’t like her.
“Do whatever you do with your male friends. Find a common interest and focus on
that for conversation. There’s not much of a difference.”
Shireen was doubtful. Lyanna furthered her explanation by explaining that there
was nothing wrong with Shireen. “Humans are creatures of habit. You live with
only men. Of course, you will have more male friends. I was raised in a
household of women. I find girls easier to deal with. When they meet me, boys
are…”
“Intimidated?”
“Emasculated,” Lyanna growled. “Except for Rickon, but he’s a Stark. They have
no sense of fear.”
Rickon knew it was an insult but chest puffed up regardless. Shireen laughed
and agreed with the sentiment. Despite Lyanna’s assurance, Shireen’s self-
esteem forced her to keep her opinion. For further persuasion, she pushed
Lyanna for advice. “When I was in London…the girls weren’t nice to me. So my
parents took me out and I…was homeschooled for a very long time because of it.
I don’t think I can handle a repeat of what happened.”
“You won’t.” Lyanna sounded so confident. “I choose the people I associate with
wisely. If they engage in bullying, there will be a punishment.”
Shireen became worried. “What kind of punishments?”
“Warranted punishments.”
“What are…”
“Punished, Shireen. Punished.”
Shireen shut her mouth.
When they were finished with the overview, Lyanna stood up to indicate her
departure. Shireen followed with the obedience of a puppy. Before they left the
room, Lyanna turned around and lodged her hands onto Shireen’s breasts. Shireen
squeaked at the intrusion.
“What are you doing?” She squealed. Oh dear gods, she was being fondled. Lyanna
tilted her head and made an approving noise. When she let go, Shireen was too
shocked to be cross. Instead, she gaped and sputtered out unrecognizable words
and questions.
From the closet, Rickon practiced his internal scream. Someone else was
touching his girlfriend slash future wife slash soulmate’s breasts and it was
not him. He could do nothing to stop it. He’d seen enough movies to know that
once a girl took off her clothes, getting caught was no longer an option. He
was condemned to the prison and he did not even enjoy the crime. While he was
lamenting his actions, Lyanna defended herself.
“Oh, don’t give me that look. Girls grope each other’s breasts all the time.
It’s perfectly normal.”
Shireen was about to protest before she recognized her lack of grounds. She had
no clue what girls did in sleepovers. Perhaps Lyanna was right, and girls
grabbed each other’s parts all willy-nilly and proceeded to do things in the
videos her brothers liked to watch.
“You have a respectable pair of tits,” Lyanna continued. She opened the door
and motioned Shireen to go forward.  “Women in my family either carry melons or
as flat as a board. There’s some charm in a pair of average sized breasts.”
Rickon gurgled about the injustice. Shireen was not average in any way, shape,
or form. She was exceptional. His impulsiveness led their attention towards him
again. He covered his mouth to cover his breathing.
“Are you sure it’s the pipes?”
Lyanna was quiet for the longest time. She stared directly through the closet
slits and into Rickon’s eyes. Finally, she reaffirmed her initial statement.
“…yes.” She turned to Shireen. Her face betrayed no emotion. She was stoic when
she asked, “What else could it be?”
Shireen had an answer but chose silence over it. She was being paranoid.
“Nothing. I hope it stops when we get to sleep.”
“It will.”
There was a knock on the door. Lyanna allowed the person to come in and Dacey
was revealed. She smiled at Shireen. “Your friends are here. Should I send them
up?”
“No,” Lyanna told her. “We’re going to the kitchen first.”
“What’s in the kitchen?”
Lyanna did not respond. She was staring at the closet.
“Lyanna, what did you do?” Dacey’s question bordered on exasperation and fear.
Shireen was concerned by how genuine the worry was.
The youngest Mormont pulled her attention away to relieve her sister’s
paranoia. “Shireen and I will be baking sweets with the other girls.”
“Will that be alright?”
Lyanna bristled. “You said we should learn how to cook.”
“You said that wasn’t a possibility.”
Lyanna shrugged.
Dacey continued the sentiment by pointing out that, “If something bad happens,
I can’t help you. You’re basically swimming with a drunk lifeguard on duty.”
“We have Shireen.” Lyanna pushed her newest friend forward. “She needs to prove
her worth.”
“Friends don’t have to prove their worth,” Dacey lectured. She nonetheless
moved out of the way to grant Shireen access to the hallway. Lyanna lingered in
her bedroom. She ordered Shireen to get acquainted with the rest of the girls.
 
“You should get to know your new friends. Some of them go to your school and
one is in your grade.”
“Who is she?”
“Find out,” Lyanna instructed. “That’s how you make friends. You get
information on them and you used that information to build alliances.”  
Shireen was a bundle of nerves when Dacey led her downstairs. She was not ready
to talk to girls. She wanted Lyanna there to mediate, to hold her hand, to
guide her through the fearsome process but the Mormont shut the door in her
face.
Left alone, Lyanna wandered around her spotless room and investigated the
contents. Her fingers traced every surface—from her folded blankets to her
dustless desk. She molested her books for wires and squeezed her stuffed
animals for cameras.  She moved as if she was scrapping steel on top of the
lacquered wood. Then, she walked towards the closet.  
From where Rickon was, the pressure was heavier than gravity times infinity. He
already made enough noise to attract her attention. The pressure was immense.
Logically, she should be bursting in any moment.  As soon as Lyanna’s hand
touched the closet door, she turned on the balls of her feet and tossed her
comforter for refolding. She spared Rickon nothing—not a corner glance or a
fraction of a sweeping gaze. Rickon prayed for the senselessness to be a fool
who counted his blessings—but his tired eyes missed too many warning labels and
he could not risk falling for another trap. When Lyanna finished her
ministrations, she walked over to her door. Next to the light switch was a
panel of numbers. Cold sweat froze Rickon’s back.  
Lyanna used one hand to cover her tracks, and the other to type in a code.
“It’s been a while since I had to resort to this. It’s hard to recall the
code.” The light turned green. “Fortunately, that just makes it harder to
guess.”
Lyanna left her room dancing to the sound of Rickon’s internal scream. With her
footsteps echoing in his waking nightmares, he sprung out of the closet and
darted over to the door. He tried his best to unlock it, used every override
combination he could think of, only to be disappointed by the constant red
beeping. He was stuck. Older houses had a limited amount of chances—five or six
at most. Only freaks like Robb kept the passcodes on hand. For the first time
in his life, Rickon asked for help.
-
Bran downloads the blueprints to the Mormont house while Robb is fighting with
his ex-boyfriend and best friend. He figures he’d give them ten minutes for a
healthy spat—Robb’s disagreement with Bran paled in comparison to his
precarious situation with Theon. When they reunited, the older Stark was giving
out hugs and kisses like he inherited Hershey’s. At the moment, he is lecturing
Theon as if he has the right to. (Bran isn’t aware of the details but he
silently advocates on Robb’s behalf—he’s too busy saving his little brother’s
ass to do so out loud, however. Theon is reckless and stupid, and while he’s
always been a second brother to him, there were moments in their history when
it was clear: he needed to be taken care of).
Theon, whose habit is to put up a fight for the first five minutes, dimmer into
a slow reluctance for the next two and finally accept Robb’s dominance in the
last few, stands his ground. He reminds Robb that he is his own person. He can
do whatever and whoever he wants. He says to Robb, “It’s not like you care. Or
even try to care.”
Bran recognizes a landmine when he sees one, and digs deeper into his planning.
He’s heard from Shireen that the Lyanna, the youngest Mormont girl is having a
sleepover tonight and he knows Rickon is stuck somewhere in her room. Bran’s
father is adamant about providing the best security for his customers and is
doubly cautious towards his employees. Like their home, the Mormont rooms are
given their own individual security locks. Most people don’t use them—in their
family, only Arya, Robb and their father employ the method and their usage is
sporadic at best. Lyanna was using the protection as a prison for Rickon. Over
the phone, he swears Lyanna is keeping him trapped. For good reason, Bran
bitterly responded. Rickon growled and told him to mind his own business (and
threw in a threatening comment about minding other people’s privates). Bran
shut up immediately afterward.
When Robb, Theon, and Jon’s fight runs over their allocated amount, Bran step
in to remind them that they are here for a reason outside of their polygamist
spat. They need to get Rickon out and undetected.
“He doesn’t have a lot of time. He says the girls are baking right now and will
move on to watching movies. They’ll be upstairs in a few hours—three tops.”
Jon groans. He cuts their fight short by asking Robb if he can get Dacey to
help them out. “Maybe she can help Rickon out and have him escape through a
back door?” So that he can kill the little ingrate on his own time, goes on
unsaid.  
Theon scoffs. “You’re mad if you believe Dacey Mormont will let a boy who
sneaked into her sister’s bedroom go unscathed.”
Jon glares. He turns back to the Robb and repeats the question. “Do you think
she’ll be willing to help?”
To everyone’s disappointment, he agrees with Theon. “Dacey would sooner kill
Rickon than help him. At best, she’ll drag him out and call our parents to
enact punishment. We’ll never hear the end of it.”
Instead of brainstorming more poor ideas, Jon accepts the possible outcome as
justified. Rickon should be punished. If he continues down this road of
perversion, it won’t be long until he escalates and becomes a more active
version of Robb. One obsessive Stark is bad enough, but two? Jon shudders at
the thought.
As if reading his mind, Robb reminds Jon of the Stark family pact. “Jon, Rickon
needs our help. I understand he’s in the wrong, hells, after this, we can
punish him together! On our own terms. But gods, he’s a boy in love. We can’t
just take that from him and let him ruin his chances on in one night. He’s
begging, Jon. Please.”  
Jon sighs. He wants to refuse, but a single look into those perfect blue eyes
and Jon falls apart. He asks Bran what they needed.
Bran answers with the truth. “A miracle.”
Robb grabs the phone out of Bran’s hands and studies the information. The
Mormont house is old and he discovers that the wrong passcode has already been
done twice. He tested out the potential override code on his mobile to get
through the gates and succeeded in breaking through the first barrier. If what
Rickon is saying is true, the girl’s party will be held in the kitchen or the
living room on the first floor. Lyanna’s room is unknown except that it’s on
the second floor. Dacey will be keeping an eye out like a decent chaperone and
be situated in a room not too far off from the girls but distant enough to be
out of the way. He knows that the eldest Mormont girl likes to stay in the room
closest to the door because her little sister gets testy when her favorite
scene is interrupted by a consistent doorbell.
There’s a possibility of success if they can distract the girls to a nearby
room. Robb runs down the list of adequate distractions. He could try and seduce
Dacey into letting him in. Then, he could set off all the sprinklers and mess
with their plumping system so that the house floods. He could dress up as a
mass murderer and force the girls outside where he’ll head in and sneak Rickon
away. He considers making a report to the coppers about a strange man in area
wielding a butcher knife, and allow the cops to question the girls about his
whereabouts. Those investigations took forever. At worst, it will buy them more
time.
When he reiterates the solution out loud—Jon angrily turns them all down. “We
are not ruining Shireen’s first sleepover because Rickon cannot keep it in his
pants.”
Gods, Jon is so sexy when he’s being protective. Robb agrees to Jon’s
requirements with a mild swoon. Theon does not and suggests they set the house
on fire instead. “They’ll be heading to a safety exit so Rickon can escape.”
Jon considers whacking him on the head. “Your idea of a distraction is arson?
Are you mental?”
 “I don’t see you coming up with anything better, bastard.” Theon glares.
“Besides, the house is huge. We only need to set the alarms off—not burn the
entire house down.”
“No,” Robb disagrees before Jon can. “We would need to burn the entire house
down. The manor has heat tracking system. It locates the cause of fire and
incapacitates the heat before it can get too far. The only way to encourage
emergency evacuation is set off simultaneous alarms.”
“How many matches will that take?”
Jon hits him this time. The boys get into a scuffle which leads to Robb joining
in to break up the fight. He makes it worse when he pulls at Theon’s arm and
Theon’s response is to yank Jon’s hair. Jon grapples Theon to the ground. Robb
tumbles down with them.
Bran affirms his earlier suspicion. This sausage fest needs a woman’s touch. 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter includes Rickon's escape plan. I had the hardest time
     writing that chapter so don't expect much from it. Instead look
     forward to the following chapters. Because I haven't gotten started
     on them yet so there's still time for requests. We get two major
     reveals in Ch. 33 and Ch. 34 and Jon and Willas date got mysteriously
     pushed back. We will also get a return of a guest star so that's
     nice. I'm behind again (which is one chapter ahead). Here's hoping
     everything pulls through.
     2. Can anybody name all the guest appearances and where they come
     from? I just want to see if someone can get the full roulette. :)
     3. Time passed by really fast. But everything is okay now in my life.
     My website should be up by next week so I'll finally have a place for
     my original work. Super excited for that. :) I think once I have that
     up, I'll get back into "steady schedule" mode and be able to finally
     do the requests.
     4. Thank you for everybody who commented. Looking forward to hearing
     from you!
***** Chapter 32 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
On average, ninety-five percent of cookie dough ends up in a person’s mouth
before it even hits the oven. When Wylla Manderly tries to swipe a few chips,
Lyanna slaps her hand hard enough to give her whiplash and forces her to spit
the saliva laden mixture into a napkin. The hostess is adamant in her belief
that hazardous materials are at play and such chemicals are not allowed in
their orifices.
“You’re going to get salmonella,” she lectures. “And die.” The warning is
something Shireen’s father would have said, but coming out of Lyanna’s mouth,
the statement mimics a martial command over parental concern. She condemns
Wylla to the chopping area—the portion of the kitchen that has been relegated
to a pizza hut because they needed substance and Lyanna was already in for a
penny so she decided to go for the pound. 
While the girls are distracted with busy work, Lyanna orders each of her
friends to drop off their sleeping bags in her room. She makes them go up one
by one. Shireen finds the behavior peculiar but is terrified of drawing
attention. Her goal is to blend into the community, not stand out as a leper.
While she stirs the chips into the last batch of batter, she looks down and
keeps her thoughts to herself. Ironically, if she had bothered to ask the other
girls, they would have informed her that they too found the command unusual.
Lyanna is adding in the extra candies—a collection of Reese’s, crushed
Butterfingers, chopped up Bounty and Chomps—when the last two girls return.
They ignore her harsh stare and continue their giggling. Shireen admires their
brevity. Lyanna asks if they could find a place in her room and the girls
agreed that there was no problem. One of them points out that Shireen’s added
presence adds a homier touch to their group. Shireen flushes in pride. She
continues mixing with a hum on her lips. The sentiment is sweet but
unnecessary. Lyanna could care less if they made Shireen comfortable as long as
they didn’t make her uncomfortable. No, Lyanna had only one thing in mind when
she sent those girls individually.
She wanted to make Rickon Stark sweat cold, hard balls of fear. 
By the looks of it, no one but her has noticed the extra presence in her room.
She has yet to settle on a suitable punishment for the pervert but she wants it
to be good. She is well aware of the boy’s obsessive crush on her newfound
friend and while she finds the extents he’s willing to go through admirable,
she has little patience for burglars and creepers. Especially incompetent ones
who tripped her alarms upon entering the gate.
Hastening his discovery would only put him out of his misery. The best way to
bury someone is to dig a hole too deep to climb out of. Lyanna puts the last of
the cookies and pizza into the oven and orders the girls upstairs to change.
“You must feel disgusting,” she insists.
Beth Cassel disagrees and licks her fingers off to savor the delicacy. “This
was fun. We should do this next time, but bigger. Something more
fulfilling—ooh! Like cakes or pie! I bet we could do it. Shireen’s a great
teacher,” she praises. “The food smells amazing.” Beth is the same age as
Shireen and her future schoolmate. Lyanna’s reckoning is temporarily forgotten
when she sees Shireen’s face light up.
Lyanna retrieves her vengeful spirit when she hears creaking from upstairs. Her
house is old. The floors creak when there’s a mouse sleeping on her bedsheets
let alone a primary schooler in her closet.
“The food won’t be ready for half an hour. Dacey can take them out for us when
they’re ready.”  
“I can?”
“You can,” Lyanna reassures. She turns to Arra Umber. “Set the alarm five
minutes early.”
“I heard that.”
Lyanna raises up ten fingers.  The girls laughed and Arra sets the alarm for
exactly twenty minutes. Lyanna shoos the girls upstairs and is tempted to order
them into a single file line so that they could enter her room one by one; each
footstep hammering nails of terror into Rickon’s soul. Odd commands are
commonplace in her household but they needed to be justified by internal
reasoning on her guests’ part and without her personal input. She wants to
avoid the questions attached to that particular command. With great reluctance,
she carries on silently but asks her friends to walk slowly.
“My stairs are creaking,” she tells them. She’s not lying. They creak every
day, but no one ever minds. Her mother has been busy with work and most of the
time Dacey is too worn out from her school and work experience. The only other
person who can fix the stairs is Alysane and she has other priorities—namely
her newborn child fathered by a mysterious man none of her sisters can ever
dream to meet.  
The girls tumble into the room like the seeds of a dandelion. Some race to
Lyanna’s bed while others make themselves comfortable on her carpet. The most
peculiar quality in her sterile room is a monstrosity of fluff on the
floor—pounds of pillows embroidered with bears, stacked on top of each other.
Lyanna suggests they change into their pajamas and carefully leans against the
closet as they oblige. Shireen is less nervous the second time around,
especially since the other girls are minding their business instead of eyeing
down hers.
Once the last girl is finished, Lyanna slaps her closet door, a grand gesture
that gathers everyone’s attention, most of all Rickon, whose face was peering
against the doors for a glimpse of Shireen and had the wind knocked into him.
His head slams against the wall. Lyanna hears a few of hangers tumbling down.
The girls hear it too but suspect no foul play except what originates from
Lyanna.
To remove the attention away from herself, Lyanna asks Shireen a question.
“Since we’re getting acquainted, Shireen, what are your plans?”
“For tonight?” Shireen squeaks.
“For life.” Lyanna strolls over to the bed with the dignity of a shield maiden.
“You must have goals in your life. I can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t
have goals.”
“Oh.” Shireen brushes away a strand of hair. “Well, my father owns a hedge fund
and I’m planning to take it over one day.” She does not mention that her father
is only the partial owner. Uncle Robert and Uncle Renly both own minimal
shares, but either lost or sold so much of them that they no longer owned a
high enough percentage to placed them on the board. Their interest in the
family business is nonexistent. Uncle Robert travels the world and owns stock
in various companies and Uncle Renly is enamored with his magazine. Their
laissez-faire treatment of their legacy made it easy for Davos to convince the
other shareholders to sell their stocks to her father and make him the majority
owner.
“Oh, that’s where I know you,” Wylla points out. “You’re the Baratheon
heiress.” Out of all the girls, she is the only one Shireen vaguely recognized
upon meeting. Though they’ve never spoken, she remembers seeing her at a party
somewhere, decked out in silver and diamonds. Her grandfather owns private
ports and leases the area out to sailors and shippers. “Has it already been
decided that you’ll inherit the company after your father?” 
“There’s no other option,” she informs. Her response borders on a snap and
Lyanna picks up on the defensiveness like a bear to a fish.
“Don’t you have a cousin?” Wylla asks. Her intention is not to upset Shireen.
As someone whose family remains intimate with the politics of aristocratic
legacies, a curiosity towards the Big Seven has been instilled in her over the
years.
“He’ll get it over my dead body,” Shireen hisses.  
Shireen, on an objective note, understands her interest. Yet she cannot help
but defend her position as heiress against Joffrey Baratheon. She refuses to
lose to a demented ingrate whose father stole the position from her own because
he was older and had “charisma.” Never mind that Stannis eventually received
the crown—Shireen used to look at the albums of her father’s academic
accomplishments and sportsmanship awards and wonder why he had to be unhappy
for so long after working so hard. She refuses to let that boy take her
father’s hard work away from her.
Wylla is taken back. Shireen’s face burns with embarrassment, but with her
scar, her skin appears to be pulsing with rage. She regrets her dramatics as
soon as they appeared and hopes no one thinks the worst of her. She already
looks like a demon—she doesn’t need to be acting like one as well.
“It’s an admirable goal,” Lyanna agrees. The other girls chime in their
support, with Beth Cassel praising her for not wasting her parents’ resources.
“If my father wasn’t the headmaster, there’s no way I could attend a public
school. I see so many girls wasting their parents’ money and it’s so
frustrating. Being given everything and not using it to better themselves.
Thank goodness you’re not like that.”
Shireen breathes a sigh of relief. She has not been fed to the lions just yet.
Furthermore, she cannot help but grin when she realizes that her newest
friendhas shared a fact about herself. Beth is the headmaster’s daughter.
Parental information is something friends share with each other.
“Don’t get too impressed. Working hard does not stop you from being fortunate.
You’re luckier than most of the girls in the world.”
Shireen pouts at the glory lost. She asks Lyanna what she wants to do. “Take
over the world or something?” She means it as a jab, but the other girls laugh.
Beth answers for Lyanna. “Sorry to disappoint, but Lyanna’s going to be a
doctor.”
Shireen’s jaw drops. “You?” She asks before she can stop herself.
Lyanna glares while the other girls laugh harder. One of them points out that
they all had a similar reaction to the news. Lyanna counters that the shock is
undeserved. “The last thing I want to control is a literal natural disaster.
I’ll do more harm than good if I ever aspire for something that doesn’t want to
be mine.”

“But why a doctor?” Though Shireen values her presence, she admits that Lyanna
is the last person she wants by her bedside. Lyanna goes over to her bookshelf
to retrieve a worn out volume that smells of mothballs and moss. She tosses the
book over to Shireen and orders her to open it. Shireen complies, albeit
fearfully, and sees pages of handwritten notes of varying signatures.
“Turn to page five,” Lyanna instructs. Shireen complies and sees a familiar
name instantly.
“That’s my family!” She reads over her list of ancestors. Men and women who
once held the lands and titles that her family prospered off of. Some of them
shared the same names as her current relatives.
“Over the centuries, noble families have been dropping like flies. Their lands
and castles are impossible to upkeep and their investments no longer show the
merit they used to. Their former glory is lost. Like idiots, those people
relied on their inheritance to get them through the days to come. If they had
any sense, they would have followed the examples of their leaders.” Lyanna
walks over and takes the book from Shireen’s hands.
“The Lannisters started it when their mines depleted. They used the rest of
their savings towards colonization and finding finite resources they could
exploit. The Stark took note of the changes in time took an austere lifestyle
approach. Unlike the other noblemen, they did not wait until they were forced
to downsize. They stopped repairing their castles and built homes instead—for
them and the noblemen who resided in their area. Over time, more noble houses
in the country lost power so other houses invested in the modern world. The
Tyrells started importing their produce to different countries. The Martells,
who initially kept to themselves, suffered a huge draught. The climate change
affected their agriculture, forcing them to move onto more substantial areas
like textiles. The Tullys invested in energy—namely electricity. The Arryns
worked on communication, though their stock has gone down with the death of
their CEO.  The worst of them were the Greyjoys, who became heavily involved in
the slave trade. When that became illegal, they resorted to crime. Their
influence is waning each day.”
Shireen nods. She’s heard the history before but found the matter boring
compared to her fantasy novels. Coming from Lyanna, the words shoot straight
into her ear. “Your family, the Baratheons, got more involved in the banks,
given that the current lords owed a lot of money to them. Over time, they
started to gain more control over their debtors.”
“What about the Starks? What did they do?”
“Security systems, obviously.” Lyanna plays with the pages until she lands on
the Stark family tree. “The Starks began by working for the government. They
temporarily separated from the country and used their distance to be hired as
legal mercenaries, or as they’re called today, ‘private military contractors.’”
The look on Lyanna’s face made it clear she did not care for the term.  “They
do what the government can’t do. When they got reinstated as citizens, the
Starks focused on maintaining an acceptable public image—basically locks,
safes, alarms. Move up the levels and that means online security, physical
access systems for companies, monitoring. Get good enough and you don’t even
have to give out anything. There’s consulting. Intelligence litigation and
vulnerability management. The highest is military. The Boltons, who’ve been a
part of the North since the beginning, are in charge of managing defense
contracts. The Karstarks are in charge of developing the new systems and
installation. The Mormonts are traditionally in charge of the domestic issues.
I think it’s the same for your family as well.”
Shireen remembers a man from the Caron family being in charge of advertisement
and wonders how far the other managers go back in their history. “What does
that have to do with you being a doctor?”
Lyanna closes the book. “Dacey is going to inherit my mother’s position, as the
law of nepotism goes.” She takes the book and puts it back. “Alysane is already
doing her work experience in the company. My sisters, regardless of what we
tell them, will end up working for the company. Whether I am there or not
there, my presence will be completely disregarded. I won’t do anything of
value.”
“That’s not true,” Shireen defends. Lyanna can do anything she wants to and the
older girl doubts there’s someone who can stop her. Lyanna raises up her hand
to silence the Baratheon heiress.
“Security is a field where we are responsible for the lives of others before
ourselves. I’ve seen people die because someone couldn’t get to them in time. I
have responsibilities beyond what my family name is—I need to be able to
salvage people whenever I can, not just if I can.”
“Oh.” Shireen is speechless.
She admits her desire to take over her father’s company is selfish—she wants to
prove to herself she can do it. She wants to prove to other people that she’s
stronger than what they expected of her. Her admiration for Lyanna grows. The
other girls watch with bemused expressions when Shireen is swayed into Lyanna’s
encompassing influence. The sentiment is shared by the shrouded Rickon, who
stares at Lyanna through the closet in a whole new light. When he sees
Shireen’s smitten expression, however, he decides to put an end to it but
knocking down another round of hangers. Shireen snaps out of her trance. The
girls all direct their attentions to the closet.
“Lyanna, you have got to get this house fixed up,” Wylla groans. “I get that
you’re used to it but it’s terrifying to use the bathroom in the middle of the
night and think an ax murderer’s behind you because you hear creaking on the
roof.”
Lyanna says there’s nothing wrong with her house while narrowing her eyes at
the closet.
“It’s older than the gods.”
Beth agrees. “Remember when we went upstairs to your attic and my foot was
nearly impaled by that board?”
“Don’t make it sound like you were punctured. You only got a few splinters.”
Lyanna grumbles.
“I had to go to the hospital!”
“But no one died,” Arra Umber points out. “Not the worst Friday night we’ve
had.”
Before Beth can respond or Shireen could ask questions, Lyanna dismisses her
concerns. “You’ll be fine,” Lyanna assures her. “Besides, I’ve been taking
first aid for a while now. I can fix you up if anything happens.” Lyanna walks
over to the wall beside her closet door. She slams the doors open and there’s
no one there. Her sweaters and jeans are bundled on the ground and if Lyanna
had the decency to unravel them, she would see a redheaded Stark at her mercy.
“See, no monsters.” Lyanna turns around to face the girls. “You’re all safe
with me. I grew up learning how to break bones. It’s only fitting I figure out
how to fix them, right?”
Lyanna slams the doors shut. As soon as she closes them, Rickon tosses the
sweaters away. He takes huge gulps of breath before falling down on the duvet
of knits and wool. He’s played into every trap, made all the possible setbacks.
He’s not going to make his situation worse by drawing more attention to
himself—and he means it this time. He remains quiet for the rest of the
sleepover. Even when the girls leave to pick up the cookies, he does not make a
sound. The house would have to crumble to make the pipe bit any more
believable.    
-
When Dacey left her movie to retrieve a pop, she discovers her sister set the
alarm ten minutes early. Spiteful in the way sisters are of each other, she
takes Lyanna’s lack of faith as a challenge and makes a mental note to collect
them exactly as the watch intended. Those cookies are going to come out raw as
a monkey’s ass and Lyanna has her own paranoia to blame.
When she retreats to the couch, five minutes before the alarm goes off, Dacey
hears the doorbell ring. Her intuition urges her to ignore it—she has cookies
to retrieve and lessons to give. Real domestic shit. The doorbell rings again
and Dacey tells herself that the only person who would be at her door this late
at night is a serial killer. If she waits five minutes, she can go into the
kitchen, secure the cookies, grab a knife, and then stab the serial killer
before he hurts any of the girls. Her discourtesy should be commended. The
doorbell rings a third time but all she can do is glare down the timer. She
uses her mind to push the minutes forward and with each second she finds
herself more successful in her goal—as all matters revolving around time are.
The guest is insistent and attacks her in the most medieval way.
She gets a phone call.  
Dacey snatches up her phone and without a hello, asks her caller if he wishes
to die a violent death or suffer castration, the latter of which is directed
towards Smalljon if he had the gall to call her tonight for phone sex. Her
girlfriends know better than to bother her during Lyanna’s sleepover—a biweekly
occasion that brought the worst of the Mormont girls because of the
circumstantial misfortunes that become of them on these nights. Maybe it was
the full moon, maybe it was the fact they still drank spring water from a
mountain they weren’t entirely sure produced liquids.
On the other line, there is a long winded pause and a then a hesitant address.
“…did I call at the wrong time?”  
“Yes, you did. What is your emergency? Is it a Meera or a Roslin?”
“It’s a…what’s the minimum for me to call you again?”
“On average, a Margaery. But tonight is Lyanna’s sleepover. You need at least a
Daenerys bordering a Jeyne slash Talisa to bother me.”
“Can we please stop calling that level Jeyne slash Talisa? I’m still trying to
forget about what happened.”
“You’re trying to forget that you dated twins and didn’t know until you showed
up at their conjoined birthday party?”
“They were fraternal twins and they had different surnames.”
“Robb, they were nearly identical,” Dacey reminds. “Besides, we’d thought that
after that particular incident, you’d be a bit more cautious about choosing
your partners. I didn’t think you’d miss the insignificance of a surname twice.
Whatever happened to the crazed stalker I know and love?”
Dacey hears Robb groan. His dating history will forever be the seasoning of his
roast. She grins despite her predicament and asks what he needs help with. “I’m
feeling generous and you’re amusing me.”
“Can you come to the door? I was ringing it but no one was picking up.”
Dacey leaves her couch to greet her friend. When she opens the door, she sees a
worn out Robb dressed in his button downs and dress pants—an attire signifying
that a formal meeting precluded his visit or he was in the midst of one his
lurker plots.  Either way, she understands that nothing good could come from
his presence. She invites him in regardless.
Robb turns her offer down. “I only wanted to talk to you for a bit. Do you mind
if we have a moment on the porch?”
Truth be told, Dacey should mind. She should loathe whatever scheme Robb wants
her to participate in but she doesn’t. Robb has dragged her into a number of
plots in their youth, all of them entertaining as they were troublesome. When
she follows him on her porch, she anticipates the worst because she is friends
with a madman and she loves it. “Is it urgent? Should I call Smalljon?”
“Depends. Tonight, I just want to talk.”
Dacey is both relieved and disappointed when she follows him on the porch. She
knows she cannot afford to leave the house while her sister is home alone but
at the same time, she misses the thrill of her schoolgirl adventures. She and
Robb, Smalljon and the rest of them use to have the time of their lives.
“Okay, I can’t be long. There’s a serial killer on the loose and I have to
protect him from my sister.”
Robb laughs but there’s a nervous edge to his giggle. He becomes more peculiar
when he tries to sit on the patio chair and before Dacey can warn him, his ass
slips past the fabric and drops him to the floor. Dacey rushes over to help him
out. Robb does not laugh like she expects; instead, he curses about the length
he goes through and asks Dacey what’s wrong with the chair.
“The bottom is bonkers. No one can sit on it.”
“Why do you keep a broken chair?”
Dacey sighs. “For the memories, Robb.”
“What memories? The memory of a broken ass? A twisted leg? You could get hurt!”
“We like to keep our history intact. Mother is a bit of a hoarder.”
“It’s broken.”
“So? Everything in this house is broken, Robb,” Dacey sighs.
“Since when?”
“Since forever!”
“You updated your security system two weeks ago!”
“Security is different from furniture.”
Robb mutters the injustice of her living in such poor conditions. “I’m getting
this hell hole fixed.” Dacey curses because she knows he is serious. Robb is
generous to a fault; he believes his wealth is a blessing and a responsibility
and he never hesitates to lend a dollar to people in need. The problem is that
for a man of Robb’s fortune, almost everyone is in need by comparison.
“My house is fine. What are you doing here?”
Robb opens his mouth. Then, he closes it. “I’m…here to check on you?”
“You wanted to talk about me?” Dacey raises an eyebrow. “Why would you need to
check on me?”
“Because you live in a death trap.” He walks over to the door and plays with
the handle. Against her protests, he lets himself in and tests out the
stability by tapping on the wall. He presses his ear against it and frowns.
“Your internal infrastructure is damaged.” He wanders around to check out more
details. Dacey gives up on stopping him. He asks her about the pipes. “They
must be rusted ten times over. When was the last time you had them replaced?”
Dacey remains silent.
Robb glowers at her. “Dacey…you have gotten them replaced right? This house is
almost as old as mine. The first modern sewage system was built with lead.”
“We’ve been busy,” Dacey defends. “I’m sure my uncle or grandmother or someone
in my family had it repaired at one point in time.” Maybe.   
“How is this house still standing?”
“The iron from the blood of our enemies?” Dacey suggests.
Robb is unamused. Dacey wonders how long the lecture would go on for. If Robb
is passionate about anything, it is about the well-being of his loved ones.
Time passes by as she watches him rant about her untreated wood being the
perfect breeding ground for termites and how she is the prime target for mold
and mildew.
During this time, Robb forgets about his original plan to distract Dacey
because he is so utterly focused on preparing her for the avalanche of brick
and wood. He drags her down on the floors and gives her an estimate on how long
they’ll last before they start becoming trap doors.
“Better for my enemies,” she counters. Robb grows more exasperated with the
nonchalance and begins to work on the windows. He taps on them and then punches
it with finesse. He swears a storm afterward.
“You have bulletproof windows that are designed to prevent light but floors
that date back to the 17th century.”
“Sometimes mother gets nostalgic.”
“Your mother ran a motorcycle gang in the eighties, she didn’t own a brothel
for Henry the Eighth.” His bitching grows incessant and he gets to the point
where he threatens to put Smalljon on the line and ask how he could let his
girlfriend live like a tramp. Dacey points out that she’s not his
responsibility to take care of and he respects her life choices because he’s a
real man. Then, Robb hits a nearby table and one of the legs crumbles into
dust.
“Okay, so he hasn’t visited in years. Regardless, my house is just fine. People
would kill to live in a home as grand and as cultural as this one”
“They wouldn’t have to kill anybody, they could just let them live in this
house and watch them die.”
They continue arguing. Dacey, who is as stubborn as bull, refuses to let Robb
lecture her into obedience and Robb is unable to allow one of his best friends
meet a dishonorable end by her own house. Neither of them is aware that the
cookies are burning.   
-
Behind them, Arya uses the opportunity to sneak into the doorway. Jon has
already secured a spot at the back entrance. Over the phone, Sansa informs her
that the girls will be coming down to pick up the cookies. She should find a
place to hide until the footsteps are finished. Almost immediately, Arya
discovers a broom closet and shoves her body inside. The door hinges when she
tries to close it.
“Fuck,” she curses.
Sansa hears her and asks her what went wrong. She panics enough for the entire
group and is silent when Arya explains the door is broken. “This entire house
going to fall to ruins. I almost stepped on a nail,” she hisses.
Sansa chalks it up as a sign.
“We shouldn’t be helping him at all. Rickon should face his punishment for
sneaking into a girl’s room. What kind of message are we sending to him? That
it’s okay to be a stalker? To be a creep is acceptable and we’ll be there to
bail him out whenever?”
“Sansa,” Arya interrupts. She keeps her voice to a low whisper. From above, she
can hear the girls coming down the stairs. “Rickon is our brother. We are
obliged to help him when he does something wrong. It’s the Stark way.” She
plays with the handle. “Besides, he’s eleven. He’s not some mass murdering
lunatic or a serial rapist. He just wanted to see the girl he likes.”
“Yeah, and next week, he’ll be watching her undress through the window.
Slippery slope, Arya, slippery slope.”
Arya has no patience for her do-gooder behavior. “Okay, Sansa. Let me put this
in a way that will make you compliant.” Sansa makes a noise of disapproval.
“Rickon knows all of our dirty secrets. All of them. He’s not afraid to use
them against us. So unless you want mum to find out about your secret
boyfriend, you keep your mouth shut and navigate me through this house.”
Sansa gapes. Through the phone, she screeches that Rickon would never do such a
thing. “He’s just as loyal to us as we are to him.” Never mind that seconds
earlier she was on the verge of selling him out.
“No, but can you imagine being at the dinner table and having him shame you
with puns and insinuations. It’ll be torture. We’ll be eating our food and
he’ll pull some crap like ‘oh, mum, dad, do we only eat female chickens or do
they eat males, too. I would love to try a cock, don’t you agree, Sansa?’’”
“What?”
Sansa is aghast. She tells Arya to get back to work and to hurry.
Arya hangs up and leaves the broom closet. She runs up the stairs, careful not
to hit any spots that cause a creak or a crumble. When she is in the hallway,
she follows the directions given to her by Rickon and finds the room.
Over the phone, Sansa lists out the possible override combination. “This is the
tricky part. We managed to get their security codes but we can’t tell which one
belongs to which room. Plus, after six chances, the alarms get triggered.”
Arya does not see the problem. “So? I have exactly six combinations.”
“No, you have four guesses. Rickon used up two of them. So choose carefully
which of the six combinations you’re going to use.”
“Sansa!”
“Don’t worry,” Sansa soothes. Arya is not dumb enough to miss the smugness in
her tone. She wins regardless if Rickon gets caught or not. After all, she made
the effort to help him. “Your chances of getting them right are over sixty
percent.”
“Oh, like Russian Roulette. Perfectly safe.”
“Okay, your attitude is not appreciated.”
“Your—” Arya gets cut off by an incoming guest. She panics and hangs up as she
looks back and forth for an escape.  When she sees none, she jumps on top of a
doorknob and uses the momentum to grasp onto the hanging chandelier. The girl
dashes past her to enter the bathroom. “Fuck,” she swears. She is confident she
can hang all night, but judging by the dust coated lights and cringing nails,
the chandelier does not feel the same way. She considers her options and
decides that this escapade is not worth her dancing career. She drops to the
ground before the ground can hit her and runs to find a hiding space next to a
painting and a table. Holding herself impossibly still when she hears a flush,
she prays the girl is in a rush when she runs downstairs to join her friends.
And the girl stops at Lyanna’s doorstep.
Arya holds her breath.
“Oh shoot, I need the passcode!” The girl grumbles when she is unable to turn
the knob. “Lyanna has gotten so paranoid lately…”
She leaves in a hurry, missing Arya as the older girl slinks closer into the
shadows. When she is officially gone, Ayra takes a deep breath and grabs her
phone. Since Lyanna is the youngest, she assumed her code would be the latest
one. That theory results in a bleeding red dot. She puts in the second option
and that’s a bust as well. Before she can waste her last two chances, she texts
Robb for help.  
-
Robb gets the text message in the middle of his critique. He’s checking the
dust on Dacey’s couch—which he swears is laced with mercury.
“The couch is a gift from the Forresters.”
“When?”
Dacey rolls her eyes. “It’s only thirty years old. It was an anniversary
present for my grandparents.”   
Robb wants to explain to her that the only thing a couch can be when it reaches
double digits is a rodent’s nest. He reluctantly switches his attention when he
receives a second, more urgent text asking for his assistance.
“Hold on, I have to take this. And don’t think your cabinets are off the hook.”
Dacey shakes her head. She watches Robb fumble and grumble about his text
messages but proceeds to answer them to the best of his ability. While he is
typing, he asks Dacey how often she changes her personal codes. After listening
to her best friend lecture her on biohazards and bodies punctured by wooden
planks, she cannot sense a trace of ulterior motives. She answers without
hesitation.
“I change mine’s every six months. Mum adjusts our home security more
frequently.”
He smiles. “At least you’re doing something right. Are your sisters as
tactful?”
“Gods no,” Dacey groans. “Jorelle and Lyra can barely be trusted to memorize
their own middle names let alone a new passcode every week. They still use
their birthdates. We barely utilize them, though, so there’s no point. Besides
mum and myself, Lyanna is the only one who changes hers remotely frequently.”
Robb says her family is better than hers. He tried to encourage his siblings to
replace their passcodes every month but they have either refused or stopped
using them altogether. He finishes up his text message and goes over to the
cabinets as promised.
Before Dacey could wait to be lectured, she hears her little sister call for
her. “Be right back,” she promises. Robb waves her off as he begins tapping on
the wood. As soon as she leaves, he presses his phone against the base station
on the wall.
-
Jon sees the green dot flashing. He grins and more than a little fondly, he
inwardly cheers when he realizes this success is one of Robb’s successes. He
loved making cakes for Robb whenever he scored well on a test or received
particularly fine praise at his rugby practices. When he enters, he sends a
quick text message to Sansa and Theon saying he’s in position.
Sansa gives the okay for Bran to make his phone call. While her younger brother
is properly distracted, Sansa turns to Theon and asks if he’s feeling alright.
She overheard from her mother about what happened to him and Robb at the bar.
Theon shrugs, as if the whole situation is no big deal. “We’re going to remain
friends for now. It’s fine.”
“Oh.” Sansa looks away. Sansa does not ask any further questions, but she is
not foolish enough to disregard the term ‘for now.’
Theon does not meet her eyes. Instead, he plays on Robb’s laptop for a bit. He
is not as computer savvy as Robb, but he understands the fundamentals of
programming from dealing with the Starks all these years. This includes
unlocking GPS satellites, switching the system from automatic to manual, or
focusing a camera’s resolution on a particular target. That was heaven during
their rugby days.
Inwardly, he thinks about his master plan to get through to Robb. Jon is going
on his date this week. If Theon plays his cards right, then Jon and this Willas
guy will have a blissful future together in Norwich and stay far, far away
from him and Robb.
The best part about last night is that Theon is more confident than ever that
Robb loves Theon as more than just a friend. He saw the texts messages. He
listened to the voicemails. Similar to his reaction with Jon’s dating life, he
got extremely jealous over the possibility that Theon could be with another
man. He smiles to himself as he thinks about Ramsey. Ramsey is perfect for
making Robb jealous—and he’s great in bed, too.
There wasn’t going to be any difficulty using him to make Robb want him.
-
The girls’ cookies are mildly charred when they receive them from their
culinary furnace. Lyanna mutters that she should have set the timer at fifteen
minutes beforehand, but finds herself unable to complain when she sees how
thrilled the girls are by their creations. Only Shireen looks dejected but
brightens up immediately when Beth compliments her.
She is about to order them to the living room when she hears her sister groan
about the couch. She hears another voice respond, an unfamiliar voice but not
one that belongs to a stranger. Like many curious girls, she decides to
investigate. Lyanna peeks into the living room and her eyes widen at the sight.
Robb Stark, her sister’s ex-boyfriend, and Rickon’s older brother is
investigating her house. He begins by checking their decrepit couch and
complaining about the mercury-infused linen. She narrows her eyes when his
phone gives him a text alert and becomes overcome with suspicion as he begins
to question her sister on their security habits.  Not wasting any more time,
she retreats back into the kitchen and from a distance, calls out for her
sister. She remains far enough from the other girls that they cannot hear.
Dacey arrives. Before the eldest Mormont girl can question her motives, she is
dragged into a corner of the room where no one can hear them.
“What the hell is Robb Stark doing here?”
Dacey pulls her hand away and rubs her wrist. “He came to check on our house.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re one screw away from becoming a construction zone?” Dacey
suggests. “Lyanna, he’s not a stranger. I know you’re worried about the serial
killer but trust me, it’s not Robb.”
Such a thought has nothing to do with why she’s paranoid! “How does he know
about our house? He hasn’t been here in years!”
“I don’t know, Lyanna. Why else would he be here?” Dacey too assumed that Robb
used the house as an excuse. Only in her mind, he found out about her
conversation with Jon and wanted to discuss it with her. She chose to count her
blessings and be happy he wasn’t here on a get Jon back scheme.
Lyanna opens her mouth to answer but quickly shuts it. She’ll be in as much
trouble as Rickon if Dacey finds out she let a boy stay in her closet just to
humiliate him.
“Why’s he alone?”
“Because you dragged me out of the living room.”
Lyanna’s begins to push Dacey back to her quarters. “Keep an eye on him—don’t
let him out of your sight.” Once Dacey gets her foot in the other room, Lyanna
dashes back to the rest of the girls. Pass the allure of sweet smelling morsels
and boiling pizza sauce, she sees they already started to enjoy their slices.
Beth pushes Lyanna’s plate towards her. “Here’s your portion.”
Lyanna disregards the food. She looks around. “Where’s Shireen?”
Beth swallows her piece. “She got a phone call from one of her brothers. She
decided to take it outside.”  
“She let her go outside alone?”
“She says she’ll be back in a moment.”
 Lyanna thinks about banging her head against the table and decides against it.
Being frustrated won’t do anything for her. Just as she’s about head to the
backdoor to get Shireen, the lights go out. One girl screams in terror while
Lyanna curses with more viciousness than someone her years should possess. She
orders everyone not to panic. She grabs a flashlight she knows is located in
the second drawer and uses it as a directory.
“There’s candles underneath the sinks. Beth, get them and light them with the
stoves. They run on gas so they aren’t affected by the blackout. All of you,
stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get Shireen.”
“No you won’t,” Dacey instructs when she comes into the kitchen. Like Lyanna,
she is also holding a flashlight. “We’re heading to the backdoor now. We’ll
send her in if we see her.”
Lyanna glares at Robb. The darkness shields her glowers with like the shade
shielding archers in a tree. Dacey and Robb move forwards to the outbox despite
Lyanna’s protest. Truth be told, she wants to head upstairs but knows that’s a
horror movie willing to happen and she’s not getting hacked by a chainsaw
tonight.
Beth tries to soothe Lyanna’s worries. “Shireen is fine. She’ll be here any
moment, I bet.”
“How do you know?” Lyanna retorts. “Nothing ever good happens during a
blackout. I need to get her. She could have fallen down a trap door or a
pithole or dropped into the basement. It’s a mess. I’m pretty sure there’s a
mummified relative there.”
“What is wrong with your house?” Lyanna turns around and shoves the light into
Shireen’s face. Placed in the wrong direction, the girls scream. Shireen winces
and tries shove off the familiar reaction. It turns out to be relatively easy
when Lyanna whacks her on the head.
“What are you doing going outside when there’s a serial killer on the loose?”
Shireen apologizes. “I had to…my brother called. He had a few questions he
wanted me to answer. Personal questions.”
“Why’d you have to take it outside?” Lyanna asks. In the dark, she was twice as
menacing.
“He didn’t feel comfortable with the noise in the background. He said he needed
to speak to me alone. I wasn’t that far. I was just outside the backdoor.”
“What?”
Shireen raises an eyebrow. “I was practically in the house. Gods, you’re
paranoid.”
“No, I mean, how did you get through the back door?”
“It was open.” Shireen pouts. “Really, for someone who values privacy, you
should really pay attention to that type of stuff. Anybody could have come in.”
“Did you lock it?”
“Yes, of course, I did—“
Lyanna groans. “Well, you shouldn’t have!”
“What?” Shireen is taken back. “Lyanna, you can’t leave those types of doors
unlocked.”
Before Lyanna can explain her positioned, the lights went back on.
Dacey comes back with a triumphed grin. Robb Stark is by her side. “Sorry to
interrupt. Someone must have accidentally triggered the light box when they
closed the door manually. God, that’s such an archaic security measure.”
“I’ll have it fixed when I get the renovations on your house,” Robb promises.
“You’re not getting anything fixed except what’s down there,” Dacey threatens.
She turns to the girls. “The problem should be solved. Are you girls okay?”
“How did the door get unlocked in the first place? She would only need to
manually close it if it was already opened.”
“One of us must have forgotten to,” Dacey shrugs. “We have so many codes,
Lyanna. We forget them all the time.”
“I never forget. Not on my sleepover days.”
“Lyanna,” Dacey warns. “I’ll check all the locks before we leave tonight and
the cameras for good measure. For all we know, the mice chewed on one of the
wires and caused an outage furthered triggered by manual use. It happens. Look
at our house.”
Lyanna remains unconvinced. She wants to argue but refuses to do so in front of
Robb Stark. Instead, she orders Wylla to go up to her room to get something
from her closet. She gives her the code. Wylla is confused but does as
commanded. Robb is about to leave when Lyanna asks him to stay.
“I want you to stay for this.”
Dacey calls her childish, but Robb does the unusual and agrees. He’s calm,
which confirms Lyanna’s suspicions. When Wylla comes down, she is empty handed.
“What did you want me to bring again?”
Lyanna considers making up an item but then shuts her mouth. She mutters
nothing as she crumbles inwardly in defeat. Well played, Rickon Stark. She
looks into her sister’s eyes and asks if the rest of them can have the living
room area.
Dacey complies. She takes Robb by the arm and shows him to the door.
“Sorry about my sister…she’s intense.”
“No, don’t be sorry. She’ll go places for sure.”
Dacey laughs and says that’s one way to look at it. Robb wanders back to his
car with a mind of refurbishment and renovations and thinks of all the new
security systems he could be making. Sansa, Jon, Theon, and Rickon are in their
own car while Arya, Robb, and Bran take their second one. The eldest Stark girl
and the Snow boy took on the responsibility of disciplining the youngest Stark.
-
At the end of the night, Shireen puts her two cents in for the movie
commentary. She is blissful and happy and chatting up a story. On the far side
of the room, Lyanna is watching a video.  The cameras are blocked during the
darkness. Certain aspect of the cameras had been removed, most likely from an
outside source. Nonetheless, it does nothing to stop the cameras working
outside the Mormont security cameras, such as the one Lyanna placed in her
teddy bears years ago. She sees Rickon sneak into her closet.
“Pervert,” she mutters.
 “What’s wrong?” Shireen asks.
“Nothing,” Lyanna answers as she tucks her camera phone away. “I’ll just take
care of it later.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Oh wow. Okay. For my other story, it took me one day to write nine
     thousand words. This chapter took me two weeks. I am officially
     behind and have yet to complete Ch.33. So forgive me if next week, I
     update at night instead of the morning (or whatever your time is—I
     usually update at 12:00 AM-2:00 AM Hawaii Time)
     2. I am so happy that I finished this chapter. To be honest, this one
     was extremely hard to write. I’ve never written an escape scene
     before so I think I bit off more than I could chew. I had to cut it
     short for this reason. I hope it is not too messy!
     3. Nonetheless, I am definitely looking forward to the next chapter!
     My plan for the next three chapters is to explain a few things:
     Jojen’s past is going to be revealed
     Sansa’s history with Sandor and Joffrey—I’ve been getting a lot of
     requests for more SanSan so I want to fulfill them
     Since I have not written anything yet (but I will get it done on
     time), is there anything you want me to explain that’s been
     confusing? I want to answer everything I can during these chapters
     without spoiling the ending.
***** Chapter 33 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
To no one's surprise but their parents, Rickon is on his best behavior all
week. He even keeps a safe distance from Shireen—the recommended amount advised
by courts in harassment suits and definitely not of his own volition. His
siblings told their parents that Rickon caused a ruckus at the Frey house by
sneaking out of the sleepover and walking home because he got bored of his
company. Rickon played along without a single hitch in his deception. His
mother made it clear that she would not tolerate his rudeness in the future.
She kept him under house arrest, or as they liked to claim, ‘grounded until the
next full moon.’ In the past, a simple grounding was nothing. It was not until
his siblings offered their time as prison guards did Rickon actually come to
terms with his entrapment. 
With the few spurts of freedom he has, Rickon complains about the situation to
Jojen. He emphasizes on the injustice of their punishment.
“They’re keeping me trapped! I overheard Jon saying that Shireen wants to visit
a pool. We have a pool! Instead, he’s planning to take them to a lake! Do you
know what that could do to Shireen’s skin?”
“What can it do?”
“Who knows? But it’s either going to have a really good effect or a really bad
one! Can you imagine her skin glistening with water? Or bursting into hives? So
many things could happen and I can’t watch a single second!”
Jojen fights back his amused smirk. Rickon’s precocious nature will be the
death of him. “You’ve gotten yourself into enough trouble. Shouldn’t you take a
break from all this surveillance?”
“But she’s beautiful!”Rickon’s exclamation is entirely sincere. If Jojen asked
him where the sun shines and the flowers bloom, Rickon would answer ‘Shireen’
with every fiber of his being. Jojen appreciates the passion. Rickon’s
schoolboy crush made his feelings for Bran seem normal.
Before Rickon can call his older companion out on daydreaming, Jojen changes
the topic by asking what the youngest Stark plans to do once he’s free. Having
held Bran’s palm in his hand, Jojen believes he’s a bit of an expert in getting
one-sided romances to be reciprocated.
“Have you tried courting Shireen?”
Rickon rolls his eyes. “Of course I have. That’s what I’ve been doing this
entire summer. That’s what got me into this mess with my family.”
Jojen laughs. “No, I mean …actually courting her. Sending her love letters, or
love texts. Finding out how she is feeling that day and if she doesn’t respond,
give her time to enjoy her solitude. Give her flowers. Read the books she likes
so that you can quote them in a conversation because you know it makes her
smile when she realizes you thought so much of her.”  
Rickon stares at Jojen like he grew a second head. “…does that work?” He sounds
amazed. 
Jojen grins. “It worked for me. Bran and I are going to have our second date
soon.” To save Bran’s innocence, he refuses to investigate the methods Peter
used to acquire the items Jojen asked for. His cousin owes him a number of
favors and he cannot think of a more worthwhile cause to cash them in beside
Bran’s smile.
Rickon is not sure he believes Jojen—the older boy is equipped with loose
screws and faulty reasoning. He cannot deny, however, that Jojen has made
advances with Bran that Rickon could only dream about with Shireen. He held
Bran’s hand.They might start kissing each other soon. On the lips.
From doubt to regard, Rickon vocalizes his brainstorming to Jojen who in
return, aids him by rejecting any advance that might be misconstrued as
threatening. They continue their conversation consisting of Rickon’s rapid-fire
ideas and Jojen’s lazy responses. Jojen does sense the oncoming presence—he saw
the flash of red from afar—but cannot find the point in shielding himself from
ridicule. The summer is to run another two months. He might as well face the
music—even if it is only the interlude.
“Rickon, what are you doing out?”  
Sansa keeps her composure though Jojen can tell, underneath all that stiffness
and poise, she is seething with rage. Rickon is far too comfortable with
him—his body language, Shaggydog’s familiarity—she knows that this is not the
first time they’ve met. She suspects the worse—he does not blame her but he
cannot help but feel resentful that she thinks so little of him. He crossed the
line with Bran, yes, but only because he is Bran. Rickon is charming, the way
all Stark-Tully breeds tend to be, but he is not Bran and Rickon will never
cause his brain to have a biopsy of reason and rationality.
“I’m still at home,” Rickon defends. He senses her mood as well but owes it to
him being grounded and wandering around without permission. 
“You still need supervision. Go inside and have Osha get you a snack.”
Rickon grumbles—he hates being given orders. He gets up regardless and says
goodbye to Jojen. Sansa watches her little brother pitter away into the house
and then directs her attention to Jojen. He defends himself by saying he is not
interested.
“I wasn’t aware pedophiles had a type.”
“They do," he informs her for the sake of contrary and correction. "And I’m not
a pedophile,” There is sass in his sentence. They have been through this
before. “Bran is the only one I have ever wanted and he will be the only one I
ever want. My love is not confined to a contraption used to segregate society.”
He smiles at her—completely at ease, as if they are in the fields on holiday,
enjoying the sun. “How are you, Sansa?”
Sansa ignores the question. “I don’t want you talking to my brothers—either of
them. You are going to stop all communication with Rickon and if I find out
that you have contacted Bran—”
“Too late for that.”
Sansa’s eyes widen. “What?” 
“Yes, I figured I’d be honest with you to make up for last time. What does it
matter anyways? What can you do to me?” Jojen challenges.
"I can have you arrested. Again." 
"Yes," Jojen agrees. "You could. I let you do that last time. I'm afraid,
though, I cannot let you get away with it again." Jojen sighs as he thinks
about Bran's smile, the shape of his knuckles, the pen marks on his fingers. "I
never thought I would get to where I am today. I will not lose him this time." 
Sansa scoffs. "And how are you going to stop me?" 
“Well, in order for you to stop me, you'd have to tell your mother. And I’m not
the only one with a past, Sansa. The difference between the both of us,
however, is that I have paid my dues. When will you remove your debts? Because
as far as I am concerned, you had someone else write the check.”
“Is that a threat?” Sansa asks. She grasps onto the remaining crumbs of courage
that’s left on the plate and they do nothing to sate her fear. “Because I’m not
falling for it. You have nothing on me but the odds are against you.”
“And what did I do? No, what did you see me do that night? The lights were off.
You saw nothing but what your mind imagined. If not for the evidence in my
room, the prosecutor would have never been able to use your testimony. Your
truth does not exist.”
“Jojen, I am warning you. As someone who was once my friend, you know I would
do anything to protect my family.”
“I know,” Jojen assures her. “I know everything. Things you have told me;
things you haven’t told anybody. We swim in the same circle now and both our
moral compasses are leading south.” He looks deep into her eyes. “I’ll tell you
a secret, Sansa, as someone who was once your friend. Bran and I are going to
fall in love. Regardless of what you do, what your mother does to separate us,
there is no point. The strings have come together to make our romance a
reality. They cannot come undone. While you would do anything for your family,
I would do anything for Bran.” He gets up. 
Chills dance on Sansa’s spine as she latches onto Jojen’s arm. She looks into
his eyes and they are hazy—they are always hazy and fearsome and peering. She
holds her ground despite her fear. Desperation enters her heart and she throws
a low blow. “If you love him so much, you’d want him to be happy. He won’t be
happy with you.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Jojen replies sharply. “No one but Bran and I
get to make that decision.”
 “Bran is fourteen. He cannot make those kinds of decisions!”
“Were you not only a year older than him, Sansa? When you fell in love with
Sandor?”   
“This is not about me. This is about Bran and doing what is best for him. I
know that look in your eyes, Jojen.” Sansa turns around. “You are mad if you
think I will let this go.”
“No, I am fine. You are mad if you think I won’t tell your boyfriend what
really happened that night with Joffrey.”
Sansa stops. She turns around.  
“Don’t pretend like you are a saint. There’s darkness inside you—a shrewd sense
of entitlement embedded in your soul that demands the world. What other people
do not see is the lengths you would go to achieve it. They think you are weak
but in reality, you will survive us all.” Jojen reminds her of the ultimate
truth. “I see everything,” he tells her. “I am not stupid. I helped you back
then because I needed you to be distracted enough. You knew there was something
wrong about my compliance and you did nothing because you were desperate. We
are not good people, Sansa. We are lovers—and in this world, love is stronger
than any man with a bag of gold or a sword.”
They stand together in silence. When Sansa says nothing, he chooses to make his
departure. Sansa, for all the hatred in her heart, does not bare him the same
ill will she does Joffrey for Jojen is right. They are cut from the same cloth
and though she loathes to admit it, she understands Jojen’s motives as
disillusioned but pure. She is sickened with herself.  
Instead of returning to her design room, she grabs her keys and heads to the
garage. She thinks about Bran and her mother and wonders what fate is waiting
for the girl who is willing to betray her own family for the sake of protecting
her first love.
No, she thinks. She cannot start lying to herself now. Sansa understands that
whatever Jojen claims to know (and he knows more, he always knows more than he
lets on, for if she gives him bones, he will find the meat), the knowledge
incriminates her most of all.
While Sansa is consumed with her thoughts, she barely has time to notice her
surroundings. The situation is ideal for a tragedy. When a young teenage boy,
not much older than Bran, runs onto the street, there is no reason Sansa would
not hit him; not leave him as broken and bruised as her younger brother for
demons to feast on.
She is fortunate in the regard that she steps on the brakes in time. The boy in
question expresses his grievances with words that would make a whore blush. She
takes it all with heavy breaths and grand relief.
Like Joffrey, she was born with a pot of gold. Her stomach churns and she pulls
over to the side to draw some heavy breaths. When she regains her health, she
recalls the last time she was put into this situation. The memory pacifies her.
Whenever she thinks about Joffrey, she remembers that everything she has done,
was done to bad people.
-
If Sansa Stark could return to any point in time, she would return to when she
was fifteen. Not fourteen, when she first accepted Joffrey’s date and fell
madly in love and then devastatingly on the floor when he first struck her. She
wanted to remember every hit he gave her so that she would have the sense not
to believe in “I’ll never do it again.” Fifteen was how old she was when she
forgave him the second time. Fifteen was when she was self-deprecating and
desperate enough to be with a boy who hit her because she believed she was
damaged goods. She did so many stupid things when she was fifteen, but getting
into a car when Joffrey was drunk was one of the worst.
Sansa sat in the backseat. She was condemned there because Joffrey’s friends
decided to tag along and only a whipping boy let his girlfriend ride shotgun
when his mates were in the car. Instead of dropping her off home, he drove to
the nearest pub, playing music that made her eardrums pop and keeping the
windows down so that the pedestrians could hear their cheers. He kept going
faster and faster. His friends were hooting and howling—one made a pass at
Sansa. Touched her thigh and called her pretty. Joffrey was too intoxicated to
care. He would find out about it later and blame her—he always blamed her for
everything.
The car accelerated until the street lights blurred into streaks and shooting
stars. Sansa wanted to cry. She prayed for a copper to see them. It would be
humiliating to have to face her parents but anything was better than death.
Joffrey cheered into the sky as he went a staggering twenty miles over the
speed limit. The bile pushed pass Sansa’s throat. She tried to swallow it back.
Out of nowhere, Joffrey slammed the breaks. Sansa’s head hit the back of the
car seat at full force. The vomit poured out of her throat. She could hear
Joffrey swearing but it wasn’t at her. He was screaming profanities at whoever
was in front of him.
“You stupid cunt! Get the fuck out of my way! What the fuck is wrong with you!”
Sansa looked up and saw a teenage boy flip the ‘V’ before scampering off once
he caught sight of the other men in the car. Joffrey choose his friends wisely.
Cowardly brutes who liked gold and the whores it bought them. 
Joffrey returned to his recklessness shortly after. Sansa saw the green on the
floor and for the first and only time tonight, was glad for the lack of lunacy
in the vehicle. No one could pin the vomit on her.
They arrive to the pub with prior inebriation and caused a scene upon entrance.
 Sansa sunk in their shadows. She was the only girl amongst a group of vulgar
young men and she cringed at the thought of running into someone she knew. The
only saving grace was that Joffrey chose a pub that was nearly empty, a hole in
the wall with scatterings of unsavory individuals who stared but did nothing.
Joffrey demanded a pint for him and all his friends. When they came, he
demanded another and then called for round of shots. More brown, gold, and
white foam made its way onto their table and Sansa wondered how long she could
stomach the madness. She could taste her dinner again. She thought about
leaving but realized she had no ride. The only other option was to wait for
Joffrey to be finished. 
Sansa got up from her seat. When Joffrey grabbed her arm, tightened his fingers
around her wrist and forced bruises on her flesh, he asked where she was going.
She told him she was getting a drink. He liked it when she drank—alcohol made
her soft and pliable. She never got as drunk as he would like, though. He
stared at her suspiciously. She could tell him the sky was blue and he call her
a liar. Finally, he let go of her wrist. Once at the bar, she asked for the
owner to call for a cabbie.  
The man complied with a weary glance towards his new patrons. If not for
Joffrey’s grandfather, the men would have been escorted out before they even
got through the doors. The sound of a stumble drew near and Sansa winced.
Joffrey and his pungent breath felt heavy on her neck.  
“What’s my girl ordered?” He slurred. He swung his arm around Sansa like he was
laying a jacket on a chair. He pulled her towards him. His touch felt like a
slug slobbering on her skin.
The bartender, to his credit, did not answer. Instead, he pulled out a glass
and made a show pouring out the golden liquid. He pushed it towards Sansa.
Sansa stared at the bartender as if he was a traitor.
“What’s the matter? Drink it.” 
Sansa hesitated. She wanted to refuse but the grip around her body grew tight.
With a shaky hand and water welling up on her tear line, she took the glass and
sipped. She paused and took another gulp. She let the fizz pop on her tongue
and savored the sweetness. Soda, she thought, with added foam for the pretense.
She took in slow sips, making a show to wince whenever Joffrey was watching.
When he was satisfied, he went back to his mates.  
They continued to be amused with themselves like monkeys in the zoo. When five
minutes passed, the bartender took away her drink and discretely handed her a
note, saying that the cabbie was here. She told Joffrey that she was going to
the bathroom. Almost as soon as she stood up, Meryn Trant called foul play.
“Where’s your girl going?” He asked Joffrey.
Joffrey, forgetting Sansa’s excuse immediately, narrowed his eyes. “Where are
you going, Sansa? I didn’t say you could leave.”
Sansa composed herself. She smiled and lied, “The bathroom, Joffrey. I told
you.”
“That’s not where the bathroom is,” he told Joffrey. “I think your girl is
trying to pull one over you.”
The accusation incensed him. Sansa’s eyes widened as Joffrey marched towards
her. She tried to run. He caught her in his grip and dragged her to the table.
Her heart was pounding. He dug his nails into his skin. She could see her blood
on his nails. She sobbed and begged Joffrey to stop. “I was going to the
bathroom, I swear! Joffrey! Please! You have to believe me! I would never lie
to you! I love you!”
“I hate liars,” he hissed. “You’re such a good fucking liar, aren’t you,
Sansa?” He tossed her onto the table. Sansa cried louder as her back slammed
against the edge.
Joffrey looked at his men. “I think my lady needs to be taught a lesson.” He
nodded towards her. “Why don’t you show her what happens when pretty little
girls act like whores?”
Sansa screamed as the men grabbed her by the arms and held her down on the
table. The bartender watched but did nothing. He walked away. The man must be
indebted to the Lannisters—Sansa was used to the indifference whenever
Joffrey’s family got involved. One of the men ripped apart her skirt. The other
tore off her blouse. When she felt an erection against her palm, she screamed
again, praying to the gods someone heard her.  
“Please Joffrey! Stop! I’m sorry! I’m sorry for lying to you! I won’t do it
again!”
Meryn took the opportunity to slap her. Joffrey had another swig of his drink.
Then, he scolded his friends for being too harsh. “Try not to ruin that face of
hers. I like her pretty.” He did not seem to care if his friends did anything
else. He let them squeeze her breasts and massage her thighs. When Boros Blount
drifted towards her cunt, things were put to an end.
Sansa could feel the blood drip on her thighs before she could see it. Boros’
head was being split apart by the wooden table he laid her on. His head was
slammed repeatedly. Every time he was brought up, more blood rained on her. Her
wrists were set free but by then, it was too late. Boros’ limp body fell with a
thump—a sound reminiscent of his heavy form. The other men were just as lucky.
Sansa watched as they were thrown on the ground, against the walls, and tossed
on top of the counters. They were beaten within an inch of their lives. All of
them would not leave this bar without swollen sockets and open wounds. Some
would need to be hospitalize. Meryn Trant withstood the beatings the longest.
He tried to slam a bottle on his assailant’s head. Sansa was grimly amused when
her savior showed no signs of terror. He took the shattered glass pieces and
shanked his stomach. Meryn Trant fell to the ground.
All the while, Joffrey hid like a coward.
Sansa took note of her savior. She recognized him instantly for his trademark
scars and large form. At fifteen, she only remembered Sandor as Joffrey’s
disfigured bodyguard who quit several months into their relationship. Though he
was not handsome, Sansa found him intriguing in the way posh girls did with all
dangerous men. When Sandor was finished with Joffrey’s mates, he faced their
leader. The boy shrieked with every step. He tried to save himself by appealing
to his sense of nostalgia. He reminded Sandor of his past employment. When
Sandor proceeded, Joffrey screamed that he was Joffrey Baratheon. His father
would make his life hell. His grandfather would have him killed. Sandor bore
the bastard no regard. He took another step further and grabbed him by the
collar. Sansa gasped as her boyfriend was lifted in the air with one hand.
Sandor said nothing. He wanted Joffrey to beg.
Snasa had never felt arousal before that day. Whether it was seeing Joffrey
grovel and watching Sandor brutalize half a dozen men to defend her honor—like
she was princess and he was her knight—she knew that she was dripping in more
than just blood.
She was distracted from her thoughts when she heard Joffrey squealing. He
sounded deliciously like a pig and she was feeling peckish for some bacon. To
her disappointment, Sandor did not smack him around like the others. He was
still a Lannister, after all. Instead, Joffrey was tossed towards the door like
an empty sack. His ass hit the floor first.
“Get out,” Sandor growled. “If I see you again with her, your grandfather won’t
be able to save you.”  
Joffrey scrambled to the door and crawled his way out. He did not look back to
check on Sansa. Sandor could have raped her for all he cared. When he was out
of sight, Sansa took a few shallow breaths—for her, the nightmare was not over.
Any one of those men could wake up, or Joffrey could return. Her fears were
assuaged when she felt a jacket drape over her shoulders. Unlike Joffrey’s
arms, she felt safe under its protection. She looked up at Sandor but the man
was already at the counter. The bartender had a piece of cloth and ice
prepared. She saw his ashamed expression.
Sandor returned to her side and pressed the coolness against her cheek.
Tightening her thighs, she made sure to keep her expression demure underneath
her lustfulness. She was lady, after all. “Thank you,” she whispered, hoping
her breathlessness could be disguised as relief over desire.
“We should call you a cab after we get you fixed up,” Sandor told her. He
ignored her gratefulness. “Or I could give you a ride but I don’t think you
want to be next to a man right now—”
“I would love to ride with you!” Sansa protested. Oh, she flushed with shame.
She must sound so wanton! “You saved me. You are…Sandor, correct? You used to
work for Joffrey.”
Sandor grunted. “Fucking hells, I can’t believe you remember that.”
Sansa smiled. She hoped the blood didn’t stain her teeth. “You were always so
kind to me, of course I remember.” She touched his arm. “If it is not too much
of an inconvenience, I would be grateful to have you take me home.”
Sandor seemed reluctant. He turned around and asked the bartender if he needed
anymore assistance. The man shook his head. Sansa grinned triumphantly as
Sandor helped her to her feet. She did not know if her lightheadedness was
feigned, but she did know that she was tired. She wanted to be held. Sansa took
one step forward and landed in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. Her forehead was still resting on his chest.
“Yeah.” He responded by wrapping his arm around her waist. “This okay?”
Sansa nodded. His touch felt good.
He took her outside and led her to his bike. He asked if she was well enough to
ride, or else he would order her a cab. Sansa assured him that she would be
fine as long as they sat extremely close together. When he asked if she still
lived at the same location, she hesitated to answer.
Sandor waited.  
“Can we…I don’t want to go home right now,” she answered. “Just drop me off
somewhere near and I’ll be fine.” She set out the bait. If Sandor was half the
man she hoped he was, he would take it.
True enough, Sandor growled. He offered up his own home in response. “You can
wait there until the bruises settle. I bet your parents think you’re staying
over at a friend’s house.”
Sansa nodded. She got on the bike and let him put on the helmet for her. She
told him she had never ridden a motorcycle before. She shivered when he touched
her neck to get her hair out of the way.
During the ride, she pressed her tender breasts against his back and hoped he
could sense her perky nipples against his shirt. He was not wearing his
jacket—she was and the scent of his aftershave was intoxicating—but that meant
he had no protection from her arousal. His back riddled with scars and keloids.
Sansa’s hands caressed the muscles on his chest.  Her purrs were overwhelmed by
the sound of the engine. Joffrey was not as hard. Sandor was a real man.
The ride to his flat was short. Sandor lived in a middle class neighborhood
with tinted windows and empty streets. He kept Sansa by his side at all times.
When they got into his flat, he took back his jacket and offered her a seat on
the couch. When she took it, he went to his bedroom to find her a shirt to
wear. He returned and asked if she’d like a drink.
Feeling bold, she requested a glass of wine. It was the only alcohol she could
tolerate and she hoped the elegance of the liquor made her seem older. Sandor’s
lips twitched as if the action contradicted her intentions, but he complied to
her request.
“I only got the cheap stuff,” he told her when he handed her a glass of red.
“Don’t blame me when it burns through your tongue."
Sansa would never blame him for anything. She took the glass and made a few
sips. He grabbed a beer and told her where the bathroom was. “I have a guest
room you can stay in. The swelling should go down by tomorrow.” 
The mention of her mother and father made her seem obscenely young. She put
down her glass and left to change. She tried to sway her hips a bit when she
walked—at fifteen, her body was already reaching her twenty-five. She knew she
was beautiful and Sandor knew it as well. She could feel his eyes on her.
Her return was well received. When he saw her in his nightshirt—and only his
nightshirt, he paused. Sansa bit back her grin when his eyes trailed onto her
thighs. She tried to wash off the blood on her skin but the residue was still
there to remind him what he won. Her sister would lecture her mercilessly about
her behavior—she was not some prize for men to fight over. Yet, the thought of
the lengths Sandor went to keep her chastity made her burn. She wanted Sandor
to appreciate her more.  
In the past, Sandor was always kind to her in his own rough way. Joffrey’s
cruel intentions emerged in the third month of their relationship. She still
remembered her first bruise—left cheek with a scratch below her eye. Before,
she did not appreciate Sandor’s efforts to prevent the escalation. Then, he was
gone and Joffrey became more brutal and there was no one to back her excuses
anymore, no more seconding on events that never occurred. 
She forgot about him until tonight.
To her surprise, he asked if she would like something to eat. He could order
something for her. The lady in Sansa did not want to intrude but the teenager
in her wanted to be spoiled for once by a man who was not a part of her family.
 
“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you, Sandor.”
Snador nodded and asked if curry was acceptable.
“I love curry,” she told him. She was lying. Curry was fine, but she didn’t
love it. She loved that Sandor was getting it for her. Then, he let her pick
whatever channel she wished and offered her a sheet if she found his apartment
chilly. He refilled her wine glass when it was done and set the plates when the
food came. For the first time in a year, she was being treated the way she
always imagined she’d be and the man who was treating her that way was not her
boyfriend.
Sansa did not mind one bit. Later into the evening, she grew more entitled. She
enjoyed making demands for she made so little in the past couple of months. She
did not answer any of Joffrey’s text messages—no matter how threatening they
became. In fact, she pretended to be more scared than she was when she saw the
first one. Sandor told her to call him if he tried to hurt her again.
 “You’re being so kind to me. I don’t know how I could repay you.”
Sandor savagely ripped off a piece of chicken. “I’m not doing much.”
“You saved me,” Sansa argued. She made sure to bat her pretty doe eyes up at
him. “I don’t know what would have happened if you didn’t come in time.”
Joffrey would have let them continued to rough her up. Touch her more. Violate
her in all but the worst way. The only thing he would not have done was let
them rape her themselves. Joffrey always needed to have the first taste.
“Yeah.” Sandor took another swig of his beer. “Well, I didn’t do much for you
back then. Might as well put in some effort now.”
Sansa tightened her grip around the scar. She did not want this conversation to
turn into a guilt trip. She figured that on some level, Sandor might have only
saved her for the sake of relieving his past regrets. He owed the Lannisters a
lot. The second he was freed from his debt, he left with only a warning for her
to get out while she could. She did not listen. Sansa would never blame him for
doing what she could not.  
“How did you get your scar?” She changed the topic after finishing her second
glass of wine. The curry was half finished. She was feeling frisky.
“My brother.”
Sansa stared. Sandor sighed when he saw her expression. “You really want to
know?”
After a pause, Sansa nodded.
“I was seven years old. Every time my father came back from his business trips
with Joffrey’s grandfather, he gave us a gift. Except I decided that I wanted
my brother’s toy. It was a wooden knight, all painted up. Gregor didn’t give a
shit about it. He was too old for toys, he said. But he didn’t like people
touching his things and he didn't like me. One day, he caught me playing with
it. Are you listening, pretty bird?”
Sansa gasped. She was in too deep; she could not even enjoy being called pretty
by Sandor.
“He took me outside where we had a grill. Without saying a word, Gregor turned
it on. I tried getting away from him but he made me watch. He broke my arm so
that I couldn't struggle. He forced me to stare at it until i could see the
coals turning red. When it started to sizzle, he shoved the side of my face
onto the burning coals and held me there while I screamed. Do you know what
happened afterward?”
Sansa shook her head.
“Do you want to know?” He asked her again. He was daring her. He was waiting
for her to say no, to go to bed, to apologize for pushing him. Sansa stayed. 
“Nothing,” he answered. “My father was too weak to stop him. The most he could
do for me was get me medical attention and that demanded a lot of money. We
became more indebted to the Lannisters after that. Every day I worked for your
bastard of boyfriend, I wanted to punch his golden face into his ass.”
Despite her misery, Sansa coughed out a laugh. She wiped away her tears and
looked at Sandor. Try as she might, she could not hide the pity on her face.
Sandor shook his head. “Don’t look so shocked, little bird. Not everybody grows
up with brothers who read them bedtime stories and check their closets when
they are scared. Some of us just get the monsters.”
Sansa knew this intellectually but her heart did not understand. Even Joffrey,
a monster by all means, used all the red left in his black soul to love
Myrcella. She put down her plates to lean over to Sandor’s side.
Sansa reached out to him. She hesitated. “Can I touch it?” She asked softly.
Sandor stared at her. Then, he nodded.
Her fingers traced the lines of his cheekbones—so sharp she feared they would
cut her and turned the pulsing skin red if she bled over his leather. She
brushed away his thin, dark hair on the right side of his face. She wanted to
see the contrast of ruined flesh and the untouched man. She tried to imagine
what he would look like without the scar but she couldn’t. Sansa was not sure
she wanted to. Character was what they called such destruction when they were
being nice. Sansa touched the hint of bone where flesh was seared to a point of
no return. He flinched. She touched the hole where his ear should be. She
trailed further down where the burns met his lips. Half of his wonderful lips
were smooth as butter and the other half felt like hides. 
Without warning, she kissed him.
His lips were charred and hers were cherry red. Together they fused to form an
unforgettable moment for Sansa who had known nothing of passion or desire. She
opened her mouth and let his tongue enter her. She made a shrill noise when she
was pulled into his lap. He placed his hands on her waist. This was nothing
like Joffrey. The men who assaulted her could not compare to the pleasure of
being handled with care. Sandor’s hands were rough but they skirted so
delicately on her body she thought he was holding glass. Her hands were still
on his face. When they parted, she kept them there so that she could look at
him.
His face was misery incarnate and she wanted nothing more than to kiss him all
night.
“I want you,” she told him as she pulled him into another kiss.
Sandor resisted for a brief moment. He told her she was fifteen—too young to
want anything. She denied it.
“I want you,” she repeated. “You must want me back.” He had to. She could feel
underneath her, growing harder with every second as she kissed his neck and
fondled his body. He had never been with a woman as beautiful as her—she could
not confirm her suspicions but she knew she was right.
Without a word of protest, he took her into his arms and carried her off into
his bedroom.
In a romantic comedy or a perfect world, that night would have led
consummation--to powerful declarations of love and lust and devotion. He would
have taken her maidenhood in a second and she would have enjoyed every moment
of it. But the world was not so simple, and the memories from earlier
resurfaced. Whether it was the roughness of her treatment or a belated response
to trauma, she was reminded of Joffrey and his friends and the way they
mistreated her. She was helpless again. She cried out in protest.
“Stop!” She shrieked. As soon as the sound left her, Sandor’s froze.
Sansa realized what she had done and tried to protest. “No! Sandor, I didn't
mean that—! I want you! No, I won’t—”
 He punched the pillow by her side. Sansa gasped. Immediately after, Sandor got
off the bed and ordered her to get some sleep.
“But Sandor—”
“Go to bed, little bird. I’m not asking you again.” He sighed. “I won’t be able
to control myself a second time.”
Then don’t, Sansa’s mind cried. Yet, she could not deny that she was shivering
and the goosebumps were not from the cold.  He shut the door on her before she
could change his mind. Undone by her own cowardice, she resigned to laying on
the bed and keeping her thoughts company. She wanted someone by her side. She
played with her hair and checked her breasts and body for imperfections and
found nothing. At fifteen, she was a conceited in the way beautiful girls
pretended not to be.  No matter how hard Joffrey tried to break her, he could
not deny her beauty. Her parents would never allow self-deprecation in their
household. Instead, Joffrey called her stupid. Only a small part of her
believed that—the part that encouraged her to stay with Joffrey even when he
was clearly a monster.   
Sheltered by her own confidence, her thoughts turned to Sandor. She remembered
his time with the Lannisters and her memory became contaminated with vivid
recollections, some real and others imagined. She supposed he always wanted her
if the looks he sent her were any indication of desire. She hoped they were.
Sansa turned her head and her nose touched the pillow. She inhaled Sandor’s
scent. He brought her into his room with the intention of fucking her like she
was his woman. There was so much musk and sweat and iron. He was a man, wasn’t
he? Surely, he came on these sheets at least once, either by his own hand or by
through another woman. She stifled her jealousy at past indiscretions that may
have never happened or at least occurred before her time with him. Her hand
trailed down lower. She bit her lip but then released it. She wanted him to
hear her.
The thought of Sandor barging in mid-fantasy was enough to get her coming.
Instead, she thought about Joffrey. Throughout their relationship, she forgave
him for crimes that were hellworthy. She would not let this matter go.
Whenever the notion of separation came to her mind, Sansa defeated them with
her own doubts. She could not bear to explain to her parents about the matter
of their break-up. She feared that doing so would cause her to fall apart. She
also imagined the complete destruction Joffrey would do to her reputation. The
pictures he took of her, the way he would speak about her if they left. They
would believe him. He was so good at playing the part of the prince. With the
exception of a few, her classmates would decimate her socially.
To leave him, she would need to ruin him. His grandfather was too good at
saving his reputation, there was no way a simple scandal would be enough. Sansa
alone would be powerless to make such an occasion occur. Yet, she did not need
to be alone. Sandor was there. Sandor, who wanted her and protected her and
felt so guilty about leaving her the first time. He would not let her go back
to Joffrey or any of the Lannisters.
Sansa dug another finger into herself and came. For the longest time, she laid
on his bed and imagined their life together. She was such a child but at
fifteen, everything was forever and everything was the future.
With shaky legs, she got off the bed and wandered through his flat. Instead of
being in his bed, she found him with a glass of whiskey looking over some
papers.
“Working?” She suggested. Her presence surprised him and he got up with an
expression to kill. She pretended not to be scared and walked towards him.
“Thank you,” she said, for the hundredth time. “For everything. I can’t
remember the last time someone treated me so kindly. You are such a good man,
Sandor.”
“No, I’m not.”
He wanted to keep their interactions curt. She knew why and yet she could not
allow him this victory. She touched his arm. He winced. He was seconds away
from removing her hand when Sansa told him that she would like it if they kept
in touch.
“Joffrey…I cannot imagine the things he has planned for me when he sobers up. I
think I could use a friend for next time.”
“What?” Oh, his deep, raspy voice almost shouted that. “You’re going back to
him?”
Sansa played up her reluctance. She hesitated for the just the right amount of
time before slowly nodding. “I…I don’t have much of a choice. Joffrey, his
family could ruin me. And, if my parents found out what he did, they would
never forgive themselves. I’ll just wait it out. He’ll grow bored with me. I’ll
attend a different university and then it will all look natural.”
She continued her excuses, knowing full well by Sandor’s tightening fists that
he was growing more frustrated by the second. She ended her rant by telling
Sandor she was thankful for all his help, but—“You know how the Lannisters are.
You left them for it. I don’t have that luxury.”
For that last comment, Sansa felt remorse. It was wrong of her to use his guilt
to her advantage but it needed to be done. She would make it up to him later.
She promised to make up as many sins as possible in their future.
Sandor behaved accordingly. He forced her to face him by grabbing onto her
shoulders and keeping her in his grip. The roughness was familiar but the
concern was not.
“You’re not going back to him,” he ordered. “Over my dead body.”
He took Sansa’s breath away with that declaration. She responded by raising up
her hands to remove his.
“I wish you didn’t leave,” Sansa whispered softly. “I would have liked it if
you were by my side instead of Joffrey.”
In the following year, Sansa would come to the realization that Sandor, for all
his strengths, considered her his greatest weakness. She was right—he had
always wanted her. The thought of watching her get hurt while he was powerless
to stop it forced him to leave—leave before he could develop anything of
substance for her. Yet she was here now and offering him everything he had ever
wanted. He owed the Lannisters nothing.
Sandor pulled Sansa into a lustful, long-awaited kiss. Sansa wrapped her arms
around his neck and further the kiss. Patience lost, he took her to the couch
and caress her body with care and precision. He was not used to ladies, but he
tried his best to treasure her. Sansa doubted they would get far tonight, but
she knew the gears were already in motion.
When they parted he moved onto her neck. Sansa sighed in pleasure.
Sandor leaned into her ear.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promised.
Sansa allowed herself the freedom to touch Sandor wherever she pleased. He
controlled himself. She was still fragile from that night so he would let her
be in control. She touched his scars, some no older than a day and the tingles
down her spine were relentless. She was sure he would take care of everything.
-
Sansa’s driving is impeccable when she reaches Sandor’s apartment. She received
a traffic notification about an accident on the freeway and had to take the
longer route. She is good about keeping her alerts. She still remembers hearing
about Joffrey’s disaster over the news. He was hospitalize for two weeks. All
at once, his secrets came out on his deathbed. No one knew where the sources
came from. No one except for Sansa and Jojen. When Joffrey woke up from his
coma, Sansa’s stomach dropped in fear but she pulled through when it became
clear that no one expected them to stay together. He was damaged goods. Footage
of his vile behavior came to light. Someone leaked a video of him verbally
abusing Sansa. (She would forever be grateful it was not a video of a post-
beating. The point of this was for her to leave gracefully, not be the victim).
He should have died—his reputation would have stayed intact.
Stepping out of the car, she sees one of Sandor’s neighbors wave at her. She
waves back with a smile. The days where Sandor kept her under his shadow were
over. No one would dare harm her now, not when she became Sandor’s ‘woman.’
She opens the door to his apartment and he is cleaning something he doesn’t
want her to see. He keeps the case cover up. When she makes her presence known,
he puts everything away to devote his attention to her.
She walks over to him and kisses him with the same passion she carried that
night. He kisses her back and carries her to his couch where he lays her down
and climbs on top of her. They shared no words when he takes off his shirt for
her viewing pleasure. He lifts up her shirt so that it bundles beneath her
breasts.
“I love you,” she confesses when he licks her stomach.
Sandor tells her that he knows. He pauses from his ministrations to ask her
what she wanted from him.
Sansa pulls herself up by wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him.
“This,” she rasps out. “I wanted the choice to have you,” she confesses. She is
so vague. She wonders if he will understand what a cruel person she has been
and if he did know, did the love he carried for her make up for her sins.
“What happened?” He asks again.
“I’m not a good person,” she tells him instead of explaining.
Sandor scoffs. “Compared to me, you’re a saint.”
Sansa laughs in spite of her sorrows. She continues her advances until they are
making love on the couch and on the floor and somehow manage their way onto
their bed. Once she is in her right mind, she confesses everything to
Sandor—about Jojen.
“I have to stop him before he gets too close to Bran. He already made his
advances.”
 “You won’t tell your family, will you?”
Sansa grimaces. “I have no proof. And he knows things about me that I can’t let
go. He knows about Joffrey. He might know about more.”
That was bad, thought Sandor. He sighed. “Do you need me to do anything?”
Sandor offers without hesitation. Sansa puts it under consideration.
“We’ll see. But I won’t let him hurt my family again. He’s insane.” Sandor
pushes her hair away from her face.
Sandor did not bother asking about the details last year. He saw how distraught
Sansa was—how overwhelmed she was when she discovered that no one believed her.
He would never doubt her. Yet, he felt that if he was going to join her
crusade, he needed to know more.
“What happened with Jojen that night?”
For the longest moment, Sansa said nothing. She stared off into space with dead
eyes before she answered him.
“He tried to rape Bran.”
Chapter End Notes
     And that’s my version of a cliffhanger.
     So, there are a lot of author's notes today.
     1. Next Chapter: Hannibal returns. Yes, this will be a Jojen/Bran
     chapter! That’s all I can say right now because I have yet to write
     it. Depending on my work ethic, it will either be one long chapter or
     two short ones.
     2. I recently launched my website: Murder_at_the_Cathouse . I’m super
     excited to have a little place of my own! The site is still a work in
     progress but I have two short stories up (non-smut for now) and this
     delightful Sexual_Harassment_Chart I think everyone will enjoy. I am
     sorry to say that Tumblr is not for me. I will keep up sometimesimeow
     to take requests—though I am still working on the three I have
     accepted which, I promise, will get done. I apologize for my
     shortcomings!
     Please also follow me @cheshiresua on Twitter if you want previews of
     the chapters!
     4. Lastly, NaNoWriMo coming up. It’s my first year participating and
     I have yet to settle on an idea. Sorry to trouble you, but I would
     appreciate your opinion. I am torn between:
     Plan A: A boy is mistaken for a prostitute and decides to play along
     despite how obviously unstable his client is. They play house until
     it becomes obvious both of them have ulterior motives being in that
     apartment building. Superhero thriller. Smut.
     Plan B: A powerful mermaid species has one weakness. They can only
     reproduce with their soulmates and cannot hurt them. One day, a crime
     boss kills the mermaid’s entire family. She kills his gang but finds
     out that the murderer is immune to her powers. Fantasy horror.
     Contains smut.
     5. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you all who
     commented and I hope the SanSan lovers were satisfied. By the way,
     their history is not over yet. There's still a few plotholes I have
     to fill up to make Jojen/Sansa conversation make sense because I got
     tired and had to cut stuff out. Afterward, the story will get
     redirected to Jon/Robb eventually (I'm thinking chapter 36). I will
     keep you posted.
***** Chapter 34 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"When Jojen finalized the details of his second date, he thought it proper to
schedule a session with Dr. Lecter. He was pushing his luck avoiding him. Meera
was growing suspicious. Jojen made an appointment for 9:00 AM. Dr. Lecter was
no stranger to odd hours—his afternoons were racked with psychopaths, his
nights a playground for prey, and the only leisure he had that entire week was
held exclusively for an adoption agency. When he received the call, dead at
night and on short notice, a flash of anger came upon him. The behavior was
quite rude. Nonetheless, Jojen apologized profusely for his interruption of
Hannibal's pre-coital rituals. Grievances were forgotten. 
Jojen was one of his favorite patients; he deserved companionship for his
hardships and a mentor to smooth the ridges of his craft. He accepted Jojen’s
explanation for his abruptness.
“You were right, Dr. Lecter. Having Bran by side has released me from my
shackles. I believe my progress warrants one of our…special conversations.”
Dr. Lecter nodded though there was no one to see. He was having a nightcap—
dressed in his pajamas while his lover slept on their Egyptian cotton sheets,
waiting for Hannibal with his legs spread. “I am delighted to hear that.”
Hannibal listed his sparse availability and Jojen agreed upon the early slot.
Before the boy hung up, the psychiatrist invited Jojen over to his house. If
they were partaking in each other’s company—alongside the crooning birds who
only knew the sight of the sun and the smell of dew grass—they should aspire
for optimal comfort.
“I will make us breakfast.”
“I’d hate to inconvenience you.”
“Nonsense,” Hannibal assured. “There’s nothing more delectable than having a
guest over.”
-
Jojen arrives ten minutes before his session. Dr. Lecter’s manor appears as if
in the middle of an identity crisis. He has researched enough about Bran's
interest to pick up a few things about art. From that, he assumes the house was
built during the transition from the Romanesque period to the Gothic
preference—as indicated by the flamboyant arches that frame the doorway and
windows, while the severity of slaughtered men decorated the frescoes. Jojen
found the image quaint. He knocks on the door twice. It occurs to him that he
should ring the doorbell instead—the house must be as grand inside as it is out
and his physician may not have heard his call. When he settles on the idea of
pressing the ringer, the thoughts are for not. He can hear Dr. Lecter’s
footsteps coming forward. When he opens the door, the man looks established. He
wears what Jojen can only describe as dress pajamas. 
“I apologize for not receiving you earlier. I wanted to finish setting up the
table.”
Jojen tells him that the wait was no grievance. He is led to the kitchen, where
an immaculate dining table is set up. On top of it is their beautifully
displayed meal. Dr. Lecter describes the entire expenditure as “sourdough
focaccia with mozzarella di bufalaand tomatoes paired with a dipping sauce of
olive oil and balsamic vinegar.” To add practicality to the luxury, he prepared
sausages made of pork, jalapenos and mango for protein. On the side, there are
two cappuccinos with a leaf drawn in the foam.
Jojen expresses his gratitude. The smell is mouthwatering. “This is too much,
Dr. Lecter. I hardly deserve such extravagance.”
“I aim to make my patients as comfortable as possible. I find good food
elevates any conversation. Please, have a seat.”
Jojen complies.
The kitchen has large windows that display a view of the yard—several hundred
square feet of trimmed foliage and the greenest grass Jojen has ever seen--even
on the Stark estate. Dogs are scattered throughout the area. They howl, bark,
yip—whatever it takes to capture their master’s attention.
“Your husband does not mind you having breakfast with another man?”
Dr. Lecter blocks his smile with his fine china and steaming café. “My Will
understands how important it is for me to take care of my patients.” He puts
down his cup. "They tend to get unruly when I don't give them enough
attention."
Jojen would be more worried if he gave them too much attention--like him. He
takes a bite out of his sausage. The sweetness of the fruit melts on his tongue
and he almost moans from the contrasts of the spices. “He is missing out. Are
you sure you don’t want to invite him in?”
Dr. Lecter shook his head. “He prefers the company of the canine variety. Who
am I to deny him?”
Jojen finds himself agreeing with the unseen man. The species have become quite
endearing as of late. “You have quite a few dogs. I never expected that of
you.”
“Oh?”
“You carry the air of a man who abhors disorder and chaos. I imagine those
creatures must shed more fur than mountains do snow.”   
Dr. Lecter chuckles. “They are a handful,” he admits. “But they serve their
purpose well.”  
“For protection?”
“For my husband,” The Lithuanian dips his bread into the oil. “They keep him
happy. For that reason, they bring me joy. On occasion, they make worthwhile
companions on a hunt.”
Jojen watches one of the Saint Bernard’s tackle their comrades. Whimpers echo
in the air. Dr. Lecter’s husband orders them off with a manmade whistle. Jojen
finds their obedience impressive and voices his approval. "Are they trained?"
"Only by my husband's loving touch. They are not bad for a pack of strays.”
“No purebloods or pedigree?”  
“None.”
Jojen grabs the focaccia.The display is too beautiful—he takes no pleasure in
ruining the image. Dr. Lecter has no such qualms. Jojen keeps his bites small
to avoid crumbles.
“Tell me about Bran,” Dr. Lecter asks once they are halfway sated. “The last I
heard of you, you were taking him on a date.”
Jojen wipes away the cheese on the side of his lips. “I took him to a physics
lecture. We were about to kiss but he had a family emergency.”
“You choose an area of expertise to display your prowess. A move of the old,
but effective I assume?”
“He had stars in his eyes when I spoke,” Jojen sighs. “I couldn’t keep my own
off him.”
"Love is an opiate found in the deepest tunnels of the lucidity, that make men
leap into despite the threat of treachery. I found that even the greatest minds
will crave the sharpness of Eros’ point.”  
Jojen smiles. “And you, Dr. Lecter? Were you such a victim?”
Dr. Lecter does not answer the question directly. He cuts off a piece from the
final half of his sausage. He asks Jojen if the boy is familiar with East Asian
folklore.
“I can’t say I am.”
Dr. Lecter’s fingers twitch. “There is a common belief in Japan that lovers are
joined together by the ‘Red String of Fate.’ According to this myth, the gods
tie an invisible red cord around the fingers of destined lovers. In Chinese
myth, the string is wrapped around their ankles and connects soulmates to each
other—regardless of their intentions. Death has knuckles and joints connecting
to every living being on this earth.”
Jojen raises an eyebrow. “Sounds ominous.”
“For those destined for brutality and misfortune, that is true. But for those
who are loveless and whose pleasures are unreciprocated, it is their highest
advantage. No matter where we are in this world, the thread that keeps our
gloves intertwined remains intact.”
If I am meant to be with Bran than I shall be with Bran, Jojen translates. Dr.
Lecter is a monster who blooms flowers on his tongue. Jojen blossoms under the
lyrics; whether he becomes a rose or a flytrap is up in the air. He hears the
door open and Dr.Lecter's husband makes his appearances. The man hesitates when
he sees the two of them.
“Am I interrupting?”
An American, Jojen notes, whose accent holds a drawl Jojen has only heard in
movies. Dr. Lecter smiles at his spouse. “Not at all. We are not even finished
with our breakfast.”
Will walks over to get a cup and some ice. “Well, I’ll leave you to your own
devices.”
Jojen says nothing as the man walks pass him to get to the other room. Up
close, Jojen admires his handsome face—his blue eyes are as wide as a baby
deer's and he has the softest curls he has ever seen on a man—Bran’s cousin
included. His skin is ivory, much like Bran’s own, and there’s a fragility
hiding underneath his iron exterior. Jojen makes the mistake of staring a bit
too long and they lock gazes. For the brief second, Jojen feels himself being
invaded—as if someone has possessed his body for observation but not purpose.
He turns away for the sake of survival.
Will says nothing.
Directing his attention back to Dr. Lecter—the bastard is smirking and Jojen is
not naïve enough to believe it has nothing to do with all-seeing spouse—he
compliments the man for his choice of partnership.
Dr. Lecter, who has been a proud man for as long as Jojen knew him, never
looked more gratified by a compliment. “For as long as I have walked this
earth, I have found no finer creature.”
“I assume your years on earth vastly outnumbers his?” Jojen quips. He drinks
his coffee and avoids looking at Dr. Lecter. Jojen’s tongue has been running
amuck as of late. Though hardly a child bride, it is obvious that there’s an
age difference between the two. While Dr. Lecter is the epitome of gentlemen
and an icon for silver foxes, his spouse is comparable to a waif, a certain
youth-driven boldness that comes with being acquaintances with Death but not
friends.
Jojen hopes Dr. Lecter does not take too much offense.
“Careful Jojen,” Dr. Lecter warns, though his tone remained civilized, almost
jesting. Jojen sighs in relief. He does not need to be this man's enemy. “I’ll
let that bit of rudeness slide this time but be careful.”
Jojen says he is sorry without meaning it. He does not know why Dr. Lecter
chose to move into a dead county to restart his practice but Jojen understands
that like the universe, there are some questions that will never have answers.
All he needs to know is that Dr. Lecter, on the same degree that people admire
colors that are not their favorite, likes him. They spend too much time
conversing about non-therapeutic subjects for his assumption to be anything but
the truth. 
“How did you seduce your lover?” Jojen wonders. Will unnerves him in the same
way that Sansa or Robb or most of the members of House Stark unnerves him. They
all carry dark spots in their souls but the majority of them bask in a golden
glow of goodness. Jojen, who has not known the light since his childhood—an
estimated year before his mother was first institutionalized—is not sure how to
handle that.
Dr. Lecter’s best advice is no advice. “I do not believe my methods will prove
effective in your situation.”
“He was your patient, wasn’t he?”
“In my defense, he was an extraordinary patient.”
Jojen sighs as if he is disappointed in the doctor—a part of him is. He
suspected that a man as mad as Dr. Lecter would not settle for anyone less than
absolute godliness and the only way to seek such perfection is to know the
person’s mind intimately.
If only the story was not so cliché.
Jojen shakes his head to avoid lingering on those thoughts. Instead, he
finishes off his meal. On his last bite, Dr. Lecter asks about Jojen and Bran’s
first meeting.
Before he answers the question, he pauses. He puts his fork down and offers to
put it in the sink. Dr. Lecter allows him but pushes the question once more. “I
assume the memory is as clear as the pools of an empty pond.”  
“A pond that is too clean won’t have any fish,” Jojen jokes from the counter.
Dr. Lecter’s lips twitch in amusement. "Is it not worth the satisfaction of an
untouched drink?" 
Jojen reminds Dr. Lecter that he already knows how they met. “Last year, when
Sansa brought me over for tutoring. She needed help on her physics A-Levels but
didn’t want her parents to know she was struggling.”
“And so you were hidden in her room for the time being, away from sight.”
“I didn’t mind. Sansa was my friend.”
“Funny how often our close friends become our deepest enemies.”
“If only we could all be tied together,” Jojen quips.
From afar, there’s a contemplative look on Dr. Lecter’s face. Jojen pretends
not to see and runs water on his plate. He returns to his seat while he ponders
the circumstances. Jojen assumes that the question is another one of Dr.
Lecter’s mind games and attempts to discover the trick before he answers.
Jojen, for all his foresight, can only scratch the surface of the curious
façade. He formulates a response in his head. There’s no going back in
Hannibal’s mind maze. Dr. Lecter waits patiently for the tale as if does not
expect a fabrication. Together, they have found the equilibrium of not trusting
someone and being their friend.
For the purpose of throwing off his not-friend, Jojen starts telling the truth.
 
“It seems you have caught me, Dr. Lecter."
Dr. Lecter has a glimmer in his eye. He wants to see where Jojen takes this. 
"To be perfectly honest, I met Bran a while ago. My father…suggested that I
keep the fact to myself. He said that if I told them the truth, the incident
would appear premeditated.”
Dr. Lecter is intrigued. “You never said anything before.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t sign off on my recovery,” Jojen lies. Truth be told,
he never trusted Hannibal enough not to delve deeper once he realized how
messed up Jojen was. Since reuniting with his love, Jojen has aspired to be
better—if only for Bran’s sake. The frequency of his deliveries have been cut
in half and he spends more time with his studies than ever. He smokes less,
snorts less, masturbates more. He hopes Hannibal does not let his efforts go to
waste.
“Tell me about it.”
Jojen remains unflinching.
“We met at a hospital,” Jojen reveals at first. “When my mother was
institutionalized.”
“How long ago was this?”
Jojen sighs. “Bran had just gotten into an accident—the one that caused him to
lose his legs.”
“And your mother?”
“First your patient and then my mother? You are better than this, Dr. Lecter.”
Dr. Lecter chuckles. “My dear Will calls it ‘lazy psychiatry.’” 
“He and I have that in common.”
“Nonetheless, I will insist you answer. With each honest statement, the fruit
of denial further shrinks into the distance. You want that, don’t you? To be
cured of the proclivities that may lead you to harm whom you love? Proclivities
passed down by your maternal lineage?”
Jojen tries not to glare. “You know why my mother was there.”
“Remind me again.”
Jojen contemplates a lie. He wonders what Dr. Lecter would do then. After a
moment, Jojen tells him the truth.  “The first time she was institutionalized
was because of her depression. She tried to kill herself after Meera was born.
The doctors said it was PTSD. Two years later, I came into this world and it
got worse. The doctors tested her—turns out she had a bipolar disorder all
along.”
“What happened afterward?”
“They gave her medicine," Jojen repeats what he has been told. It was a long
time ago. "At first, everything was fine. She took it for the first few years
without complaint. Then, the medicine stopped working so they changed her
dosage. She didn’t take to it well. The pills made her sick; she used to throw
up every morning and night. She had these tantrums. She decided to stop taking
them when it became too much for her. Dad was furious when he found out."
"How did he find out?"
"He caught her flushing her medication down the toilet. I was in my room. He
came home from delivering one of his pieces and found out that she clogged it."
Jojen chuckles. "She threw the entire bottle down the hole."
"How did he react? Did he yell loud enough for you to retreat underneath your
covers? Or did he try to inject reason into the madness?"
Jojen wonders how he should answer that. "He was not so much angry about the
pills as he was about the fact that I wasn't fed yet. My mother was too busy
cleaning up her mess to get me lunch. He sent her to the hospital after that."
Jojen has always been careful about using the word 'sent' and not 'forced.' 
“I assume she didn’t respond favorably.”
“Fought him kicking and screaming.”
“Do you resent your father?”
“No.”
“No?”
Jojen has been asked this question before, mostly by the numerous psychiatrists
he had been assigned to before Dr. Lecter and a few relatives who knew of his
situation. His answer is unsatisfactory. They always think he is hiding
internal resentment for the man who took his mother away—never mind that doing
so saved Jojen and Meera's life.
“My father did what he had to do.”
“A mature assessment. Your father must be proud of you.”
“He tells me so.”
For as horrible as Jojen is to his father, for the blood bags and scrolls of
shame, the man has never loved him less. He knows he would not be alive if it
were not for his father. His mother didn’t want children. His mother wanted a
husband. His father, on the other hand, wanted children. His father did not
need a wife.
Dr. Lecter moves on. “When you met Bran, how did you know he was the one?”
“You don’t believe in love at first sight, Dr. Lecter?”
“Whatever I believe in does not exist in our conversation. Your world is of
your own making, Jojen. The laws of attraction are formulated in your design.”
“Like a god,” Jojen muses. “If you truly believe that, one might question your
moral boundaries, Dr. Lecter. How do you stop a man who fancies himself
divinity?”
“The same way an ant would protest a lion’s touch.”
Jojen laughs for that joke. He proceeds to disagree with Howland’s analysis.
“If there is any holiness in the world, it is held under the protection of
Bran’s body. To say otherwise is sacrilege. I saw it in him when he was being
wheeled into the emergency room, decked out in halos with his fingers clenching
onto the sheets. He was fighting for his life. I visited him in his room and
his body was ice but his mind burned with the sun. His wings were clipped by
fate and yet the flush of earth’s finest roses appeared on his cheeks.”  
“What else?"
Jojen complies. “I visited in his room after he stabilized. He was in a coma.
Doused on anesthesia and painkillers, morphine and dreams. I touched his hand
for a brief second and I swear, he grasped onto me. I will never forget the
feeling—” Especially not after their date. “—then I bent down and kissed him.
His lips pursed. His eyelashes fluttered for a second. Then, the heart monitor
began to beep. I kissed him again; I saw the world in a different color. He
started to wake up—I thought I was in a fairy tale.”
“He woke up for you.”
“It was as if I was meant to be there." Jojen smiles to himself.
Dr. Lecter puts his own plate away. Such an action was long overdue. He asks
Jojen another question and he makes it sound so casual, Jojen almost believes
he intended polite conversation.
“Did you seek out Sansa Stark on purpose?”
Jojen is quiet. He chose honesty with the intention of unsettling Dr. Lecter’s
opinion of him but must deal with the consequences of digging his own grave. He
wonders if his past virtue warrants him a piece of vice.
“No.”
Dr. Lecter seems bemused. “I thought we were being honest with each other.”
Jojen captures his eyes and after an unrelenting staring contest, looks away.
“How can you tell when I am lying?”
“A gift I have no qualms about flaunting.”
Jojen sighs. “I was not the one who sought her out.”
“No, she did. She needed a tutor and you responded to her request. But you had
no intentions of befriending her and no need to make her trust you...that is
until you heard her name?”
“I thought it was fate,” Jojen admits. “I had not seen Bran in years. I
wondered about him every single day. Any news of the Starks that appeared in
the papers, online, anywhere, I read for the sake of a single line or a glimmer
of his figure. Then, she came to me. She asked for my help. She invited me to
her house.”
“And what did you do, Jojen?”
Jojen is responsible for all wrongdoings; he has been told that enough times to
make himself believe it and it is only under the doctor’s guidance that he
realizes the truth. Dr. Lecter has provided him with a new set of lens—one that
forces him to come to terms of his own faults and the vices of others.
“I knew if she trusted me, she could take me to Bran. I did things for her I
wouldn’t do for anyone who wasn’t my family.”
“But your intention was to have her as family.”
Jojen nods. “I was close. If not for my own recklessness…I would be with him by
now." Jojen is sure about that. "She was going to bring me over to her house to
celebrate the success of her A levels. 'Finally!' I had thought. I was going to
meet Bran outside the whispers of the walls. He said my voice was beautiful,
did you know that? That’s all he’s ever known of me. Yet when we exchanged
numbers, he did not recognize my voice.” Jojen tightens his fist. The
bitterness can be tasted on his tongue.
“Yet,” Dr. Lecter pushes. “You could not help yourself.”
Jojen does not answer. He refuses to indulge in the nightmare. That was the
past; he refuses to settle for anything less than the glorious future set ahead
of him. He does not want to play this game. Instead, he takes the initiative
and asks the next question.
“Do you think I should tell him the truth?” He wonders. The thought has been on
his mind for a while. The lies will eventually resurface. He will not keep
Sansa silent forever. Catelyn Stark will sooner murder him. But he needs Bran
like he needs air and earth and honey and stars—for nourishment and joy, Bran
has to be by his side.
“If the circumstances come together, why not grasp the opportune fortune?”
“He might hate me.”
“There are no obstacles in the trial of love that are impossible to overcome.”
Jojen chuckles. “You sound like a romantic.”
“I am a champion.”
Jojen looks in the direction of the living room where Dr. Lecter’s lover awaits
him. Ah…he would be the expert, wouldn’t he? They continue their discussion in
Dr. Lecter’s study, where Jojen sees a collection of fearsome pictures. He
cannot recognize the artistic technique nor could he pinpoint the influence.
“Bran would love these,” he mutters. Dr. Lecter critiques him.
“It is rude to mumble.”
Jojen speaks up the second time. “Bran would love your work. He was classically
trained before he switched to comic art. He’s thinking about going to art
school.”
“He might like Paris,” Dr. Lecter suggests.
“Paris is very far away.”
“I prefer not to linger on the distance but the atmosphere—it is the perfect
place for a pair of young lovers to settle down discretely.”
Jojen’s lips twitch. “Oh?”
“Yes, I went to school there before joining John Hopkins for my residency. They
have a few notable universities—and you could always pursue your graduate
studies elsewhere.”
The notion is beautiful. He imagines a simple flat all to themselves, with
white walls covered in Bran’s drawings and a balcony for Jojen to admire the
open sky. He sees books scattered about a mattress on the floor because it is
too much of a hassle to climb out of bed in the morning and they could barely
keep their hands off each other to try. The place would be dirt cheap and small
as a mouse’s home but perfect because Bran was there and that was all that
mattered.
“It would be perfect,” he says out loud. He waits for a moment and as Dr.
Lecter settles into his chair, he decides that for his second date with Bran,
he wants it to resemble their future.
“I’m going to tell Bran,” he confesses as soon as he sits down.
Dr. Lecter shakes his head as if Jojen was the child he never had.
What a foolish boy, the doctor thinks to himself.
-
After doing several extensive Google searches on Oberyn Martell, Robb decides
that if he does not gain a new layer of abs and a voice as rich as Godiva, then
he is not attending the dinner. For the following week, Robb has made the gym
his second bedroom. He eats, breathes, and snorts up adrenaline like a junkie,
doing mile long runs and weight lifting like he’s got an audition to be a
Hemsworth brother. When his mother and father ask about his increased drive, he
explains that he is training for rugby. He convinces them that since he has
been assigned captaincy, he needs to set an example for his men. His father is
the first to express his approval. He even suggests they eat healthier. While
all the children are sugar addicts, they also grew up with two accomplished
athletes who stressed the importance of activity. Robb feels guilty for lying
to them but reassures himself that things worked out for the better. The change
in diet actually encouraged Arya to eat with them occasionally.
When he is finished with his final session, Robb checks himself in the mirror.
He knows the effects are kicking in—he caught Jon staring a few times while
Robb had accidentally accosted him in his room, post shower, for towels or soap
or whatever the fuck he said he needed. Willas may be handsome and have the
arms of a Tennis pro but overall, Robb is the superior specimen. 
Unless, of course, he is being compared to Oberyn Martell. 
Robb analyzes his body and finds that while everything has expanded for the
better, he is not fit enough to stand next to Oberyn Martell, king of men.
Without a doubt, the Spaniard will make him look fat. He cannot afford to look
fat in front of Jon. He finds himself getting angry as he scrutinizes the lard
in his ass and his asymmetrical cheekbones. He simmers in his thoughts as if
his mind is brewing a pot of sludge and defamatory statements. The worst part
is that Robb is better than this. His mother and father raised him to never
compare himself to the unfair standards propagated by the media. But this
wasn't the media ruining him, this was about dealing with better-looking men in
real life.
If his father was here right now, he’d tell Robb not to worry about it. He’d
tell Robb that he was beautiful. And that anybody would look bad next to Oberyn
Martell.
Sansa would look bad next to Oberyn Martell.  
Sighing, he makes plans for some pre-date stretching before his date. For now,
he heads to the kitchen for a light energizer. His mother and Jon have been
preparing him snacks every single day. He grabs a bowl of Jon’s homemade
Vietnamese yogurt and a handful of strawberries and granola.
Before he can dig in, he hears the doorbell ring. Robb pouts, looking at the
delectable reds that blend so beautifully with the golden honey and creamy
whites. Fortunately, a maid catches him about to stand up and offers to get the
door. She has always been fond of the eldest Stark.
Robb devours the bowl as soon as she leaves. He is halfway done with he hears a
set of footsteps enter the room. Robb’s hackles have yet to rise. The staff
members, while on good terms with the Stark, are not prone to chatting. He only
turns around when he hears a smooth but unfamiliar voice.
“I hate to interrupt your meal, Robb Stark, but I’d like to have a word with
you.”
Robb turns around, a bit wide-eyed and cautious. When he sees the individual,
he is taken back at the sight of his ex-girlfriend’s brother in the kitchen,
holding a picnic basket and a bouquet of flowers.
Chapter End Notes
     And then he takes the flowers for himself because Robb is an insecure
     puppy. And I listen to a lot of Nick Helm songs. If you have time,
     please rewards yourself with “He Makes You Look Fat” and “Love You
     Tonight.” And watch some panel shows. Once you go Brit, you can't
     quit.
     1. Another too short of a chapter for the lateness. I am sorry for
     the delay. For those of you who followed me on twitter, I did give a
     warning. Anyways, good news! Tomorrow is my first day off from work
     in seven days (my workplace is currently understaffed and as ASM, my
     manager and I have to fill in the shifts. Luckily I am going on a six
     hour writing binge to celebrate. This means (hopefully) prompt
     updates, fulfilled requests, and progress on my novel and blog.
     2. The next chapter includes Jojen and Bran’s first meeting and their
     first date. It will much longer than this—I promise. I will also post
     at least one request within the following week, too.
     3. Thank you for your patience. For updates and previews of my
     chapter, please follow me on twitter @cheshiresua and visit my
     website: Murder_at_the_Cathouse.
     AO3 has been having a major problem with email notifications. I
     contacted them about my other story but I think doing so made things
     worse because now I'm not receiving notifications for anything. :( So
     please, follow me on Twitter. I will be better.
     Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
***** Chapter 35 *****
Chapter Notes
     Creepy people doing creepy things.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 Robb is caught between the rock of brotherhood and the hard position of being
a son. Ever since Bran's accident, Robb vowed to ensure his little brother’s
happiness at any cost. He made this oath under the impression that Bran wasn’t
Arya—there was no way Bran’s decisions would contradict those of their mother.
The fourteen-year-old’s greatest act of rebellion to date was having a secret
boyfriend—whom Robb was misled to believe was a sexless physics nerd whose love
for Bran was reserved to soft hand holding and Disney worthy kisses—and yes he
did read Bran’s texts.
But this is not some sexless physics nerd; this is Jojen Reed. Jojen Reed has
brought flowers for Robb—and of course the older boy takes them because who
doesn’t like flowers—in a show of good will and as payment for the older boy to
listen to his side of the story. Robb is nervous, as one should be around a
stalker and for the fact that he has a date to crash and this is not how he
imagined the pre-ritual going. His nerves are chewing through his flesh and he
needs sugar.
Having watched the Starks for weeks, Jojen pulls out a plate of tiramisu from
the basket. He delivers it to Robb and Robb knows he should not take it—again,
he has a date with Oberyn Martell—but damn it, he has been starving himself all
week and he wants that cake. He grabs it and sets the cup aside his yogurt. He
deserves two treats today.
Jojen takes Robb’s acceptance of his gift as a good sign. He grabs a seat
beside the young man and waits for Robb to finish appreciating the first bite.
Jojen recalls Meera baking Robb a cake for his 15th birthday because she could
not afford anything else. Robb loved it; he acted like it was the best cake
he’s ever eaten. Meera laughed when recalled the event. She told Jojen that
Robb genuinely meant it; the older boy had eaten three cakes that night and
could barely taste anything during his post-sugar high. Jojen remembers that
though they’ve only met once and that moment was as brief as a glance, he
respected Robb. And yes, perhaps he hoped him and Meera would have stayed
together a bit longer for the sake of introducing Jojen to Bran, but he has
made a resolution not to dwell on what could have been.
“Meera says ‘hi.’” Jojen begins with the neutrality of common ground. He is
lying. Meera has not said ‘hi.' Meera does not know he is here. Jojen stifles
his guilt with his own reassurances. He is quite confident that once his older
sister is over the lies and betrayal and the whole ‘going behind her back to
date Bran and ruin his recovery’ thing, she will want to say ‘hi’ to Robb.
“She’s been wanting to visit, but with all the tension between our families…”
“Yeah, uh, she texted me.” Robb swallows and the taste is so good but the
atmosphere feels so wrong.   
“Oh? Right, sure she did. You’re still friends.”
“Yeah, we are. Meera’s great. Is she, um, still dating that guy? With
the…um…with the face. From her school?”
“Oh um…no. She broke up with him. She um…she wanted to focus on her studies.
She’s starting her work experience next year.”
“I know.” Robb needs a drink. “She…uh…she told me she’s working at the
reserves. The research sector. She told me that.”
“Of course she did. Right. Because friends tell each other things.”
“Yep.” Robb nods. “And we are friends.”
The two of them sit in silence. Robb puts down his fork and offers to get Jojen
a cup of tea. “Um…since you’re a guest, I should get you some. But uh…I’ve
never made tea before. I can try, though.”  
“That’s quite alright.” Jojen refuses to be worried about a man who is not only
older than him but is deemed an appropriate supervisor for the love of his
life. He winces when the pots fall out of place and the avalanche is heard
throughout the kitchen. Jojen gets up and offers to make the tea for himself.
Robb, who protests out of habit, is relieved when Jojen holds his ground and
pulls out the kettle. Robb sits on the table and enjoys his cake.
“Earl Grey,” he requests once Jojen turns on the stove. It takes him a moment
to realize that Jojen is neither the help nor Jon, who finds his spoiled
behavior entertaining after the customary complaints. To his relief, Jojen does
not seem insulted. Instead, the younger boy asks where the tea bags are. Robb
points him to the second cabinet. The beverage acts as an icebreaker for Robb,
who watches Jojen familiarize himself with the kitchen.
“Do you know how to cook?”
Without missing a beat, Jojen admits that he is learning. “I know how to make
simple meals—pastas if I use the instant sauce, stir-fry, a few chicken dishes.
My doctor offered to give me lessons if I wanted to improve.” Jojen pauses.
Instead of going back to his seat, he stands, watching the water burn.
The elephant in the room trumpets and the sound is bursting and boisterous.
Robb chooses to ignore the creature until the time is right. He compliments
Jojen on the virtue. “I think that’s a good idea. Lord knows none of the Starks
can cook.”
Jojen has a hint of smile on his face. The kettle whistles and Jojen moves to
pour the water into the two tea cups. When he was retrieving the tea bags, he
had the sense to take the sugar and the honey located alongside them. He brings
the plate over to Robb. They sit in silence. Jojen takes a sip; he allows the
liquid to burn his throat before taking the plunge.
“I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist for about a year now. He was assigned to me
after I was sentenced to a detention center for six months and I continued
seeing him afterwards. He’s been...helpful.”
Robb swallows his tea to wash down the grudge of cream in his throat and the
thickness of tension in his stomach. “That’s…good to hear. I’m happy for you.”
“Do you know why I was sentenced?”
Robb pauses. He selects his words with the precision of surgeon. “I’ve heard
stories.”
“From Sansa? Or from Meera?” Robb understands the bias of both parties. He
tries not to dwell on either heresy.
“Both. They were rather conflicting tales.”
“And the truth lies somewhere in the middle?”
“I suppose so,” Robb agrees. “But I doubt I’ll get there with you.” The last
statement is intended to be a jest but sprouts out of his mouth like an
accusation. Robb winces, not because he is guilty but because he is not. Meera
is his dear friend but he trusts his sister. Meera would go to hell and back
for her brother and she would defend him to her dying breath, regardless of
whether he is innocent or not. It is faith in the law that keeps him from
removing Jojen from his presence. The courts found him guilty but not of all
sins. Sansa's pleas ring through his head at the same time Meera's
reasoning—her desperate yet sound contentions are racked against each other. 
Jojen has no shame. He laughs. He thanks his lucky stars for a sister he does
not deserve and a father whose loyalty extends not only to his family but to
his friends and by some, dumb luck, his best friend reciprocate his devotion.
He laughs because he knows he is one for one. Rickon will take his side. Sansa
loathes him. He is left with Arya and Robb and he has the strongest inclination
that Arya will swing in her sister’s favor but Robb—Robb, who grew up with the
values of an honest man, who was taught that every person deserves to have his
story heard, no matter how damning the evidence—he has a chance. 
“The truth is that I love Bran,” Jojen confesses. “That truth is that I’ve been
courting him since the beginning of this summer and that we went on our first
date last week. The truth is that I’m not going to stop seeing him unless he
asks me not to and no one can tell me otherwise.”
“I know that’s the truth,” Robb finishes for him. “Or else you wouldn’t be
here.” He stops. “Why are you here?”
“To take Bran out on our second date.” Jojen lifts up his picnic basket and a
folder of unknown files. Robb is curious but Jojen pulls back the goods. He
meets Robb’s eyes—an action intended to display honesty even thought there is
none. “We’ve established one thing in the last twenty minutes.”
“And what is that?”
“That while I may not be an honest man, I am not a dishonest one either.”   
Despite the dire situation, Robb cannot help but quirk his lips. He credits
Jojen with the cleverness his sister raves about. “Well then I am inclined to
hear your side of the story.” Robb keeps his expression neutral. “Go on.”
There are a million places to begin so Jojen settles on the route most
indicative of his sanity—the one riddled with half-truths and white lies. “Last
year, your little sister asked me to tutor her on her A-levels. She didn’t want
your parents finding out she needed help with her studies so we pretended to be
working on a project. We became friends—or at least, I thought we did.”
“She thought so too,” Robb clarifies. His first instinct is to defend Sansa.
His second is to care for Bran and that means provide Jojen with the benefit of
the doubt, if only for the smile Bran has whenever he receives a morning text
from the older boy. “She passed, if you’re curious.”
Jojen could care less. “I’m happy for her.”
Robb looks away for a second, as if to collect his thoughts, before turning
back to Jojen and asking him how Bran plays into this story. He’s heard Sansa’s
accusations—“He attacked him, Robb. I know what I saw. He snuck into his room
like a rapist and fondle our little brother!”and Meera’s defenses—“The room was
pitch black. Your staff confirmed this. Unless your sister is the latest
advancement in evolution, I’m going to assume she does not have night vision!”
Both continued their arguments for nights to come. Robb loves his sister, but
the evidence was against her and even the judge considered her testimony to be
unreliable. Meera fared no better. Who, but a Stark, understands the love one
has for a brother?
“Bran was in the house during these sessions. I used to walk past his bedroom
on his way to Sansa’s. Before long, I was making excuses to wander the
hallways.” The memories of such days linger in his mind like the aroma of sugar
and apples out of the oven. “I remember watching Bran huddled over a drawing or
a book; he would use his laptop to look up creatures he’s never seen and create
homunculi to decorate his walls. I became entranced.”
“So I’ve heard,” Robb notes with wry dismay “They found a number of photographs
in your bedroom.”
“An imitation to keep my whims at bay,” Jojen justifies, hoping Robb does not
consider his ‘whims’ to belong to a deviant. He wants to avoid sounding
defensive. “I want-needed something to keep to memory. I admit,” he tries to
chuckle, smile, or do anything to rid himself of the madness in his eyes, “I
was overeager. But you have to understand, from the moment I saw Bran, there
was no one else in the world for me.”
Hannibal advised him to heighten his pitch by the slightest degree to appear
more honest. Eye contact, no matter how painful, is a must to be considered
trustworthy. Before he arrived to the Stark’s main house, the two of them
listed out plights to plea for Robb Stark. Robb is no stranger to forbidden
love; if it was any other boy but Bran, he would have express his support from
the start.
Except, this was not any other boy, this was Bran.
Robb keeps his distance nut he allows Jojen to continue.
“But Bran was thirteen and I was not. Those pictures were the closest I could
get to the real thing; I couldn’t court him like I would a peer. I kept my
hands to myself. This, I swear to you.”
“That night…”
“Nothing happened,” Jojen tells him. He makes the effort of swearing on his
mother’s grave—may she never wake from the kiln she rests in. “I…heard he had a
fever. I went inside his room to check up on him. I…may have touched his
forehead—but I needed to see if he was okay.”
Robb narrows his eyes suspicious. “You expect me to believe that?”
Jojen sighs, as if he is exasperated, as if he was the one who was wronged. “I
checked his temperature. He was on fire. He kept moaning for comfort and
coolness. I tried to take the sheet off him and his shirt rose. I…may…I wiped
off the sweat off his stomach. I did not mean to go beyond that, I promise. It
just…it felt so good touching him.”
“So Sansa misunderstood the whole thing? She imagined everything?”
Jojen has offered his fair share of guilt. Any more admissions and Robb will
never allow Jojen within ten feet of Bran. “I was willing to wait. I am willing
to wait. After Sansa reported what she saw, the police went through my stuff.
They saw the photographs and my writings and called it an obsession but it was
not. Robb, I was infatuated and now…now I know Bran. My feelings have not
changed except for the better.” He clenches his fist. “I know we’re both young.
Bran is only fourteen. But I’ll wait for him forever. I don’t care if our first
kiss happens tonight or in a hundred years. Please, regardless of what Sansa
has told you, hear it from me. I love Bran and I will do anything to make him
happy.”
Robb’s expression softens. His grimace has melted into a contemplative frown.
His eyes are no longer accusatory but sympathetic. He is pained and Jojen
relishes in his victory against Catelyn and Sansa Stark. Before he could dig
the dagger deeper, the sound of the door opening alerts both the young men. He
hears Bran’s chime through the halls. His father’s heavy footsteps follow.
Jojen remains still. He remembers his list. If he runs now, Robb will consider
his actions cowardice and rule that his declarations from before are made of
hot air. When Bran draws closer, Robb redirects his attention to Jojen and
orders him to wait on the porch.
“I can stay,” Jojen affirms. He is too close.
Robb sighs; the breath weighs on Jojen’s mind. “Don’t worry; I’ll send Bran
outside. You can have your date tonight.”
Jojen cannot leave fast enough. He dashes outside before anyone can see him.
Left alone, Robb stares at his tea, cake, and yogurt. He takes a moment to
consider what has happened and sinks his head in his hands. Bran’s wheels
scratch the floor and Robb looks up for the sake of glaring. Bran responds to
the glower with an innocent ‘hello,’ as if his boyfriend didn’t just accost
Robb with his ‘ride or die’ speech and bribed him with tiramisu and flowers.  
The younger boy glances at the bouquet of sunflowers and coos at their
loveliness. “Who are the flowers for?”
“Me,” Robb answers defensively. Just because he is the only person in this
household not sucking cock does not mean someone won’t buy him flowers. “Your
boyfriend gave them to me.”
Bran almost falls out of his chair. “What?”
Robb nods, staring at the flowers and wishing they were not laced with ulterior
motives. The last time he got flowers was when Joffrey had sent them to Sansa
as an apology gift but his little sister had thrown them in the trash. He
retrieved them for the sake of brightening up the décor. His mother still
receives blossoms from Mr. Baelish and if they were willing to utilize the
gifts of one creep, they should do so for every other.
“He asked for my permission to date you.” An embellishment of sorts. He is sure
that Jojen will continue courting Bran with the fury of a thousand hurricanes
regardless. Yet, he has a soft spot for men in love, especially those who
resort to viciousness to remove their obstacles.  
Bran gapes. He stares at Robb as if trying to catch him in a lie.
Robb informs him that Jojen is waiting outside for him. “He’s been waiting to
take you on a second date.” Bran does not move. “You should hurry. He had a
picnic basket. I don’t think it’s a good idea to let the food spoil.” When Bran
still does not budge, Robb sighs. He gets up and takes ahold of Bran’s handles.
He delivers him to the backyard porch where Jojen is nowhere in sight. Robb
purses his lips, hoping the younger boy was not caught by a member of the staff
and forced to flee.
“What’s that?” Bran points out. Robb sees an envelope on the couch, with Bran’s
name written in the most illegible print Robb has ever seen. He is about to
open it when Bran coughs, a forceful look on his features. He swipes it out of
Robb’s hands. Robb’s little brother flushes beautifully. He tucks the letter
into his chair and asks Robb to wheel him to the godswoods. Robb chuckles,
wondering what event the maverick has planned for his sweet brother. His humor
is lost when Bran asks Robb for a favor.
“You want me to do what?”
Bran brings out a blindfold hidden in the package. It’s the type of fabric sold
as a gag gift in sex shops and pornographic catalogues. “He wants it to be a
surprise.”
Robb chokes on air. He tries to protest but Bran masters the most innocent bow
behind his head and his eyes are covered for Jojen’s surprise. He tells Robb
that he is ready and Robb is too afraid of the answer to ask ‘for what.’ He
swears that if Bran is entering a garden of debauchery and boxed dicks, Jojen
will no longer have to worry about prison because Robb is sending him straight
to hell.
***
When asked who his favorite artist was, Bran would answer relatively notable
names in Pop Art such as Roy Lichtensten or Luis Toledo. He is not lying. Out
of all the genres, perhaps, save works from the Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood and
their successors, he enjoys pop art the most. With every painting or sculpture,
Bran is reintroduced to a world of vibrancy and business, of comic books,
graffiti, trash, protest art, lifestyle collages. His parents are supportive of
him to a fault. They take him to galleries and fly him out to auctions for the
chance to acquire the real deal or a spectacular imitation.
Yet, while he is not telling a lie, he is not admitting the truth either. He
respects those artists as inspirations and influences, but they’ll never
provide the same joy for him as a sample of Dustin Nguyen or Fiona Staples’
print will. He wants the story, the expressions, the action and the drama; he
wants to live the tale. It’s why got into comic books and graphic novels in the
first place.   
Robb does not know this. All he knows is that when he releases Bran from his
blindfold to the sight of over two dozen pictures posted on every tree in eyes’
view, Bran is the happiest Robb has ever seen him since the accident. His eyes
are blown out of reasonable proportion and his mouth is as open as the moon.
Jojen has just finished setting up their meal but the gallery is clearly the
pleasure of the evening. The pictures are so perfectly aligned that even Robb
is awestruck. He composes himself in time to exchange a nod of approval towards
Jojen. Bran does not notice his older brother slip away.
Jojen initiates their date by moving Bran to their picnic blanket. Instead of
removing Bran from his wheelchair, he prepares the softest shawl and wraps it
around Bran for comfort. He adds a table stand to lay on Bran’s lap and helps
set up a plate. He asks Bran what he would like, but the younger boy is too
overwhelmed to decide so Jojen makes his decision for him. He hands him a mug.
The boy takes it before realizing that he is not alone.
“W-what…are…how did you do this?” Bran gasps when he sees an autographed
picture from Fiona Staples—a sketch of her character from Saga.
“People owe my cousins a lot of favors and my cousin owes me a lot of favors
and so here we are.” Jojen is amused. “I must admit that most are copies, but
there are a few—“
“Some of these are genuine?” Bran announces. Shock electrifies his body. “These
must have cost a fortune! Jojen, you really didn’t have to!” Bran has been made
aware of Jojen’s financials from the start. The older boy refuses to engage is
superficial dishonesty. He does regret, however, the horrified expression on
Bran’s face when he realizes the cost of these pictures. Copies were costly as
well, but genuine pieces from these artists must be worth a fortune.  
Jojen laughs. “I only spent a bit to purchase the copies. Turns out some of my
clients are quite charmed by the fact that I intend to make my boyfriend the
happiest guy in the world. They were very generous with their tips.”
Bran blushes at the title. Boyfriend, he thinks. He cannot help but be amazed
by his own fortune. Fourteen, and his first boyfriend is charming, smart, and
ridiculously handsome.
Jojen refuses to listen to any more protests. He leads Bran around each sketch
as if he is a tour guide, getting a ridiculous amount of details wrong and
instead of finding his inaccuracies annoying, Bran is smitten by Jojen’s
effort. He ends up correcting him half the time before assuming the role of the
teacher. Jojen listens as if every word needs to be reprinted on an exam. Bran
tries his best not to blush when Jojen calls him ‘wonderful’ and ‘blessed.’
They are on their last picture when twilight enters its last moments. The moon
will rise and Jojen will have to leave.
The whole ordeal is tortuous because Jojen is forced to remain on the same
land, knowing that Bran will always be at arm’s length but never within
touching distance. He wants to kiss Bran senseless in the night. He wants them
to sneak out into the godswoods for midnight trysts. He can do that, but before
anything happens, Bran needs to know the truth. If Jojen reveals his living
conditions, Bran will want to know why he did not say anything sooner. He will
want to know why Jojen’s identity was kept secret when his father was such a
pivotal member in Ned Stark’s life. If anything, they should be best friends.
Jojen wheels him to the picnic blanket, resting underneath the tree. He carries
Bran off his chair so that he can position him against his chest. They lean on
the tree and watch the day turn to night. Bran is hot—hotter than he was that
night. This time, however, Bran was his. He cradles Bran’s hand. He presses his
lips against the boy’s hair. The moment is coming. The sun dies and the moon
rises into the night sky. It is beautiful, though only a quarter moon. Bran
croaks his neck so that they can face each other.
The date has turned the Stark bold—he resembles the wolf on his family’s sigil.
He leans in with the most forwardness he has ever drawn out of his life. Jojen
will not make him suffer any longer. They kiss and the moment is tender. Bran
is red and breathless when he parts. Jojen is breathless and insatiable.
There’s a moment of unspoken agreement between the two of them. They are
bundles of uncertainty and hormones. Bran clutches onto his hand. He opens his
mouth and licks his lips. Jojen leans in with more force. They kiss, more
ravenous of each other. Jojen cradles Bran’s body towards him. He slips his
hands underneath his shirt. He wishes he could get enough but he fears such a
sensation is an addiction without rehabilitation. Jojen craves and Bran wants.
Jojen growls. He cannot resist maneuvering their positions so that Bran is
seated on his lap. There is no strength in Bran’s legs to support his body so
he must fall on Jojen’s chest. Jojen makes no complaints. Bran is his for
tonight. They partake their fill of each other. Bran, who is so inexperience in
the realms of fantasies and deviances, acts on the instincts that are ingrained
in all Starks. Jojen, true to his faith, is equally untrained in the act but
relies on the images of his deepest desires. He has been Bran’s since the
moment they've met, regardless of age restrictions and whatever propriety
dictates.
Bran removes himself for air and despite Jojen’s attempts for more—the suckling
on his neck is surely a purposeful attack on his sanity and the licks to his
collarbone doubly so—Bran asks that they control themselves.
"Why?" Jojen growls.
The sound sends shivers up Bran's spine. He blushes when he tells Jojen that he
wants their first kiss to be a wondrous moment by itself. He wants their first
everything to special for what they are.
“Is that weird?”
Jojen protests the notion. Reality settled in. “No, you’re right. I want every
moment to be special, too.”
Bran smiles so brightly, he makes the stars swoon. Jojen’s heart lurches and he
knows the truth must come out. He swears that after tonight, he will never tell
a single lie to him again if it means forgiveness. If Bran will let Jojen taste
those lips for days to come, he will become the best man he can be for him.
What he does next is out of his control; he is out of fucks to give when he
blurts out to Bran that they’ve kissed before.
Bran reveals a number of feelings on his face, but the two most prominent
emotions are confusion and disbelief. “How—? Jojen, I think I would’ve have
remembered—“
“Not if you were sick,” Jojen interrupts. “Not if you had a fever of 38 degrees
and could barely remember your own name let alone the strange boy who crept
into your room at night to watch over you.”
Bran does nothing. He tries to smile, but the reluctance is evident. His
expression pains Jojen, who never wants to put such uncertainty on Bran’s face
again. “Jojen, I haven’t been sick all summer. In fact, the last time I was
that sick was…”
“Last year,” Jojen finishes. “When you were thirteen and I was sixteen. A year
before I was sent to a juvenile delinquency center for stalking and
harassment.”
“What?”
“Remember when Miles asked about my disappearance? It wasn’t about my mother.
She died several years ago. She committed suicide—I wasn’t lying about that.
But—she wasn’t—she had nothing to do with what happened between us. Between me
and Sansa.”
“What? Sansa?” Bran is taken back. He pulls away as far as he can but his body
is stuck. Jojen has forced him to hear the brutal truth and it hurts the older
boy as much as it stabs daggers into Bran’s heart. “What does Sansa have to do
with this?”
Jojen swallows. “If I tell you, you must promise to listen. You have to promise
to give me an answer about us. I will never stop fighting for you to forgive me
if you don’t and if you do, I will never stop making you happy.”
“Jojen, you’re scaring me.”
“Promise me, Bran. Please, I will take you home but you need to promise to
listen.”
Bran is helpless. Jojen asks him again, “Promise me.”
After a pleading glance, a look that aims straight into his soul, Bran nods. “I
promise,” he whispers.
Jojen sighs; he is relieved but he knows he should not be. The hard part begins
now. Here is where the manipulation comes to hand, where the lies must become
truths but truths Bran can appreciate and forgive. Even the most unforgivable
crimes can be locked away in the mind palace if the love is strong enough;
Hannibal and his husband are proof of that.
“Last year, I was sentenced to a year at a juvenile detention facility for
harassment and stalking. I was released after six months on good behavior, but
my restraining order stood until the beginning of this summer, when I was no
longer required to stay sixty feet from Brandon Stark.”
Bran chokes. Jojen takes a few deep breaths.
With courage that surprises both of them, Bran asks the real question:
“What did you do to me?”
***
“Nothing that can ruin your reputation?” Jojen asked as he scanned Joffrey’s
iCloud for injustice. There were hundreds of incriminating photos. He supposed
that Joffrey’s grandfather must have the world’s busiest social media advisors
to keep his grandson in check. Jojen had the grandest selection—substance
abuse, animal abuse, domestic abuse was out of the question, but the rest was
fair game. “I don’t think you have to be too worried about that. There’s enough
on this phone to get him locked up in the bin for decades.” He removes a
picture containing Sansa's bruised arm. 
Sansa told him to select only the best and to plan them accordingly. “If we
release them all at once, it looks like sabotage. We can have reporters find
them after the accident.”
“How are you so sure there will be an ‘accident?’”
“Sandor promised me he would take care of it. There is only one way a man like
that takes care of things.”
“He takes care of you pretty well,” Jojen teased with a suggestive shimmy of
the eyebrows. 
Sansa threw a pillow at his face. Jojen laughed.
Sansa’s phone received another text. She jumped at it before Jojen could beat
her to it. It was a game they played. Jojen embarrassed the shit out of her and
Sansa pretended to care more than she did. When he saw the disappointed look on
her face, he knew who the sender was immediately. She tossed the phone on the
side. From the glare in her eyes, she was praying it broke.
“Joffrey wants to meet up today. He says he has a surprise for me.”
“Can you turn him down?”
“I turned him twice this week already. He’ll suspect something is amiss.”
“Oh, so I suppose facilitating a gang rape of his girlfriend doesn’t count as
something ‘amiss.’” Jojen returned to his research. The apathy in his tone made
Sansa envious. She wished she could sound so nonchalant while judging her
companions. Jojen was impossible to read and Sansa was told she was an open
book.
“He isn’t going to hurt me. This is his apology week.” Sansa grimaced. “He
hurts me and then he gets me to forgive him with gifts. If I accept the gifts,
he calls me a whore. If I don’t accept the gifts, he berates me for being
fickle.”
“So go,” Jojen advised. “Accept the gift and play the game.”
“Are you serious?”
“You want to take him down, you need to make sure he cannot tie any of his
downfalls to you. Attend the masquerade. Besides, Sandor will be encouraged to
move faster if he sees you’re still with him. He loves you.”
Sansa was as red as her hair. “Stop it.”
Jojen repeated himself instead. “You know he loves you. He just needs
motivation to act. Be his motivation, Sansa.”
Sansa giggled, the sound was as light of Christmas bells. He found the noise
charming, if more feminine for his tastes. She took the phone and asked Jojen
if she should text Sandor that she was going out with Joffrey.
“Definitely,” Jojen encouraged. “He’ll be mad with jealousy. Give him the
locations as well. That way, he can keep track of you and it'll give the
impression you're more afraid than you actually are.” Jojen added that if
Joffrey saw her on her phone most of the time, he will assume the worst. That
way, she would be able to provoke a violent reaction. “You want that, don’t
you?”
Sansa, who was a lady and was taught to abhor violence, did desire such an
outcome. She wanted to be fought over—and Sandor would kill Joffrey if the
circumstances permitted. Sansa bit her lip. “I think I should go. And call
Sandor, too.”
Jojen approved of her idea. He offered to stay behind to smooth out the details
of their future endevour.
“If your parents ask, I’ll tell them you left to pick up supplies. There’s a
lot of work to be done so one of us had to stay behind and you’re the only one
who can drive.”
Sansa laughed. “You are such a good liar.”
Jojen accepted her compliment—regardless if that was the intent. While she got
ready, she thanked him for his encouragement. “You’re the only one I trust to
tell about Sandor. Everyone else would have judged me.”
“People have a right to be with the ones they love. Regardless of societal
restraints.”
Sansa agreed. She turned around and asked if Jojen was interested in anybody.
“Maybe I can help with them? You’ve done so much for me!”
Jojen gave no inclinations to the truth. His lie was cut short when loud,
hacking noises were heard through the walls. There was murmuring in the
hallways. Sansa’s expression was dismal. Jojen kept his concern to a minimal.
He wondered, out loud, if the person was okay. His heart lurched with each
cough and he hid his clenching fists. He wanted to see Bran. He needed to make
sure he was okay. 
“That fever is only getting worse. If it gets any higher, we 'll have to take
him to the hospital.” Jojen knew why she was opposed to the action. Bran
loathed hospitals.
“That’s Bran, right? Your youngest brother?”
“Right name, wrong brother. Rickon is my youngest brother." Sansa sighed. “Bran
has been sick all week. I’ll get some medicine on my way home,” she mumbled,
mostly to herself. “I think we’re almost out of lozenges, too.”
Jojen could see the gears twisting in her head. She glanced over at her phone.
He knew she was considering turning down Joffrey’s offer with the truth. Every
bone in her body was telling her to care for her brother.
Jojen frowned. It was a pity that Sansa was a good sister, but he needed her
out of the house. They say Bran earlier today. He was allowed to stand by the
door while Sansa read him a story. If he interfered any more in Bran's life, he
would not be able to recover from the suspicion. He tried to convince her and
himself of Bran's recovery. 
“He’s going to be okay. You told me the doctor said that the fever was not
serious—it’s just reaching its peak. I hate to say this, but you being here is
not going to make a difference.” He kept his tone neutral with a touch of no-
nonsense to further his point.
Sansa, who desperately craved the bloodbath that was to come, submitted to
Jojen’s reasoning. She hesitated and took some money out of her wallet. Jojen
was about to protest but Sansa refused to listen.
“You’ve done so much for me. I know it isn’t cheap to miss work to help me and
I don’t feel right making you pay for a cab to go home. If it gets too dark,
don’t feel obliged to stay.” Sansa held out the money. Her hand did not waver.
“I’m not leaving until you take the money and if I found out that you’ve given
back, I will return it tenfold.”
Jojen sighed before grabbing onto the paper. Sansa thanked him again before
making her departure. Before she left, he could hear her conversing with her
mother. She was a fright as of late. Whenever she was not at Bran’s bedside,
she was knitting or weaving prayer circles or dream catchers or whatever her
faith dictated her to do. Jojen bared her no mind. He knew that today, Catelyn
Stark had a dinner party. The maids were in charge of taking care of Bran and
Osha would be babysitting both Rickon and Bran tonight. Rickon had become a
handful as of late. The wild woman had more concerns than to deal with a child
whose only remedy was slumber.
***
After an agonizing hour, Bran was put to sleep. He was whimpering, the heat was
too much for him, but he craved the softness of the sheets. The maids could do
nothing but check his temperature and refill his cooling pad. When the last
maid left the room, Jojen struck. He had been waiting beside the door of
Sansa’s room, peeking through the crack, hoping for an opportunity.
The room was pitch black. Brightlights hurt Bran’s eyes so the maids found
alternatives sources on them if they needed a guide through the darkness. Bran
was sleeping but he was unsound. His whimpers were akin to kitten’s mews and he
squirmed and struggled as if he were a newborn. On his dresser was a bucket of
water with melting ice. The ladies were supposed to take it with them to
refill. They must have forgotten it.  
Jojen dipped his hand inside the coolness. He used his wet hand to sprinkle the
water over Bran’s face. The boy cooed. He motioned his head in the direction of
the relief and Jojen could not resist drawing closer. Like a cat, Bran purred
into Jojen’s hand. His fever was present, but beneath Jojen’s cool hand, it
felt warm and delightful. Jojen continued the process of dipping and relief
before he decided there were other parts of Jojen’s body to explore.
Removing the sheets provided an entertaining reaction. Bran took larger breaths
once the weight of the cotton was gone, but squirmed as if searching for
comfort. Jojen used his dry hand to run his fingers through Bran’s hair. His
wet hand was placed carefully on top of Bran’s stomach, massaging circles for
comfort. Bran drew closer to him. Jojen was elated.
Feeling bold, restless, Jojen moves upwards to play with the prettiest nipples
in the world. He teased and pinched gently, as if he were not even there. Bran
giggled and it was the happiest expression Jojen heard from him all week. He
knew all of Bran’s expressions by heart. He smiled to himself and leaned
downwards.
Bran’s lips were redder than before. His skin was pale—pasty from illness and
malnourished form the lack of sun. Jojen thought he was beautiful no matter his
appearance but he would be lying if he said he did not prefer the glow of
health. Yet, despite the state of his complexion, Jojen remained fixated on
those lips. With the desperation of youth empowering him, Jojen climbed onto
the bed to straddle Bran. The image was perverse. He was almost a man and Bran
was most certainly not. Yet, he could not deny himself a simple kiss. Bran was
magnificent. Jojen was a worshiper of the divine.  Should he not taste his
god’s love directly? Could there be any other reason for such physical divinity
to present itself to him if not to take advantage of good graces? Jojen thought
so and leaned down to press his lips against Bran’s. The sensation was soft and
unreciprocated but Jojen shivered from the passion. He kissed him again and
again; he pushed down further to savor the taste. His hand, which already
rested on Bran’s stomach, moved downwards.
Jojen’s wayward palms were resting on Bran’s hips before he became aware of his
advancements. He took a moment to consider his position. Bran was underneath
and there was no greater bliss than to feel his soft body under his own. Bran
was unaware but his body was willing. He churned and craved Jojen’s touch—the
touch of a follower.
Yet Jojen knew he could sink no further. He groaned and to prevent the passion
of earths and storms, Jojen sunk his head into the pillow and screamed. There
was no greater agony than this moment and not even the fumes of carbon monoxide
could compare to the victory of conscience and self-control.
Bran’s body was supple and willing—but his soul was not. Jojen left the bed. He
looked down on the magnificent child and swore he would wait for him. "One day,
we'll be together and be so happy." Bran moaned his approval. Jojen swiped a
sweat drenched bang from his face. He was about to return the sheets to his
body when he noticed Bran’s lips pucker. He was sick man, Jojen thought. Sicker
than the boy in front of him, for sure. Before he could talk himself out of it,
Jojen leaned down for a final kiss.
“Get away from him."
Jojen looked up. Sansa was at the doorway. Her eyes were blazing. Her teeth
were snarling. Jojen could not move. And when she started screaming, he said
nothing. 
***
Jojen will never forget the sensation of Bran’s skin upon his. Even having him
in his arms right now cannot remove the memory—it is only another memory to be
added. He conveys the sentiment to Bran, who says nothing. Jojen wants to cry.
He wants to mourn what never was and could have been. He wants to beg for an
answer, but the look on Bran’s face is enough to warrant a thousand whippings.
Jojen stands up. He walks over to the wheelchair and prepares it for Bran. He
hesitates to pick the younger boy up, for his Bran is still frozen. He tells
Bran he is sorry. He understands if they boy never wants to see him again. He
is sure the boy would rather die than be touched by him again. Nonetheless, the
night is coming. “And I need you to return you home.” He draws the chair
closer.
Jojen wonders how long it will take for Bran to forgive him. A year? Maybe two?
Maybe he could get his degree and come back for him, a changed man. No, he will
never change. Men like Jojen keep their proclivities until the day they die.
But he can come back successful, worthy of him if only by a fraction. Jojen
muses all these alternatives while he lifts Bran up. He pauses for a second to
savor Bran in his arms. The boy stiffens but does not protest.
When Bran is secured in his seat, Jojen is ready to take him home.
Bran opens his mouth to ask, “Aren’t you going to clean up?”
Jojen, who is stun by the speech and overwhelmed by the statement’s neutrality
says he can do it later. “What’s important is getting you home and safe.”
Bran stares at Jojen. He says nothing and Jojen is overwhelmed by the
compliance. He bends down to pick up blanket and scarp porcelain. He puts them
all in the basket. He sees the shawl and picks it up. He is shaking. He moves
forward to offer the warmth to Bran and without any further questions, the
younger pulls him into a kiss.
The move is hesitant, as if Bran himself does not know what came over him.
Jojen does not protest. He does not ask questions. They kiss until it is Jojen
pulling away out of fright. He worries his love is possessed but when he looks
into Bran’s eyes, they are teary but clear.
The next words are a hymn and a prayer at once. Jojen cries without meaning to.
The act brings more humility to him than either of them thought possible. Bran
is surer than ever of his decision.
“I forgive you,” he whispers.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Oh, so next chapter is the long awaited Jon/Robb/Willas/Oberyn
     chapter. Plus, a Targaryean will show up in this chapter—or I will
     update two chapters in one week because the Targaryean scene is long
     but not long enough to warrant its own chapter but significant enough
     that I want it in because I’ve been ignoring the Targaryeans and
     they’re pretty important.
     2. Don’t worry all the Arya fans! So after the Jon/Robb centric
     chapters, we’re going to center on Arya. Arya will have a huge
     portion to herself—this is why I kept her centric chapters to a
     minimal. I’m outlining right and we’re looking at least four Arya
     centered chapters (remember she is going to London soon). Plus, we
     fucking get Tywin Lannister. My not-so-guilty pleasure.
     3. Which reminds me because I will always be doing this—please follow
     me on Twitter for updates and previews: @cheshiresua.
***** Chapter 36 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
After her father died, Lyanna Stark wore black for an entire year. The news of
his death shook her at first, maybe put her out of place, but did not ruin her.
She thought she numb. She thought her lack of reaction proved she was made of
ice. It was not until she was bawling on the carpet of a thrift store, picking
out a black dress with a tasteful silhouette her father would have approved of
that she realized, her father was dead. She rushed to her hotel room, bought a
ticket for her and her son, and left with all her luggage intact because her
father hated waste. The bags were heavy. She traveled light her entire life—she
was the type of woman who made a habit of leaving behind packed suitcases in
hotel rooms, spent an enviable amount of time hopping vacation homes and
dancing on the couches of her male companions—and yet was forced to break her
habits to accommodate her father’s passing. Jon followed her example. His
mother bought him an all-black suit for the funeral. The look was debonair—he
thought it made him look like James Bond. At six years old, the impact of
losing this imposing man he’s only heard about in stories and met when he was
young enough to forget everything was low.
Rather than mourn, Jon watched the room. Paid attention to the details because
he had no heart for this stranger. His mother was crying. She was being
comforted by her two brothers which meant they were Jon’s uncles; two men he’d
never met before but was supposed to care about because his mother loved them
and he loved his mother. One was married to a woman whose hair was as red as
pickled persimmons and gave him cookies for being so strong. Jon liked her,
though he could not comprehend her standards of strength. To distract him from
the grief he did not have, she took him aside to meet her son.
Jon heard the best thing about having a home was the haven; the relief of
having something waiting for you after a bad day or a long day or an every day;
a permanent cradle of plush blankets and sleeping puppies and warm milk.
When Robb hugged him, promised him that everything was alright, that he was
safe, Jon understood what a home was and he wanted it. He wanted his cousin to
never let him go and to care for him and to say he looked pretty in black and
to hold him in his sleep when he had nightmares. When Robb met him, his smile
resembled a lighthouse—a beacon of love and Jon could think of nothing more
worthwhile than keeping him happy. He did whatever Robb asked of him those next
few days and when his mother declared she wanted him to settle with the Starks
while she went on a dangerous assignment, he was elated because it meant he
could be by Robb’s side. They did this for years: Lyanna had work; Jon stayed
over; Lyanna came back to pick up her son and Robb cried as if he was a wife
whose husband had gone to war.
After Bran’s accident, Lyanna switched her interests from journalism to
producing her own fine art. Her reputation proceeded her so to avoid the same
faces from her childhood, shameless sycophants and the disapproving private,
she took on a pseudonym to promote her exhibitions. Then, she made turned her
pen name to a legal name. Jon was never asked if he wanted the change. The
image of Bran being hooked up to the resuscitator was burned into his mind.
Jon became a Snow the day he told himself that he did not deserve to be a
Stark.
***
“You’re wearing all black again.”
Jon jumps from the sudden observation. He turns to his doorway and is surprised
to see his aunt staring.
“Sorry,” Jon tells her—a habit he never got rid of.
“Don’t be, it’s a good color on you,” Catelyn assures him. She smiles, kind and
apologetic, and walks up to him so she can fix his collar. Jon lets her. He
does not look her in the eye.
When she is finished, their gazes connect. Her eyes are sad. “Jon, I—”
“It’s fine,” Jon cuts her off. He realizes how harsh he sounds and curses in
his head. “I mean, I get it. You were angry and you didn’t mean to hurt me.
It’s okay.”
Catelyn frowns. “Jon, I didn’t mean to say it at all.” She sighs. “And it was
not okay for me to say that. I’m sorry, Jon. What happened to Bran was not your
fault.” She cradles his face and admires those beautiful features she adores on
her husband. “I love you. You are a part of this family. Your uncle and I want
you to remember that and no one, not even me, can change that.” She kissed his
cheek. “Now let me get a good look at you again.”
He takes a step back for his aunt to observe him and she whistles. “Willas is a
lucky man.”
“I think most people would agree I’m the lucky one.”
Catelyn hums as she plays with his hair. “You’re both lucky. He’s downstairs
waiting for you. I’m afraid your uncle is giving him quite a fright. I swear
he’s the worst with these things. You should have seen him when Robb brought
Dacey over.”
Jon chuckles, knowing full well that Dacey’s arrival marked the beginning of
the end for the Starks. With Robb being the eldest child, it must have dawned
on both Ned and Catelyn that their children would now be opened to dating and
relationships and the worst of it, sex. The horror of the incident reminds Jon
of a lingering thought in his head. His aunt is about to leave when he stops
her.
“Aunt Cat?”
“Yes?”
“Um…” Jon fumbles with his watch. He tries to sound casual when he asks the
next question. “Have you seen Robb? He wasn’t here when I came home.”
Catelyn frowns. She tries not to sound too uncomfortable when she tells him
he’s out. “He has a date.”
“Oh,” Jon utters. Catelyn stays to study Jon’s reaction and is relieved when
there is none. Jon thanks her and searches for his wallet. With some
hesitation, she leaves to check on Willas. She wonders if she should comfort
Jon or if her initial analysis was right—that her reassurance will cause Jon to
recognize his undying passion for her son and abandon this fine young man with
connections downstairs. She is grateful for intuition. The latter is definitely
more likely to occur.
Jon fixes himself up and takes one last look in the mirror. Tonight, he looks
good. He looks like a guy going on a date with the heir to a multi-billion-
dollar corporation who is handsome and smart and would never try and change Jon
because he believes Jon to be a stunner with his smile and perfection in black.
He is moving on. Robb is moving on.
As he is walking downstairs, he decides to wish the best for Robb’s date. He
smiles as his mind hisses about the rebound whorewho was lurking in the
shadows, waiting to scavenge the pieces that were Jon’s. He hopes she is
pretty. With curls Robb loves to pull while he is inside her perfect ass and
giving orders on how good she takes it even though it will never compare to how
well Jon slurps up his cock.
***
Before Jon can be whisked away to a land of caramelized pears, lightly breaded
trout, and fluffy soufflés, Willas must suffer through an agonizing interview
by the Papa Wolf before him. From the moment he stepped into the Stark
household, Ned Stark made it clear he was not welcomed. To his credit, the man
did not say a disbarring word in the presence of his wife but instead settled
for glaring at him—like he was a gift horse with big teeth. Catelyn, on the
other hand, was a pleasure to be acquainted with. She reminded him of his own
mum. He had the good sense to bring her flowers and in payment, he received a
dazzling smile. She offered him a drink as soon as he walked through the door
and complimented him on his endearing expression and fashionable attire. The
contrast of treatment between the two spouses unnerved him.
Reading the tension in the room, Catelyn offers to get Jon. While Willas is
elated to go forward on his date, he is not particularly excited to be left
alone with her husband. He keeps to his defenses and smiles through the
personal questionnaire.
Ned’s eyes narrow as soon as the grin appears on Willas’ face. There are rent
boys with more shame than him. His inner beast is growling at the deviant. He
confirms that Willas is just as old as he thought he was which was too old for
Bran. He even has the nerve to ask about his precious son’s wellbeing.
“Bran is out. He does that sometimes. Goes out. With his friends. With his dog.
He’s not as naïve as you would like.”
“That’s great! I’m happy he—”
“One time, when he was a kid—he’s still a kid but when he was a much younger,
softer kid, a pedophile tried to kidnap him and Summer ripped his throat open.
The man died. He died because he was trying to hurt my children.”
“Oh, was Bran okay—?”
“We were supposed to put Summer down but I made a few phone calls. My brother
is a cop. We have connections everywhere. Starks know how to take care of
people.”
Willas considers answering but instead reaches for his scotch and swallows his
fears in liquid form. He’s never experienced this in his life. Parents love
him. They find him nonthreatening and sweet. He was handicapped; people are
supposed to feel sorry for him, not intimidate him for taking their nephews on
dates.
Hearing the familiar trail of wheels, he considers kissing the ground to show
his reverence to the merciful gods above. Bran is surprised to see him but
greets him with the same shy, appreciative smile Willas remembers from the last
two times they met. The younger boy becomes nervous for a split second, glances
back and forth, before breathing a sigh of relief.
Curious, Willas wonders but brushes his suspicions off like dust. His sister
used to tell him that their family has made him paranoid. All their pranks and
their plots. He sees a wink and assumes there’s a scheme regarding the wine.
“Hello, Bran.”
Bran smiles. “Hey, Willas…are you here to pick up Jon?”
Willas nods. “Your mother is getting him for me. Thank you again for arranging
this date. I wouldn’t be here without your help.”
“I think about that every day,” Bran mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing!” Bran chirps. He tells Willas good luck and tries to retreat to his
room. Willas cuts his journey short by handing him a few brochures.
“I got them for you since you wanted to travel. I asked a few of my colleagues
and they recommended a number of art workshops for kids your age. I think you
should have a look at them.”
Bran is hesitant in taking them—which Willas chalks up to the disbelief of
having one’s dreams within arm’s reach and not Bran’s conscience heaving up
buckets of guilt. Robb has just forgiven him and here he is, accepting another
bribe from the Tyrell heir. He blushes a treacherous glow and thanks Willas.
Willas puts a hand on Bran’s shoulder and is about to respond with a standard
‘it was nothing’ and a heartfelt ‘you deserve this’ when Ned walks over and
swipes Willas’s hands off.
“That’s enough touching,” he grunts out. He takes the pamphlets from Bran’s
hands and assesses them for pornographic material and subliminal messages to
cross-dress in his sister’s lingerie. When he confirms there is none—and even
takes a moment to appreciate the spring program in Tibet—he returns them to
Bran. “This sounds like a good opportunity.”
Before Bran can agree, his mother’s familiar shrill of worry is heard from the
staircase. “What sounds like a good opportunity?”
Catelyn walks up to them with smiles and graces. She must have made up with
Jon, Bran thinks, and would have been happier about their reconciliation if she
wasn’t redirecting her grief onto him. She spots the words ‘workshop’ and
absorbs the various destinations printed—all international, which might as well
have been a bullet to the heart considering she equivocates London to Mars, so
China and Monaco were in another galaxy. Before she can rally up a riot, Willas
steps in—figuratively.
“I hope you don’t mind. Bran expressed an interest in my travel experiences and
thinking about it reminded me of my grandmother. She had the most enthusiastic
approach to my upbringing,” He chuckles—the perfect combination of exasperation
and fondness. “I grew up in these programs. They have excellent facilities and
the ones I recommend are accommodating to people with disabilities. There’s one
in France I attended for a year. I was a part of their business sector but they
have a world renown art program.”
Catelyn is unable to respond. She wants to protest but doing so with the reason
‘Bran cannot handle it’ is unacceptable in Willas’ presence. Instead, she
settles for a neutral, if not tight lipped response of “we’ll look into it” and
following Bran’s hopeful expression, “if we can fit it into his current
schedule.”
Bran beams. He tries to send Willas his gratitude with his eyes. Ned catches
the gaze and interprets it as longing. He clenches his fists and wheels his
baby boy to the elevator where he can be hidden from predators. England will
have a week of sunshine before he lets his son develop a crush on this
homoerotic hitman. This is how it all starts. Willas is luring Bran into a
false sense of security with his good deeds. Afterward, there’s the hero
worship. Locked rooms. Playing Doctor with no clothes on.
“You keep your clothes on, Bran.”
“Dad?”
Ned does not respond—only mutters vengeful nonsense.
At last, Jon descends from the staircase. Willas cannot get up fast enough. He
limps with a speed comparable to actual strides and when he arrives too soon,
takes a moment to enjoy the view.
Jon is delectable in black.
“You look wonderful,” Willas bites his tongue to keep him from confessing what
he’s truly thinking. He imagines Jon will look fantastic on top of him—riding
him with the skill of a jockey and muttering sensual phrases from those swollen
lips. “Black is your color.”
“So I’ve been told,” Jon replies. He departs the household after giving his
aunt a kiss on the cheek and promising to be home before midnight. Catelyn
tells him to stay out as long as he likes.
“I was your age when I met your uncle,” she says with a wink. Jon flushes and
practically runs out of the house. Before Willas can follow him, Catelyn grabs
his arm. In a heated whisper, she tells him to make his move. “Tonight is not
the night to be a gentleman, Willas. He may not seem like his mother’s child,
but underneath that heartfelt demeanor is a festering ball of sexual
frustration and outrageous kink. He will put out so make sure you stay out.”
She releases him from her hold. “Good luck!”
Catelyn Stark slams the door in his face. She grins triumphantly. Fulfilling
the void left behind in her nephew’s heart will be her only focus tonight.
After listening to her son mourned the loss of Jon’s fantastic ass, she knows
that after having a taste, Willas will work his entire life to pay off the
meal.
She ignores the sound of fluttering wings coming from her son’s bedroom and
decides she will until tomorrow to dispose of the garbage tainting his mind
with false hopes and dangerous ambitions. Willas meant well so she’ll forgive
him for this one indiscretion, but he does not know her son the way she does.
***
The car has more than enough space for two people to lie down in, but Willas
disregards the meaning of a respectable distance and seats himself so close
that their thighs are touching. His intentions are about as subtle as a call
girl named Vegas working a street corner. The whole situation is balanced by
the fact he is not suggesting a quickie in the limousine but instead rambles on
about his work, his life, and his family.
The proper side of Jon, the region of his mind that remembers his manners and
remains influenced by the Stark’s posh upbringing, considers playing coy. This
consensus is quickly overturned by Jon’s penis. His self-control has never been
so wrecked before. Robb ruined him. Jon is so used to getting cock delivered on
the daily that he does not wait for Willas to finish his story about gods-
knows-what before he starts massaging Willas’ tender leg and asks if it hurts
when he touches him.
Willas never stood a chance.
And I was trying so hard to be a gentleman, Willas muses. Jon lavishes his
mouth with kisses and tries not to crawl on his lap. Willas keeps a hand on his
neck to keep their situation under control. When they separate, Jon mews and
the desperation gets to Willas; he lets go of Jon’s curls and lets the boy run
wild. Jon recaptures his lips at first but then travels downwards to his neck
and sucks hickies into his flesh. Willas sits back and enjoys the
ministrations. When Jon’s hand works on his zipper, he pauses their foreplay
and reminds Jon of their dinner plans.
“I want nothing more than to treasure you, Jon,” Willas mumbles. He is prepared
to rim Jon’s ass for hours and make him come from his tongue alone. Then, when
Jon’s hole is sore and swollen, he plans to have Jon riding his cock all night.
The car finds their destination and the two resolve to spend a few more moments
kissing. Jon curls his tongue the way Robb likes it and Willas responds
deliciously—curls his toes and grabs Jon’s ass like he belongs to him. Jon
giggles and gets away before they ‘go too far’ as Willas feared. Despite the
older man’s whimper, Jon bites Willas’ lower lip as a promise of things to
come.
Jon gets out of the vehicle first. He helps Willas to his feet and together
they walk into the restaurant. The journey is long given Willas’ injury, but
Jon fills the void with his own personal anecdote. Against his better judgment,
he spends most of his time narrating Robb’s accomplishments and their
recovering relationship. He tries to stop himself a number of times—talking
about an ex is an infamous dating blunder—but Willas pushes and a slew of
compliments is iterated despite his conscious attempt to avoid the subject.
Willas does not know about him and Robb—only that Jon loves his cousin and as a
potential boyfriend, wants to learn about all the people Jon loves.
“Oh look, here we are. Time passes by, doesn’t it?” Jon opens the door.
Willas agrees. “Yes, especially when you talk about someone you love.”
If Jon had a glass of water, he would have been choking. He warns himself to be
careful this evening. No more talk or Robb. No more longing for exes. No more
looking to the past for what could have been and more heading to the future for
what can be.
The host’s eyes widen in the presence of Willas Tyrell. He escorts them to
their table without a moment’s hesitation and reiterates retired dribble
expressing their gratefulness for his patronage. The table he leads them to is
private and away from their other guests. On their way there, Willas is stolen
from him. His back is turned when he hears Willas’ exclamation of surprise and
in seeking out the source, finds a devastatingly gorgeous man making out with
his date.
While Jon gapes at the unintentional infidelity, he is not ignorant to the
familiar mass lurking behind a leather menu.
“Robb?”
***
While Jon deals with the initial betrayal of being spied on—because there is no
place in hell, heaven, or earth where Robb’s appearance is coincidental—and
ignores the relief that cools down his boiling jealousy. Robb is not on a date.
He is here and he is spying on Jon because he is not over Jon and still madly
in love with him.
Following his conceited analysis, his relief dissipates to self-loathing for
being a complete asshole. He should want Robb to move on, Jon reminds himself.
Robb moving on means he’ll be able to find a partner worthy of him and let Jon
pursue something substantial with Willas.
Jon moves forward to retrieve his partner for this evening, but this god of a
man refuses to let go. If anything, Jon’s impending presence gives him the
courage to pursue more liberties. Instead of just jamming his tongue down
Willas’ throat, he uses hand to cup his ass. The entire restaurant stares. A
few men and women cough. Some shield themselves with menus to conceal the fact
that they are watching. The majority are all waiting for Willas to get ravished
on a nearby table. They are disappointed when Oberyn runs out of air. Before he
lets go, he stares into Willas’ eyes with longing. He cradles Willas’ cheek;
the gesture is a mockery with its gentleness—there’s no point maintaining
courtesy after that brutal display of sensuality. Willas takes a step back and
is shaking. Jon helps him stabilize. “Oberyn…” Willas breathes out. He smiles
tightly, an impossible feat given the state of his lips. “I didn’t know you
were back in England.”
“Si, I had business to take care of on behalf of my brother and was offered a
chance to befriend the Starks. Doran begged me to lend a hand. I could never
deny my brother anything—family is incredibly important. Though fate must be
fond of me to bring me the pleasure of your presence.”
Willas chuckles. His laugh is cut short by his own breathlessness. He coughs
and returns his attention to Jon. “Um, Oberyn, this is Jon, my date.” He says
the last word firmly—making clear there are no misunderstandings Oberyn can
take advantage of in order warp Jon’s psyche. “Jon, this is my friend Oberyn.”
Jon offers Oberyn a cautious smile and a handshake. “You must be very good
friends.”
Oberyn ignores his hand and kisses him on both cheeks. The friendliness
unnerves Jon, who remains silent despite his obvious discomfort. “Yes, I hope I
did not make you uncomfortable. I’ve been away from Willas for so long, I could
not control myself. Is he not the most handsome man in the world?”
Jon does not answer. Oberyn interprets Jon’s silence as anger. His next smile
is unnerving; he has plenty to gloat about with his ripped body and soul
crushing charisma. To avoid Willas’ wrath, Oberyn opts to sings praises of the
younger man before. “Jon, I’ve heard many things about you from your cousin. He
is right—you are quite stunning.” He brushes a curl from Jon’s face. Jon
shivers; Oberyn’s hands remind him of snake scales rubbing against his skin.
“Pretty as a picture; Willas, I see your type has not changed.”
The comment irks Willas. Jon sees more frustration on Willas’ face than he
thought possible of the older man. “I think history has proven I don’t have a
type.” Willas leans on Jon’s shoulder. “We should go to our table.”
Oberyn refuses to let them get away. “You are leaving me already? You must be
joking. Me estás tomando el pelo. I cannot accept that. Please, why don’t you
sit with us? The more the merrier, they say.”
“I am sure Robb would rather his business dealings be held in private,” Willas
tells him.
“I don’t mind,” Robb pops in for the first time tonight.
“I am sure you don’t,” Jon hisses.
Robb does not cower under Jon’s glare, though he is tempted. Instead, he stands
his ground when he confesses that “he will never turn down a chance to spend
more time with Jon and to get to know the man courting his beloved cousin.” Jon
does not scoff like he wishes to. He does not want to alert Willas to the
internal drama within his family.
“If you excuse me, Oberyn, your friend and I have a date tonight. Which we are
in the middle of and will be continuing. Alone.” The last word is directed
towards Robb.
Oberyn recognizes an attack when he sees one; most of the time, however, they
are directed towards him. He narrows his eyes at Jon. This little shit whose
balls dropped yesterday thinks he’s man enough for Willas Tyrell—Oberyn is
already imagining the ways he can teach this brat a lesson. He corners his rage
elsewhere; for now, he leans in to give Willas a peck on the lips—chaste as
rainbows compared to his earlier actions.
“Perhaps another time,” Oberyn suggests. “There’s so much to catch up on. My
daughter has gotten married.”
Willas bites the bait. He loves Oberyn’s daughters. “Who? Don’t tell me
Tyrene…”
“Obara,” Oberyn corrects. He smiles fondly. “Obara has wedded the stepson of a
Baratheon. I have much to complain about.”
Willas is taken back and then settles onto chuckling. “I cannot believe there
is a man alive who can get that girl to an altar.”
“I think she was as shocked as the rest of us. When I saw her walking down the
aisle, she looked possessed.”
Willas laughs. “I’m sorry I could not make it.” The atmosphere lightens as
planned; Oberyn’s domineering presence fades into a familiar comfort for
Willas. He leans in. Jon stops the motion by reminding his date, adding an arm
stroke and battering lashes, that their table is waiting. Willas snaps out of
his nostalgic trance. He straightens as much as possible in his condition and
sends Oberyn a displeased look. “I will try to fit you into my schedule,” he
says evenly. “I’m quite busy.”
Jon and him depart before Oberyn can protest the unfair assessment. As soon as
they are left alone, Willas proclaims countless apologies. “I’m sorry, Jon.
Oberyn’s behavior was unacceptable. He—fuck! That man does not understand
boundaries. If he saw a wall, he’d just get a tractor and plow through it.
Shit, I didn’t mean to—his grip is like a vice, do you know that? And he has
this presence—I don’t know how to explain it—it suffocates you like quicksand.”
Jon has never heard Willas swear so much. His disheveled appearance is almost
entertaining enough to make up for the offense—almost. In any other situation,
he’d give the person hell for putting him through that. But he cannot shovel
all the blame onto Willas; he cannot even do so with Oberyn—there is a reason
that the Spaniard was here tonight and it wasn’t for a business dinner as he
claimed.
“—knew I was here!”
Jon interrupts Willas’ rant to confess his involvement. “Willas…I think I might
know the answer to that.”
Willas stares at him.
“Do you remember my ex? The one I broke up with a few weeks ago?”
“Of course, learning you were available was the highlight of my week.” Willas’
charm resurrects itself and Jon feels the guilt churning in his stomach.
“I forgot to mention why we broke up.”
Willas is quick to come to his defense—he is a gentleman, after all. “That’s
fine, Jon. I don’t want to push you into revealing anything that might make you
uncomfortable. What’s in the past is in the past.”
“Well…” Jon winces. “…it might not have remained in the past.”
"What do you mean?"
“The reason I broke up with my ex is because I found out he was my cousin. You
know, the guy Oberyn is currently having dinner with and might still be in love
with me.”
***
“I apologize, Robb.” Oberyn sits down and pours himself a glass of wine. He
ignores the sweaty waiter assigned to them. “There is something about Willas
Tyrell that makes me lose control of my inner beast. That face, that chest,
that ass…you should have seen it when he put on weight. It was like touching a
cloud.”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Robb soothes. “We are both men here. I,
too, feel something whenever I set my eyes on J—just the right person.” He
takes a bite of his appetizers to cover up his mistake. Once he swallows, he
asks Oberyn about his girlfriend. “How does she feel about your passions?” Robb
has heard rumors but—.
“Oh, Ellaria loves Willas. She is always asking me: ‘when will Willas visit
again?’ and ‘what is Willas up to?’ She asks for his cock almost as much as
mine.”
Robb is glad he had the sense not to drink when he asked that question. “Oh, so
Willas has shared a bed with you before?”
“Many times,” Oberyn expresses proudly. “We were lovers—all three of us. Having
him within our circle fulfilled us in a way we could have never predicted.”
“Is that so?” The bubbles of joy gurgle within his throat. He knew there was no
way Willas Tyrell was as perfect as his sources made him out to be.
“Yes, unfortunately, Willas’ grandmother was the thorn to blossoming love. She
refused to believe we were happy and overtime, poked holes in our sails. We
remain companions of the soul, but our bodies have not met for some time.”
“My condolences.” The only thing worse than a sexual deviant was an adult
pushover. Robb records “prone to emotional manipulation by his grandmother.
“Yes, but…” Oberyn smirks. Even the evil is enchanting on his disgustingly
handsome face. “Willas has never been able to forget me. He longs for the touch
of a real man and none of his lovers have ever sufficed. Jon is no different.”
There is a pause. The mood sours. Robb’s tightens his grip on his wine glass.
“What do you mean?”
“No offense to your cousin. He is as you described: beautiful. But a pretty
face is not enough to keep a man like Willas Tyrell. He needs more…how do you
say? Substance. Someone as ill-equipped as Jon will never be enough to satisfy
him.”
“Oh, he is plenty equipped,” Robb snaps. “Not to mention, thoughtful and loving
and independent—perhaps Willas can learn consideration while he is with Jon.
After all, the man is shameless enough to kiss his ex in front of the man he is
supposedly courting.”
Oberyn slams his glass on the table. “Willas Tyrell’s heart beats with the call
of compassion and his tongue is soaked with wit. Your Jon, a bore if I ever met
one, should feel lucky to be in his presence.”
“My Jon is the epitome of wild wolf dashing through the snow covered mountains.
He cannot be tamed—unlike your Willas, who lets his family run his life and
brainwash his heart so that he hurts the people he loves most. My Jon cares
about people and would do what is best for them, not what is best for him.”
“No me jodas—My Willas is loyal to his loved ones and welcomes a good future
with every step he takes. There is nothing wrong with his decision making. He
has taken more burdens than men twice his age and refuses to resent those who
shape his identity, for better or for worse.”
“If he even has an identity,” Robb scoffs. “He is a Tyrell. His grandmother
makes his identity.”
“Shut your whorish mouth, cabron. I would rather he be loyal to his family than
some heedless tramp who crawls into any bed that has silk sheets. Or did you
not think I would not do my own research on your cousin? The boy has a habit of
fucking rich men.”
Robb stands up. “Are you trying to insinuate something, Oberyn Martell?”
Oberyn follows suit. “I thought I was saying it, Robb Stark.”
***
“He is fucking crazy.”
Willas laughs heartily and encourages the waiting server to leave behind the
bottle of wine and asks for another on the way. The man leaves them alone to
perform the task.
Jon continues his story, “He brings out all these story boards—and I remind
you, we weren’t together at this point—and there are these pie charts about the
money we would save on shared living expenses—never mind that Robb has never
worried about money in his life. And that wasn’t the worst of it.”
“There’s more?”
“He had my credit score and bank statements aligned next to the board
containing the statistics. And the data? ‘The benefits of having frequent sex’
and ‘reasons why orgasms are more easily attained with a regular partner.’” Jon
wipes away a tear. He cannot remember the last time he laughed so hard. “But I
ended up saying ‘yes.’”
“To moving in or being his boyfriend?”
Jon drinks the last of his wine. “Both, I guess.” He smiles to himself. “He
calmed down over time and I don’t want you to think he’s…Robb is amazing. He is
the best person I know. He—”
“I get it.” Willas genuinely gets where Jon is coming from and the empathy is a
relief. “Oberyn is the same way. I mean, he’s interfered with every single
relationship I’ve had for the last five years—”
“Five years?”
Willas laughs. “Ever since we broke up, he’s been begging for me to return. He
checks out all my lovers and proves to me they aren’t good enough. Says if
they’re not willing to fight for me, then they are not worth my time. Turns
out, a lot of men don’t want to compete with a handsome, practically mad,
world-traveler with an inheritance and a criminal record.”
Jon wonders where they find these guys. “Please tell me he was a drug-dealer or
something mild like that.”
Willas grins.
Jon laughs; tipsy from the alcohol and in the mood for a bit of frisking.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“I guess I like bad boys.”
Jon smirks. “I thought you didn’t have a type.”
Willas hums and finishes the last of his wine. “I lied.”
Their server returns with their bottle. He opens it for the both of them and is
about to pour when Willas stops him. “We can take it from here.”
“Sir, it’s customary for—”
“I said it is fine.” Willas gets up. “Please hand my date the bottle. I think
we would like a stroll in the gardens. Please have our appetizers sent to the
patio. I know it’s a bit late to start filling up but I prefer something to eat
before I pass out on liquor.” He winks at Jon. “Let’s take a walk. We can
escape from the back so they don’t see us.”
Jon swipes the bottle out of the waiter’s hand and grabs the glasses. Roses are
not in season this year, but Jon appreciates a good lily every now and then. He
pours them another glass of wine. Feeling bolder than ever, Jon asks Willas why
things didn’t work out with Oberyn.
“Besides the fact that he’s, how did you describe Robb? Fucking crazy?”
Jon chuckles. “Yes, besides that.”
Willas swirls his wine. “Oberyn has a longtime girlfriend—Ellaria. She happens
to be the mother of his four children.”
“Oh.” So it is one of thosethings.
“She is wonderful. I’m not particularly fond of the female form but there is
something about her that makes me smile.” And Willas does smile in her memory.
“I’ve been friends with Oberyn forever. One thing led to another and we…slept
together. I don’t know why I thought he’d keep it a secret—he doesn’t keep
anything a secret from Ellaria, or me for that matter. She wasn’t angry. She
wasn’t even threatened. She asked me to join them one night so, out of fear and
curiosity, I did.”
“Ah.” So it is not one of thosethings.
“One night turned to many nights which turned into more nights alone with
Oberyn and some nights just cuddling with Ellaria and their children. And…I was
so young then. We talked about traveling the world together and their children
and buying our own home and it was a dream…”
“But some dreams don’t come true,” Jon finishes. “And some dreams become
nightmares.”
“And nightmares can become a reality.” Willas chuckles. “Ellaria may not be his
only but she is his one. Being Oberyn’s third is not worth the humiliation
towards my family and it is not worth my reputation.” Willas sighs. “So I told
Oberyn it was over and he didn't believe me. He blamed my grandmother. And all
this time, he's been pursuing me, trying to get me to change my mind."
"I could have told you he would do that. That is not the face of a man whose
been told 'no' often."
Willas laughs. "I guess not. But Jon, I made a choice and I chose me. I chose
my family.”
“Do you regret it?” Jon whispers.
Willas’ expression is sad, but there’s no shame in his answer. “If Oberyn were
to get on his knees tonight, I would still say no. I love him, Jon. But I can
live without Oberyn and Oberyn can live without me. There’s no shame in doing
what’s right over doing what feels right.”
Jon swallows to soothe his dry throat. Willas sees his distress and lends a
comforting hand. “You made the decision to protect Robb over protecting your
heart. Jon, feeling remorse is not the same as making the wrong decision. I
never wanted to hurt anybody. It took a long time for me to get over Oberyn—I
still get lightheaded when I’m around him—but I moved on. I am here with you
because I think we can have a future together.”
Jon meets Willas’ eyes and they are full of hope and wonder—just like Robb’s.
Willas kisses him at that moment. There’s less passion and more sweetness,
kindness with every suckle and lap. When they part, the world is calm. Willas
cradles his face.
“If we cannot have who we want, then let’s be with the people we need.”
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter: Targaryens are back in the picture. I found a way to
     lengthen the chapter to actually be eventful. Next next chapter: Arya
     gets her story arc—and we finally get motherfucking Tywin Lannister
     and a yacht and sexiness (there will be warnings—don’t worry if it
     squicks you out) and more Jaqen H’ghar!
     2. Next week, there will be no update. I have my LSATs on the 3rd (my
     plan B if my writing career does not work out). Originally, my plans
     were to update last week, update this week, skip a week, and have the
     following week enter Arya’s story arc. Then, I got sick and my plans
     were derailed.
     3. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and Happy Thanksgiving! Or Happy
     Black Friday today. I do not celebrate Thanksgiving so my amount of
     care is very low.
***** Chapter 37 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Turns out, being fucked doesn’t feel as good without the fucking involved.
Instead of whisking Jon to his five-star resort for a night filled with
wreckage and ravishment, Willas decided that the best thing for them is to
allow each other space. He believed that by restricting their intimacy to deep
conversations about their exes and dark chocolate bombe, they would improve
their understanding of one another. "Don't get me wrong," Willas soothes. "The
reveals tonight made m more interested than ever, but I think that both of us
are too overwhelmed to take their relationship to the next level."
Jon disagreed; Willas was about as misguided as the Cuban Missile Crisis if he
thought that leaving Jon alone was going to do either of them good. More than
ever, Jon needed the physical reminder of being wanted. He hid his lustfulness
underneath his solitary exterior, but he liked being touched, fondled,
manhandled. In spite of his protests, Willas refused Jon’s plundering tongue
and made the decision for both of them.
When he gets home at ten at night instead of three the next morning, Aunt
Catelyn is horrified. She asks him what went wrong. “Nothing.” She asks if
Willas was impotent. “No.” The erection in the limo proved otherwise. She asks
if he wants to talk about it. “Definitely not.” Then, she pauses and asks if he
needed advice on how to sleep with a man with a handicap. 
“Oh, gods no.”
“It is alright, Jon. When your uncle was on a medical discharge, he and I
figured out numerous ways to work around his broken leg. I can teach you right
now, and we can call Willas and get you in his bed before sunrise.”
“Aunt Cat, I am going to my room and forgetting you said that.”
“You are Lyanna’s son. You cannot be disturbed that knowledge!” She shouts as
he walks up the stairs.
An hour later, Jon overhears Robb coming home. He makes quite an entrance—the
door slamming and cursing spittle variety. Aunt Cat is livid. Jon hears her
hiss, “What did you do?” to which Robb replies, without an ounce of shame, “I
defended Jon’s honor.”
Catelyn’s reaction makes it clear to everyone but Robb that it is the wrong
thing to say. There is a great deal of rumbling and stumbling and unintended
threats. Aunt Cat says something about bruises and black eyes—and Jon thinks:
what did Oberyn do to him? Then he wonders, in growing horror, what did Robb do
to Oberyn? He hears his name being mentioned, and Jon shivers from hearing
Robb’s husk. Of course, Robb would get into a fight over Jon—Jon has been back
for less than a month, and he is already destroying Robb’s reputation. The boy
is fighting; he is ruining potential business alliances and it is all because
of Jon. Catelyn uses the phrase “consequences of his actions”—and Jon grabs a
pillow to blocked out the rest of the argument.
***
The next morning, he calls in sick for work. Stannis is not amused—he asks Jon
to come over regardless. If one of the kids get pneumonia, Jon will have to
take care of them anyways so he might as well risk it. Davos hears the offer,
reprimands Stannis’s counteroffer, and then agrees to take the day off instead.
There are no significant meetings and he can afford to play with his children
instead of politics with Stannis.
 He asks Jon if he is alright and his concern makes Jon regret lying. 
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” he promises.
“Ah, the mysterious one-day flu.” Davos chuckles. Jon knows he’s been caught in
his lie. “No problem. This might actually be a good thing. We haven’t been
spending enough time with our children. I think once Stannis sees how much fun
we had without him, he’ll finally be persuaded to take a day off for himself.”
Jon sighs in relief. “Thanks, Davos.”
“You take care of yourself.”
Jon says he will but doubts whatever is going on with him can be fixed.
Without the pressures of employment, Jon uses his free time to do a few things
he hasn’t done in a while. He calls up his friends and starts wondering if they
are alive or not—all in jest. He calls up Sam first but as customary of medical
students, he is busy. He moves on to Ygritte and as expected, she mocks him for
his ruined fairy tale. There's a moment in her criticism where she takes her
insults a step too far and ends up apologizing awkwardly when she realizes his
feelings were genuinely hurt. She offers to visit him for a night out and
promises to bring Tormund—who is the best at making Jon forget his
troubles—never mind that he does so by bringing in more trouble. Jon ends up
taking a drive and finding a café, making more phone calls and catching up on
other people’s lives. He settles into a pattern and what unnerves him is whole
the entire situation feels out of place—as if he were looking at himself
through a window. Jon wonders why that is. He and his friends always lived
apart. They used to make these kinds of phone calls all the time. Little
tidbits of information passed through their ears like migrating geese that
somehow always find a way back to one another.
Yet, it feels wrong, somehow.
He orders eggs benedict. While waiting for his food, Sam returns his phone
call.
“Jon? Is that you?”
“Hey, Sam.”
“Hey!” Sam cheery, albeit nervous, greeting makes Jon’s stomach settle
somewhat. “It’s good to hear from you again. I heard from Ed that you’re back
in Yorkshire for the summer?”
News travels far too fast within their circle. “Yeah, I’m just having breakfast
right now. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m on my break. Not my real one—no one’s been able to get a break these
days.” Sam whispers into the phone, “A lot of our oldies are beginning to ‘fall
off the bandwagon’ and you know, not get back up. Forever.”
Jon wonders if it is in bad humor to chuckle. Ever since Sam's father disowned
him, Sam has been working as an orderly at a five-star nursing home. The older
boy rarely had a free moment between his job, his pursuit of a medical degree,
and his new family. In fact, Jon is surprised he even found time to call back.
He sits back and listens to Sam babble on and on about Gilly’s new bakery job
and his son’s first words. “He’s gotten so big, Jon, you have to come visit!”
Sam loves talking about his son—and Jon will never say otherwise regarding the
lineage—and treats his girlfriend like she’s the last diamond in the world.
They live on the site of the nursing home—an impossible occurrence if not for
the demands of Aemon Targaryen. Aemon refused to have anyone else caring for
him and as a Targaryen, his demands must be heard at all cost. They gave Sam
everything after that—even paid for his schooling on the condition he works for
them for after he graduates.
“How is Aemon, anyways?”
“Oh, well you know, he’s…Aemon. Wise. Old. But you know his nephew, the
composer you like?”
“Rhaegar Tagaryean,” Jon corrects. “Everyone knows him.” 
“Yeah, he’s been visiting a lot. I thought I’d get you an autograph but we’re
not allowed within two feet of him when he visits. Special measures. Posh
people, you know.”
“Sam, you are posh,” Jon reminds him. He assures Sam there is no love lost.
“The only reason I like him is because my mother used to play his music all the
time—she said it was the only thing that got me to sleep.” Jon shakes his head.
The waitress brings him his orange juice. “I think she just wanted an excuse to
listen him. There’s a song on one of the albums dedicated to her. ‘The She-Wolf
Wearing Roses.’” There was no subtlety there. 
“Seriously?” Sam pauses. “Jon, you don’t think he could be…”
Jon shrugs though his friend could not see him. “Maybe? Either way, he’s
married. He was married when I was born and he is still married now.”
“His poor wife,” Sam mumbles. He must be thinking of Gilly. Jon has to smile.
Sam is more faithful than a dog when it came to the people he loves.
“But you know,” Sam continues on. “Aemon misses you. I mean, he never says that
he misses you but he’s over a hundred and he still remembers you used to work
here. And it was only for a few months! That’s got to count for something. You
should come visit if you’re nearby.”
Jon pauses. The nursing home is located on the outskirts of town. While going
there is far from a visit to the post office, it is not a journey to the center
of the earth, either. It might take an hour, two tops to get there and back. 
The waitress comes back with his eggs benedict. “Yeah…I think I’ll do that,”
Jon replies. “Maybe I’ll get to hear little Sam call me ‘Uncle Jon.’”
He can practically hear Sam beaming.
***.The nursing home is as opulent as he remembered. The Targaryens pay
thousands of pounds a month in donations to ensure Aemon receives the best
possible treatment. They send scouts every other week to observe the facilities
and and sometimes they send in spies. The doctor to patient ratio is 1-5 and
the nurses, double that. There are countless activities, dances, anything they
can do for their patients, they will. Their efforts are wasted on the one they
hoped to impress the most. Aemon spends most of his time in the library, which
have all be stocked with audiobooks and braille translations. 
Jon greets the receptionist—a pretty thing who shouldn’t but somehow still
pleases the old men with respiratory failure and near blindness. She calls Sam
who welcomes Jon with open arms. He warns Jon that he’s still on the clock for
another three hours but they can do lunch. Gilly is bringing something from
work for all of them.
“She’s excited to see you, too! And she’s bringing baby Samwell along,” Sam
gushes.    
Jon rejects the trouble of having lunch brought over to him and offers to pay,
but Sam insists. “I can afford to get you lunch. Besides, you helped me out a
lot when my father let me go. I’m just happy we’re catching up now.” He brings
Jon over to Aemon who was lounging in his wheelchair, reading a book. “You
should spend some time with him while you wait. I told him you were coming.”
Sam wanders off to fulfill his next task and leaves Jon alone with Aemon. Jon
makes no sudden movements. He watches Aemon mutter senselessly about a
particular paragraph and turn the page without vigor. Jon takes the opportunity
to step forward. “How are you enjoying the novel?”
“I’ve read better,” Aemon answers dryly. He is not surprise to hear from Jon
and he does not bother to turn around, either. Regardless where he directed his
attention, his blindness prevented him from seeing Jon. “With the ink, the
words no longer burn into my head. Damn braille.”
“How are you doing, Aemon?”
“Well you know what they say. At a hundred and two, every day above ground is a
good day.”
 Jon bursts out laughing. Another orderly brings Aemon his tea and sets one
down for Jon without him asking. Before Jon could question the action, the man
leaves them alone.  
“Sam told the workers you were a relative,” the man clarifies.
“Oh.” Jon supposes he might as well be. He takes a sip. “It’s good.”
“The people in charge think that buying leaves equivalent to the cost of a
heart transplant will perform the same function.” Aemon hums. “They do smell
nice.”
“So I guess you’re not crazy about this place?”
Aemon shrugs as much as he can. His bones are brittle and movement has become a
hardship. “It’s peaceful,” He answers tactfully.
“It’s boring, you never liked boring.”
“I am not used to it, no.” Aemon corrects. “For over fifty years, I worked in
the police force—started off as a detective. Catching rapists and serial
killers. But then all the technologies started coming in and I thought: ‘Oh,
that looks interesting.’ It helped that my health was waning. They were trying
to get me to put on a desk job. I said ‘no.’ Have you ever heard of the Night
King?”
“Of course.” Aemon has told him the story numerous times.
“The most legendary case of the eighties and I was there. I helped catch him.
It was my first case as a forensics scientist. No one knew what I did. I was an
old man, even then. Mormont, my old partner, would bring all these clues and no
matter what I said to him— ‘Joer, I’m not doing that shit anymore,’ he didn’t
listen. Hated his partner. Allister was a cruel man. The kind of man who liked
to break other men—would be a criminal himself if he thought he could get away
with it, would have if the Mormont wasn’t there. But Mormont and I did it
together. We found him right before he ‘converted’ someone else. A Stark if I
remember correctly.”
Jon rolls his eyes and drinks more tea. Aemon remembers everything and he knew
Jon knew the story by heart.
Benjen was the one who was kidnapped.
Benjen now served on the same police force that rescued him.
A happy ending. 
Aemon grimaces. “The biggest case of the decade is happening right now and I’m
not a part of it. It makes an old man feel nostalgic.”
“They’ll be fine,” Jon reassures. “Besides, dead prostitutes and man-eating
dogs cannot be good for your health.”
“I cannot think of anything better.”
Jon shakes his head in exasperation. Aemon takes the opportunity to talk about
Jon and his career choices. “I heard from Sam that you’re staying for a while.
Have you found a job? You must be restless.”
“I’m a nanny again.”
“And after?”
“There has to be an after?” Jon jokes without feeling the humor.
“Children grow old. Trust me, I’ve been watching men kill the boys in them for
ten decades.” He pauses. “It is rewarding, seeing the people you’ve raised do
well as adults. But it takes a lot out of you. I helped raised my nephews and
nieces, my grandnephews and grandnieces. Tried to protect them. Failed most of
the time but I tried.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jon assures. If he dwells on the subject of family, he fears
Aemon will have another attack. “I was thinking of the police force or maybe
the military for employment. Something active.”
Aemon acts as if he didn't hear Jon. “Your mother is an artist, isn’t she?”
“She’s a photographer, yes.”
“But you never had an aptitude for art?”
“Nope,” Jon laughs. “I never even drew on the walls.”
“How about music? Did you like music?”
“Everyone likes music,” Jon admits. “But I never bothered to learn anything.
That kind of talent takes lessons and I was never in a place long enough to
take them. Never wanted to when I got older, either. I lost my roots and
settled for dancing the wind.”
“And why are you staying now? Here?”
Jon does not answer so Aemon does for him. “Whoever is making you stay must be
someone special.”
Jon denies it immediately. “Just family, Aemon. I’m a Stark, remember?”
“Family is special.” Aemon grabs his cup of tea. The cup shakes. Jon offers to
help him but he refuses. The footsteps from behind indicate Sam’s presence. Jon
turns around and sees Gilly cradling her little boy. The boy cheers.
“Gramp-pa! Gramp-pa!”
Jon coos when Gilly hands Sam over to him. “Oh he’s lovely, Gilly.” The boy
does not appreciate the compliment. He fusses from being in the hands of a
stranger and reaches out for Aemon. “Gramp-pa!” To his credit, he does not cry
but he’s obviously unhappy.
His parents smile nervously. They don’t want to insult Jon by taking him away
but they hate seeing him unhappy. They are doters; Sam and Gilly both vowed to
make sure that little Sam never felt unloved—not like they were. Jon, using his
childcare knowledge, starts lifting the baby up. The bouncing movements
alleviates some of baby Sam’s stress and he begins to giggle. He tries to touch
Jon’s face but ends up grabbing his curls instead.   
“Oh he likes you!” Sam announces. The relief is obvious. Jon stands up and
keeps baby Sam safely tucked within his arms.
“So lunch?” He reminds them. He turns to Aemon and leans down. “Say goodbye to
your grandpa,” Jon suggests. The boy happily obliges with a peck on Aemon’s
balding head. Gilly cheerfully pushes the two men out of the door. They all say
goodbye to Aemon, who waves them off, smiling at the baby boy who calls him
grandpa without a single drop of blood to connect them.
***
Sam kills Jon’s reserve with kindness. After listening to Sam update his life,
he pushes Jon with smiles and comforts. He reminds Jon of their friendship
together—their five years of non-sexual bondage and the comradery they faced
against bullies and poverty (both on Sam’s part). Sam has been there at Jon’s
lowest and has never said a disbarring word against him. Eventually, Jon
relents and tells him everything. From Robb to the Starks to his fight with his
aunt to Willas and all the way to Oberyn.
At the end of his confession, Sam stares at him wide-eyed and gaped-mouth and
asks:
“How did you not know Robb was your cousin?”
A pregnant pause stretches between them. While Jon is figuring out his
explanation, he comes to the realization that Sam knew. 
“What?” Jon manages to stutter out. “How did you know?”
“It was kind of obvious, wasn’t it?” Sam looks at Gilly who pretends not to be
listening. She jumps when Jon catches her gaze and returns to her son. Jon
redirects his attention to Sam, red-faced at the acknowledgement that Sam’s
entire family knew what he didn’t.
“His last name was Stark and he was the same age as your cousin. His picture in
online. I just thought you were trying not to bring attention to it." Sam
winces. "I guess that wasn't the case." 
"No!" Jon protests. "That wasn' the case. I would have never--no!" He takes in
what Sam just told him. "Wait--We?”
“Oh well,” Sam chuckles, his nerves dancing on his tongue. Jon looks horrified.
“We all knew. Me, Ygritte, Tormund, all of us. But we’re British—Kind of
inappropriate to talk about kissing cousins. Like my mum always says ‘keep it
proper, keep it discreet.’”
“So you all knew?”
“Like I said, we thought you were trying to keep things quiet and we love you,
Jon, so we tried to follow your lead. We didn’t think you…you know, didn’t
know.” Sam winces. “I guess we should have known you wouldn’t date your
cousin.”
“Yeah, you should have known that,” Jon grits out. He imagines that's why
Ygritte was laughing so hard on the phone. She knew. He winces and leans back
on his chair. His body is burning with humiliation. He cannot believe that
everybody knew but him. God, he must have looked an idiot.
Sam tries to soothe his concerns. “It’s okay. I mean, yeah, you didn’t know but
it’s not like it’s a big thing. Our queen is married to her cousin and look at
the Targaryens. Now, that’s a family.”
Sam’s words do nothing to comfort Jon. He continues to wallow in his own misery
until Sam tells him that it does not matter—he’s with Willas.
Jon is quiet.
“Jon…you are with Willas, aren’t you?”
Jon groans into his palms. “I…I don’t know. I mean, we sort of are, but not
really. We’ve gone on one date and we haven’t made anything official yet.”
“Do you want to—?”
Before Sam can finish his question, Jon lashes out. “I don’t know! I—he’s a
great guy. I don't want to lead him on. He’s smart and funny and charming and
he likes me for me but—”
“But he’s not Robb.”
“He’s not Robb,” Jon repeats. “He doesn’t—I like him, Sam. I like him so much.
But he doesn’t know me like Robb.”
“How well does Robb know you if he couldn’t even tell you were cousins?” Gilly
points out.
Jon glares at her. Gilly looks away. Sam coughs.
“I think what Gilly means is that maybe you aren’t giving Willas a chance
because you’re still hung over Robb?”
“No—!"
Sam gives him a look.
"Okay, maybe.” Jon sighs. “But Robb—Robb knew me. We got each other pegged from
the start. He didn’t act like he knew me when he didn’t and sometimes—sometimes
it was aggravating because…” Jon takes a deep breath. “He could tell what I
wanted even if it wasn’t what was right but he could always convince me to do
it. Just let myself be happy. So I did and…fuck—”
“Language,” Sam coughs. He gestures over at baby Samwell.
“But I liked it. I liked being his. I liked belonging to someone.” His mother
would be crying tears of blood if she heard him.
“You don’t think you could ‘belong’ to Willas?” Sam winces when he uses the
word. He hates those types of terms—those possessive pronouns over people. Jon
was there when Sam took Gilly from her abusive home; when he stood up to her
rapist of a father and told him, in one of his greatest acts of bravery, that
Gilly was a ‘girl not a goat’ and deserved to make her own decisions.
“I don’t think I have much to offer Willas other than companionship.”
“That’s not a small feat, Jon.” Sam sounds so hopeful. “We all need someone in
our lives. I don’t know what I would do without you. And I think I’d die
without Gilly or baby Sam. They’re everything to me.”  
Gilly drops Sam’s bottle. She stumbles to pick it up, but even at a distance,
Jon can see her flushed skin and elated smile. He catches Sam’s fond expression
and wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Who would have thought that Sam
Tarly would be his relationship goal?
“Yeah, but with Willas, I don’t know if we can make something together. I feel
like with him, I’ll be riding the passenger seat not building the car.”
“It could be because he’s older,” Sam suggests. “Older men have everything put
together. It’s easier with Robb because you were at the same place.” He smiles.
“Which is nice but some things aren’t easy, Jon. Good things require work.”
“I know!” Jon does. He has chosen his battles based on the effort worth
fighting them and the casualties involved. “I’m…I…I never thought I wanted a
relationship and now romance is encompassing my life in the most unsettling
manner. I don’t know how to handle it. If I should handle it." 
"Why wouldn't you?" Sam leans forward. "You are worth it, Jon. I hope you
understand that." 
Jon wants to and he starts delving into the pros and cons of entering another
relationship. Sam allows Jon to stew in his own loathing. He offers more pieces
of advice; some of which Jon takes to heart and other pieces he throws to the
dogs. At the end of it, he still is not any closer to his decision.
***
Ever since Elia found the photographs in his study, Rhaegar has been boiling in
more hot water than he cares to confess to. Elia has never been an aggressive
woman—taking more after her eldest brother than her younger, but she can give a
man ice burns with her passive transgressions. During their little games—Elia
hates it when he calls them that—Rhaegar takes one of two approaches: he’ll
either make herculean attempts of seduction or he’ll respond with the same
iciness. When he received his uncle’s phone call, one that indicated his poor
health and inability to attend Daenerys’ wedding, his decision was made for
him.
Rhaegar has been in North Yorkshire for over a week now. Elia is livid but she
says nothing; not a peep or disagreement that her husband is frequenting the
town of his former mistress. He’d be lying if he said he was not hoping to
catch a glance of Lyanna, but he knows she’s in France. He spends his time
walking through gardens and acquiring inspiration through nature; he travels
through every block, trying not to get seen. Fortunately for him, Lyanna’s
childhood home prizes its discretion—a reason their affair was able to go along
as much as they did.
Today, he makes a visit to his uncle to inquire about his health. He’s hoping
for a miracle. Aemon loves Daenerys and while not a significant figure in her
life, he desperately wants to attend her wedding. Daenerys does not fault him
for not taking care of her the way he did Rhaegar; his health had declined too
heavily by the time she was born. Yet he tried, and his efforts damn well saved
Rhaegar’s life from his father; the cruel, ‘Mad King’ as they called him.
And if it weren’t for his uncle, he would have never met the love of his life,
what with all the times he visited the town.
Rhaegar is humming to himself when he arrives. He is mindlessly going through
different tunes, organizing percussions and strings in his head, trying to
settle on a possible new piece. He parks his car in his usual guest spot. None
of the notes sound worthy enough to be put on paper. He walks pass an
individual on his way there; his head is in the clouds. His eyes only catch a
glimpse of the body of curls before the song writes itself in his head and he
stops dead in his tracks. He turns and stares.
Rhaegar is immersed at the sight of hair that bounces like curls of chocolate
and pale flesh with veins resembling blue roses in a stream. He hears sharp
violins and a flute ensemble luring the snow out of the clouds so that it can
rest on the flowers like dew. He hears the powerful cellos vibrating through
the thick trunks of oak and ivy. He hears animals snoring on their first night
of slumber and he wants to hear the song; he wants to hear it so badly and let
it guide him through the woods like a wolf.
He hears Lyanna's laughter.
Rhaegar acts on impulse. He runs up to the boy—he cannot call out his name
because he doesn’t know it. He is a stranger to this boy and he doesn’t want to
be. “Wait!” He yells instead. “Stop!” As he is running, the boy is already
getting into his car. The boy turns it on without hearing the dashing stride or
the proclamations for hesitance. He has too much on his mind but Rhaegar will
not let it deter him.
By the time Rhaegar catches up to him, he is prepared to leave. Rhaegar is
desperate so he thinks like a desperate man. He chases after the car and before
the vehicle can accelerate, he throws himself on the bumper and slides up
against the windshield.
The boy’s first words to him are 'what the fuck.' He is elated to hear his
voice. Soft, but deep. 
In spite of the sore arms, tender muscles, and blood rushing down his head—he
might have a concussion—the music is still playing. He looks into the boy’s
eyes and finds out that they are grey—like Lyanna’s.
Rhaegar is wistful. Before he passes out, he notes that the boy even sounds
like her when she is angry.
***
Jon bangs his head on his steering wheel.
He recognizes the man immediately and picks up his phone to call Sam. Before
the heavy-set man can answer, Jon interrupts him.
“Sam…I think I just killed Rhaegar Targaryen.”  
***
Arya Stark thirsts for drama like succubus after sex. She would have loved to
hear about Jon’s escapade when he got home. It’s not every day her favorite
cousin performs a hit on one of the most famous men in the world.
Unfortunately, tonight Arya would receive no such message as she receives an
urgent call from Syrio instead. Tywin Lannister called. And he wants their
troupe to perform at his campaign party. The sum he offers as a donation is
excessive and extreme like all things Lannister and it makes Arya wet and livid
to hear it. Syrio, who knows nothing about their relationship, is eager to get
her on a train. Tywin has already booked her ticket in first class. He has
prepared her hotel room. He pulls the strings and they follow along.
Arya’s fingers move ahead of her pride and she texts her entire family the
details. She calls a cab before she packs her bags and gets ready to head out.
The entire thing is rushed and aggravating and it makes her want to scream.
Tywin likes that.
Tywin likes pushing her to the limit because he believes it makes her shine
like gold.
Jon does not get her text until later tonight.
She isn’t there to comfort him on the biggest news of his life and she will
live to regret it when she finds out that Jon met his real father on the same
day Arya goes back to the man who took her virginity.
Chapter End Notes
     1. If I could describe myself in two words, it'd be: hot mess. I'm
     just all over the place right now. Update times are going out the
     window, plans are being thrown around, lots of bubble wrap in my
     life.
     2. Rhaegar was supposed to talk with Jon this chapter but I got tired
     and couldn't finish. It's happening next chapter.
     3. ARYA ARC IS ABOUT TO COME UP. Tywin is there. I got a request for
     a little Jaime/Brienne so we are popping that shit in there for the
     shits and giggles. More Jaquen. Maybe Gendry will row in there. I
     don't know.
     4. Adulting sucks. Don't ever do it.
***** Chapter 38 *****
Chapter Summary
     The Arya Arc has officially started.
Chapter Notes
     Warning: Arya and Tywin's have a weird overtly sexual thing going on
     here but nothing explicit. Might be squicky regardless because Arya
     is underage but this is me and I don't care too much as long as it is
     fiction.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Fourteen girls on a train and not one of them can disrupt Arya’s thoughts. Her
frosted exterior contrasts the bubbling excitement of her fellow dancers. No
one is upset by the short notice—they are eager to perform. The campaign dinner
for a prime minister nominee introduces a herald of sponsors and donors—people
who have sway in the dancing world by merit of means alone.
For the first hour, Arya caroled with the rest of the girls. She giggled at
their jokes. She made exclamations of her delight before settling into her
thoughts for the rest of the trip. She still had two hours to go before they
made their way to the hotel.
Despite their numbers, the girls were given ample room with their first class
cabins and two personal cars for their use. Arya had to share with another girl
but as long as it wasn’t Waif, there was still a chance she’d wake up if she
dozed off. Jorelle is considerate enough. She leaves Arya alone and chooses to
spend her ride on her iPad over her phone. Arya is left alone to her thoughts.
She thinks about London and more specifically, Tywin Lannister.
Arya has not seen or heard from Tywin Lannister in over a year. Regardless, she
has heard of Tywin—heard of his prime minister nomination, his various business
expenditures, and his brutal corporate takedowns. More than once, she has come
to contact with a rumor regarding his intention to overthrow the Starks from
their hold in the security market—all to no avail.
Arya keeps herself clear from such nonsense. She chooses not to think about
Tywin at all. She pretends not to know what he sounds like when he is inside
her or how his hands feel on her tiny little waist. Arya has spent months
forgetting his fingers prying her open, how he instructs her because he doesn’t
have the strength to maneuver her the way he wants. Arya never minds putting in
the extra effort if the outcome is worth it. Tywin Lannister, for all his
brittle bones and delayed refractory period, is  worth it.
Because Tywin Lannister fucks like the lion he resembles and Arya could not
have had a better teacher in that regard.
Arya makes a little from the memory.
“Is something the matter, Arya?”
Arya jumps. She turns to see Jorelle staring, a bit taken back by her surprise.
She smiles and waves off her concern.
“I’m just thinking about London,” she half-lies. She looks out the window of
the train. “It’s been a year since I’ve been there.”
“Oh, I thought your family would make frequent trips there. It’s the financial
capital of Europe.”
“My father does,” Arya clarifies. “And my older brother. But I don’t really get
involved with the family business.”
“Well, it is exciting. Mr. Lannister truly went all out for us.”
Arya scoffs. “He can afford it.”
“True.” Jorelle laughs. “But he doesn’t have to. It’s nice of him.”
Arya says nothing. Nice is not a word one associates with Tywin Lannister. The
lights get brighter and bigger, indicating their diminishing distance from
London. She opens her mouth and without thinking, points out that: “Tywin
Lannister likes to put on a good front.”
“What was that?”
Arya shakes her head. “He’s going all out because he doesn’t want people to
think he’s frugal or cheap. We’re his guests so he needs to put on the facade
of ‘tasteful extravagance.’ He needs people to believe that even those below
him get treated like kings so that he can keep more people below him.” She
shakes her head. “Tywin only cares about keeping appearances.”
“Do you know him?”
“Does anybody really know a Lannister?” Arya replies.
“No! I mean—” Jorelle is hesitant to ask the next question. “How—how well do
you know Tywin Lannister?”
“What do you mean?” Arya raises an eyebrow.
“Arya…you call him ‘Tywin’ not ‘Mr. Lannister’ or ‘Tywin Lannister'—you know,
like a title? You sound familiar with him." 
Oh. Arya wonders how long she’s been doing that or if anybody else picked up on
it. She hoped not. Jorelle was a Mormont—those girls were unnaturally
perceptive.
“I met him a while ago. Last year, after the  Red Shoes  performance.”
“Oh…” Jorelle remembers something. “That’s the performance that made you quit
dancing, right?”
“No, that’s the performance where my mother made me quit dancing,” Arya
corrects. “And I didn’t quit. I just…disappeared for a while.”
“You ran away from home. Everyone was talking about it.”
Arya shrugs. She does not look Jorelle in the eye. She keeps her aloofness
intact because it hides her shame. Instead of answering, she pulls the curtain
together so that the stars outside could no longer look in.
“Arya?”
“I’m taking a nap. Can you wake me up when we get there?”
Jorelle stares. “Sure,” she agrees and puts in her earphones.  
Arya grabs a blanket and tries to get some sleep. Rather, she looks at the red
sheets and remembers the last time she met such redness.
***
Hans Christian Anderson claimed that  The Red Shoes  was inspired a rich woman
who patroned his father to make her a pair of red shoes for her daughter. The
man bound the soles with red silk and leather. When the woman received them,
she threw them back in his face and said that they were trash. In response,
Anderson’s father cut up the shoes in front of her.
The story of the  The Red Shoes  served as revenge; a message to all the
spoiled girls in the world who favored vanity over compassion. Arya remembers
every dig she received after attaining the coveted role. Most of them told her
she was perfect for it—she was a Stark, after all. She has had everything
handed to her for most of her life. Spoiled, privileged, a poseur in the
highest form. She ignored them and choose to admire her new red shoes that her
mother had custom made for her performance.
The shoemaker crafted them with satin and leather instead of silk. The color,
which started off as cherry bright, was darkened with Arya’s blood. She told
her mother—hours before her performance—that the wetness from her sweat. She
lied because a costume malfunction was better than the truth. Someone placed
glass her in shoes the night of her performance. Her understudy, without a
doubt, or maybe another girl who thought Arya was getting too cocky for their
liking.
Arya did not scream when she found out. She merely took them out and powered
through each act. When her mother came to visit her on the interlude, she
smiled and said nothing was wrong. Gave her excuses while her feet bled out. It
was not until the performance was over, her feet worn and washed with iron, did
she allow herself to be admitted to the hospital. She called her own cab. She
told Syrio not to worry. She’s handled worse, she reminded him, despite the
fact that ‘worse’ was not the worst. Before, her injuries were credited to her
exertion and carelessness. This was an attack. Someone tried to hurt Arya
because they were threatened by her.
During the cab ride, she focused on who could have done it. Jorelle and Wylla
were out of the question. Those girls were too honest. Waif liked to see Arya
hurt but she was performing in another city. She could have gotten someone else
to do it—Pyp was as easy as water to influence. She thought long and hard
before her head started to hurt as much as her feet. By the time she reached
the hospital, her body was aching from toes up.
She stepped out of the cab and crumbled to the ground. When the driver asked if
she needed help, she turned him down. A security guard found her bloodied
footsteps leading to the reception desk before she was hustled in by Jaime
Lannister.
***
Arya heard her mother before she saw her. Jaime was removing the last of the
glass shards from her feet. Arya hissed when he cleaned the wounds. The timing
was horrible. Catelyn marched in to see her daughter—strong, bold, fearless
Arya—gasping out in pain. Her father was upset as well but he kept calm. She
was ordered to stay outside.
Catelyn spoke before Arya had a chance to defend herself. 
“Arya, what happened?” Her mother was terrified. She rushed over to check on
her daughter’s prognosis. Jaime was shoved away while Catelyn investigated the
open flesh. Arya took back her limbs and shrugged, downplaying her pain for the
sake of appearances.
“Someone put glass in her shoes,” Jaime explained as he picked himself up. “We
had her X-rayed to be safe but from what I can see there’s no permanent damage.
A few nerves were hit but she’ll recover in time. I give it two weeks.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?” Catelyn asked. She was livid when
she heard Jaime was taking care of her daughter but the sight of him made her
sick. “The man whose actions compromised my son’s well-being?” She was glaring.
“You should be a patient here, not treating them.”  
“Catelyn,” Ned reminded her that they were in public. He walked up to her and
kept a hand on her shoulder in comfort. He was not doing this for Jaime, as
indicated by the menacing glower towards the blond. He held his wife back for
the sake of her own sanity and directed his eldest daughter outside so that she
would not hear the vile droppings of her mother’s tongue.
“Who did this?” Her father asked.
Arya turned her gaze to her father. Her calm disposition was unwavering. “I
don’t know who. It was just a prank.”
“A prank, Arya?” Catelyn looked ready to scream. “Your feet are mutilated! This
is not a prank!”
“I’ve had worst injuries.”
“Not ones that were caused by other people!” Catelyn paced around the room.
Arya watched for a moment before returning her gaze to Jaime.
“Can you finish up?” Arya asked. “I want to hurry up and leave.”
Jaime sighed. He returned to his normal position got started on the gauze. “The
doctor recommended you stay overnight.”
“No.”
“ Yes , Arya,” Catelyn interrupted. “You are staying. And then you are coming
home and we’re going to discuss this and what we’re going to do about it.”
“Syrio is already working on finding the culprit. There’s nothing we can do.”
The alcohol burned her skin.
“You can quit dancing.”
Arya stilled.
“I don’t want you performing anymore. Not with those girls—that environment is
toxic. I am going to inform Syrio tomorrow that I am pulling you out.”
“Absolutely not.” Arya glared. “You can’t make me quit.”
“Yes, I can.” Catelyn’s expression was equally fierce. “I’ve let this go on for
too long. It ends tonight. I’m not letting this happen again.”
“All sports have risk. You didn’t make Robb quit when he got his arm broken in
rugby. Or when his leg got a sprain. How is this any different?”
“Robb’s teammates weren’t putting glass shards into his shoes!”
“Oh, is that it? What about when you tried to get me to quit last year and the
year before that? No one was responsible for those injuries.” Arya got up from
the bed. She ignored the blood seeping out of her feet. Jaime tried to stop her
and she ignored him. “Face it. It’s because I’m a girl and girls can’t handle
these kind of injuries. We’re too weak to withstand the bullying. Robb has to
deal with being the heir, the captain of his rugby team, being your perfect son
and you never said anything about him not being capable but me? I’m too
delicate.  I’m a girl ."
"That is not what this is about—"
"You tell yourself that."
"I am telling you this: you are quitting."
"No!” Arya slammed her fist against the bed. “I’m not quitting. I’ve worked too
hard for this!”  
Catelyn became deathly quiet. “You don’t have a choice,” she told her. Her
voice was like ice.
Arya stood her ground. “I think I do.”
“I won’t supplement your dancing anymore. No more shoes, no more lessons,
nothing. I will cut you off if it means keeping you from getting hurt. You’re
still a minor. Syrio can’t keep teaching you without my permission and I will
be damned before I let you back into that hellhole again.”
Arya froze. She turned to her father who looked away. “Father?”
Ned sighed. “This is going too far,” he told her. His voice was soft, yet there
was an edge to it. She could hear the desperation to get her to quit that did
not equate her mother’s but was present. “You are talented young woman and can
aspire to anything. You don’t need this.”
“But—” Arya heard herself choke. “I want this.”
Ned looked away.
Having won the battle, Catelyn turned her attention to Jaime. “I want different
nurse to tend to Arya.”
Jaime looked down. “Mrs. Stark—”
“I will not have the same man who cost my son his legs to be helping my
daughter. Get me another nurse.”
Jaime looked down.
“Get me another nurse,” Catelyn repeated. “I’ve heard your excuses and I will
not forgive you; not for a second. I—”
“I want him to stay,” Arya interrupted. They turned to her. Tears welled up in
her eyes. “I want you all to leave.”
Ned tried to reason with her. “Arya, you’re hurt. We’re not going to leave
until we know you’re okay.”
“Leave!” Arya yelled, louder. Sansa jumped. She had been quiet for so long that
when she protested Arya’s anger, she only received more rage. “Leave! I don’t
ever want to see you all again! Just go away!”
There was hesitance. Arya got frustrated to march to the other side of the room
and bloodied the floors like a painting. The image made her parents sick. She
furthered her uncouth behavior by throwing the vase at the other side of the
room. She was careful not to hit anybody. She wanted to make a statement. They
obeyed her order. They were escorted away by an orderly while Arya returned to
the bed.
Before they left, Catelyn told Arya that she loved her. “I’m doing what’s best
for you.”
Arya refused to answer. She knew the moment her mother left her room, the red-
haired woman would burst into tears. Arya shut her eyes and swallowed a sob in
response. After a few more moments to herself, she returned to the bed. She
looked into Jaime’s eyes and told him to get to work.
Jaime was quiet when he helped her. He bandaged up her left foot.
“Judging by your silence, you still have a guilty conscience for what
happened.”
Jaime said nothing.
“Good.”
Jaime looked up and saw that even with her tearing eyes, she held a striking
gaze. “You don’t deserve peace,” Arya told him. “I want you to take care of me
so that you remember what you did.”
Jaime, who was born proud and ignorant and with all the luxuries of the world
but none of the drive to keep them, told her he didn’t care. “I made a mistake.
Mistakes happen. I got over it.”
“You’re a lying piece of shit.”
Jaime stared back at her with dead eyes.
“My mother did the research. She never believed in coincidences. She looked
into every nurse and doctor tending to Bran that day. Guess what she found out
about you?” Arya’s tone was mocking. She smiled. She wanted to hurt Jaime the
way she had been hurt and she was good at it. She lacked the conscience to feel
for other’s pain when she was consumed with her own hatred. “You weren’t
supposed to be working. You had PTSD and got addicted to pain meds for your
hand. You were supposed to be recovering. But you decided that instead of being
secreted away to a cushy rehabilitation center paid for  by your daddy , you
applied to a hospital to spite him. You got the medication mixed up. Bran’s
body didn’t like the combination you made, did he?” Arya’s smile turned into a
snarl. “You fucked up my brother for life.”
Jaime was used to excuses. He had been making them his whole life and could not
help his defense from coming out. “He would have been paralyzed anyways.”
“Reports can be wrong.  You  were wrong.”  Arya stuck out her feet. “Finish the
job. And then get my X-rays.”
“Why?” Jaime asked. He could not stop the venom from seeping through his lips.
“You won’t be able to dance after this.”
“Finish. The. Job.” Arya looked him dead in the eye. “Or are you too high for
that?”
Jaime did as he was told. During the entire process, he did not utter a single
word in her presence. He seethed in his own self-loathing and visible hatred,
but kept silent. Arya had her own secrets to bear.
***
Before her parents had a chance to coax Jon on their side, Arya called her
favorite cousin. She explained to him what happened. She told him she needed
someone on her side. “Jon, this is my dream. They cannot expect me to give it
up.” Then, in a quiet, more insecure voice, she asked if she could stay with
him. “Would you have me?”
For the longest time, Jon was silent. “Arya, are you crazy? I can’t believe you
would ask that.”
Arya’s could feel her heart plummet into the bottom of her stomach.
 “You’re always welcomed by my side, Arya.” Jon sounded so sincere. “You don’t
even have to ask.”  
She breathed as if air was a luxury she would never have again. “I love you,
Jon.”
“I love you, too.”
Arya’s heart fluttered in the loveliest way. Her own longing was replaced by
irritation when she heard the pop-up on her phone, warning her that she was
running out of batteries. She didn’t have a charger on her. One of the nurses
might but it seemed silly to call them in for that purpose. “Jon, my phone is
dying. Can I call you back later?”
“Yeah. Looking forward to it.”
Arya could not help but smile. She got off the bed. Her feet still hurt. The
bandages made it hard to move. She shouldn’t have been walking but there
weren’t any crutches in the room and she wanted to speak to Jon again.
Fortunately for Arya, the halls were empty of nurses ready to drag her to bed.
She looked through the glass doors and found nothing except sleeping or
possibly comatose patients. Maybe even a dead guy. Eventually, she came upon
the nurses’ lounge. One of them must have a charger, she thought.
She made a creak in the door and heard arguing. Instead of retreating
elsewhere, Arya opened the entrance way further to peek in. She saw Jaime
Lannister fighting with an older, more distinguished version of himself.
He must be Tywin Lannister, Arya thought. She’d only seen him before at parties
and back then, she was a child. Even from afar, she could tell that both men
were trying to keep their frustrations at bay.
“You think you know everything.” Jaime slammed his mug onto the table. Both his
hands—even the artificial one—was shaking. “Has it ever occurred to you that
you might be wrong? That I might know what’s best for me?”
“The thought might have crossed my mind if you ever gave precedence to do so.”
Tywin glanced at his hand. “All your life, you’ve let yourself be influenced by
others. First it was your sister, then your brother, and now your girlfriend
tells you what to do.”
“Brienne doesn’t tell me what to do,” Jaime defended. “We’re equals. Do you
know what that word means?”
“I am aware of the denotation.” Tywin’s sarcasm is light and poignant. He
doesn’t try as hard as other people to sound smart. Arya respected such a tone.
“Nonetheless, it is hard to believe when one takes into account your actions.
You’ve moved here on her request. Got a job here as a  nurse —at least there
was some respectability when you were a doctor but a  nurse —because she wanted
you to. Got your hand blown off—”
“That was not Brienne’s fault!” Jaime took a deep breath. “I already told you.
My group made a miscalculation. None of us were responsible for missing that
bomb. And I moved here because I wanted to get away from this family. It was
the furthest I can go.” He let out a laugh. “I’ve never been a good person. But
Brienne makes me believe I can do good things.”
Tywin scoffed. “You must be doing a world of goodness,  Nurse Lannister .” He
pronounced the title like sewage.
“I can’t be a surgeon with one hand,” Jaime repeated. “And doing work keeps me
grounded.”
“Because you want to be normal.” Tywin hated the sentiment. “You are not an
average man, Jaime. You are a Lannister. You could have been so much more and
yet you are here—stuck in the north, drawing blood from the old and the
feeble.”
“And one day, I will be sticking a needle into you.”
“You will have to compete with your brother for that opportunity.”
Jaime  stood up to get ready for another round. “Listen, I don’t want to go
home and I don’t want to take over the company. I don’t need you anymore.”
Tywin remained silent for longer than Jaime has ever heard him. He was prepared
for scathing response. He was not disappointed.
“You don’t need me now,” Tywin agreed. “But that will change, won’t it? Just
like all those years ago, when you were a step away from losing your license to
negligence, because instead of listening to me, you decided to behave like some
corner street whore begging for his next fix.” Tywin snarled at the memory. “I
saved you back then and I will save you again. You were completely intoxicated.
Cost a boy his legs because you could barely count to ten, let alone prescribe
the right medication. I heard that the boy screamed all night. Is that true? Do
you remember that?”
Jaime did. He could not face his father. He looked like a boy again.
“And yet—you have the nerve to say that you don’t need me?” Tywin scoffed.
“You’ve never understood what hard work was—everything you have, I gave to
you.”
Arya took the opportunity to make her appearance. She would have no more of
this nonsense. Her screen was pitch black and she needed to get it charged.
“I don’t hate to interrupt because I don’t care, but I really need to charge my
phone.” Arya winced. The blood was seeping out of her bandages.
Jaime stood up to reprimand her. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
“But I’m not,” Arya reminded. “Because I’m not a fucking invalid and I need my
phone to charge.”
“You’re bleeding on the floor.”
“This is a hospital. If your custodians are not used to cleaning up blood, then
they’re not doing their jobs.”
 Tywin made a noise in between a scoff and a cough to cover up his amusement.
Jaime was about to drag her back to her room—probably kicking and
screaming—when his pager lights up. He checked it and groaned. “There’s an
emergency on the second floor.” He muttered something about his frustrations,
glanced back Arya, before putting the device away. He walked over to a drawer
and pulled out a charger. He tossed it over to Arya. “Here. I’ll be back in ten
with a wheelchair and we’re putting you to bed. Stay seated. Don’t move.”
He was almost out of the room when Arya, in her natural state of snark, told
him, “Thanks,  daddy .”
Jaime’s disgust could be felt across the room. He refused to turn back. He
would only see Arya’s smugness and that was the last thing he needed tonight.
Having gotten her fun, she resumed to her original intention of getting her
phone charged. Arya sighed as soon as she plugged it in. Her boredom
resurrected itself from the ashes of her solitude. Without Jaime, there was no
one to amuse her.
I should have brought a book, she thought, or at least messed with Jaime a bit
more.
With little to no options left, she turned to Tywin. He was waiting for his
son; the man was not finished beating his son’s self-esteem just yet. Like a
cat prowling through alleyways for mindful mice, Arya hopped onto the counter
beside him. Her hospital gown—a thin sheet with nothing underneath—rode up. Her
feet hurt but the intrigue in his eyes made it worth it. She imagined the
expression on Jaime Lannister’s face when he came back to see his father
flirting with a child.
“I assume you’re doing that to aggravate my son.”
“Doing what?” Arya smiled and crossed her legs. This time, she made sure that
he could peek underneath. “We’re waiting for the same person. We might as well
talk and find out if we have other stuff in common.”
“We could talk if you were sitting over there, where you were assigned.”
“But then I couldn’t look you in the eye.” Arya glanced over to the table where
her phone rested before turning back to Tywin. Even supported by the counter,
her eyes reached his neck. He was taller than she remembered. Up close, his
stature made him more intimidating and coupled with his presence, he appeared
every bit the dictator the press accused him of being. It made her want to get
closer to him. “People don’t look you in the eye often, do they?”
Tywin’s lips twitched. “No, they do not.”
“Because you scare them.”
Tywin drew closer to her. Arya kept her gaze firm. “Do I scare you, girl?”
“No.” Arya smiled warily. “But you are quite scary, especially just now.”
“I was being a father.” He told her. “Fathers are responsible for putting their
sons’ head in the right places.” Even if they have to wring their necks in the
process."
Arya laughed. “Yeah, I have a father, too. I have a mother as well. And I can
honestly say that parents don’t always know what’s best for their children.”
Tywin looked over to her feet. The blood was beginning to dry on her bandages.
Arya covered her embarrassment with a smile.
“It looks worse than it feels.”
“I bet it wouldn’t do either if you bothered to take your parents’ advice.” He
studied her features. “You’re the Stark girl, aren’t you? The ballerina.”
“Oh, you’ve heard of me?” That was good to know.  
“Men of my stature are expected to have some knowledge of the fine arts.” Tywin
chose that moment to lean on the counter beside her. “And you are a Stark.”
“Know thy enemy,” Arya mocked. “And yes, I am. Arya Stark,” she introduced
herself. She stretched out her legs mid-air. “And this? This is good. If
someone hurts you, it means you are worth getting hurt.”
“A faulty perspective.”
 “Aren’t you supposed to be a lion?” Arya teased. “Do lions pay any attention
to a three-legged hyena? I would have thought you were above that.”
“True.” Tywin smirked. It was the widest smile she had ever seen on the man.
“If only my children had half your wit.”
Arya heard that the youngest, the dwarf, was cleverer than Jaime or his sister
combined. She dared not a say a word, however. Having caught his attention, she
resolved to keep it. Instead of responding, Arya walked back to her phone to
check on its status. The ten-minute mark had passed and Jaime had not come
back. Her phone was a little over twelve percent. She pretended to be
interested in something and did her best not to get distracted by the man
beside her.
Tywin was not used to being ignored so he acted upon the new sensation. “Aren’t
you supposed to be resting those feet?”
Arya smiled in an indiscreet manner—she couldn’t help it. She always smiled
when she won. She hopped onto the table and kept her feet up. Not once did she
look up from her phone. “There, I am resting.”
“You are incorrigible.” She could hear him walk towards her. Before she could
prepare herself, he became dangerously close. His shadow covered her body and
before she could hide the contents of her phone, he took it from her. He did
not look at the contents; he never gave the impression that he cared. Tywin
placed it screen down on the table.
“It is bad manners to look at your phone when talking to someone,” Tywin
reminded; his voice was low. “Since your parents did not bother to teach you
manners, I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
“How kind of you.” Arya licked her lips. She looked up to Tywin. “Now tell
where will you put those hands?”
“Careful girl,” Tywin warn. “You may be a Stark but don’t think that will keep
you safe.”
Safe? Arya never played it safe. “Are you going to hurt me, sir?” Arya could
never play the innocent angel. She was too busy dealing with the devil. “As you
can see, I am quite used pain.”
“I am aware.” He leaned down and grab her foot. To her surprise, he squeezes
it. The pressure is not painful. Kind of like pushing a bruise to get the flush
of endorphin. “You’re not feeble; neither in body or mind.”
“Not like your son.”  
Righteous anger flashed through Tywin’s eyes. While Jaime infuriated him with
his lack of cunning and drive, he was still his son. Tywin Lannister demanded
nothing less than the utmost respect towards his family.
“You’re a callous thing, aren’t you? A testament of your youth.”
Arya’s eyes narrowed. She wondered where he was going with that accusation.
“You don’t even know enough to be afraid of this world. Your parents sheltered
you yet you believe they’re a liability. You are nothing without your name.
You’re just like my son—no. You remind me of my daughter.”
Arya shoved him away from her. While glaring at him, she noticed that he was
doing everything in his power not to laugh. Arsehole, she swore within the
privacy of her mind, what a fucking arsehole. She got on her feet and ripped
out the charger from the socket. She heard Tywin warn her about taking care of
her health. “Try not to kill yourself. If you pass out from blood lost, that
foolish son of mine will be blaming me.”  
“This is the hospital. If I’m going to pass out anywhere, this would be the
place to do it.”
Arya rushed out of the room. The fury from the comparison made her forget the
pain on her bottom soles. At the same time, it prevented her peripheral vision.
She never saw the collection of wheelchairs for emergencies or the stray
clutches leaning on the window of an empty room. She was livid when she
realized that all she could dream about was Tywin Lannister.
***
Arya was sent home the next day. She refused to sit still while her mother
placed sanctions on her future. Jaime warned her that while she would recover,
she needed to rest for two weeks at minimum for all the nerves to heal. She
began the week off petulant. She was sure her mother would concede to her
demands. When Catelyn remained stoic, Arya switched gears to her father. To her
surprise, Ned did nothing. He agreed that her behavior had been reckless. When
Arya pointed out that she wasn’t the one who put glass shards in her shoes, he
used that as evidence that she should stray away from such a toxic environment.
“These women are supposed to be your friends, Arya. We wanted you to have a
community you could trust. You can’t say that you trust these girls after what
happened.”
“It was one girl.” Wylla and Jorelle kept her updated on the investigation.
There was no luck. “If someone did the same thing to Robb or Rickon, this
wouldn’t be an issue.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Arya.”
Arya huffed and left the room.
On the last week, Arya’s feet were relatively healed. She could walk, run,
dance if she wanted to. Catelyn prepared for the argument but it never came.
Arya stopped fighting. She stopped speaking altogether and reserved her words
for her cousin, Jon. Catelyn recommended a psychiatrist which Arya gave no
opinion about and that frightened her most of all.
Arya was nothing like her siblings when she was depressed. She did not shut
herself from the world—not like Bran after his accident or resolved to use
violence like Robb, who would lash out in the gym on his worse days. She
resumed her familial activities: dinner with the family, going to school, but
there was something unsettling in her calm.
She seemed broken.
To rectify their relationship, Catelyn Stark decided it was time to talk to her
daughter. She brought home her favorite dessert and preferred flavor of tea.
When she knocked there was no sound. When she went in, Arya’s room was empty. A
few of her belongings were nowhere to be found. And there was a note but
Catelyn already knew what was on it.
Arya was gone.
***
The last time Arya went to London, she rode in coach not first class. She
wanted to savage her money as much as she could. She only brought cash to avoid
tipping off her parents. She did not know how long she would be away from home
or whether or not she would return. Calculating everything in her head hurt.
She thought about America instead, where the dance community was larger and
more prevalent than England’s. New York City sounded fun.
If she could get there, at least.
There were a few places that would pay under the table but that was hardly a
source of income. She knew there was a possibility of looking for places that
were hiringthose kinds of dancers and while Arya was not opposed to such
professions, she was positive that any place willing to overlook her age was a
cover for a sex ring.
The second problem was her family. Her parent would be scouring the world for
her and they had the means to do so. Stark security systems were everywhere.
Arya walked pass a security camera. She pushed her hoodie down further.
On her way out of the station, she stopped by a coffee shop and took out her
laptop. She started looking for motels to stay at when she came across a news
article indicating Tywin Lannister’s run for prime minister. He was most likely
going to be their next leader.
Before she booked her room, she stared at Tywin Lannister’s face. He was good
looking and not just for a man his age. She flushed when she thought it. For
gods’ sakes, he was older than her father!
And yet…there was an appeal to him she could not shake off. He was a powerful
man. Powerful men had an allure about them—no one could blame Arya for being
tempted. Her assessment made her realize a key fact she initially overlooked.
Tywin Lannister was powerful enough to protect her from her parents.
Doing her own bit of research, she closed the tab of hotels and instead focused
on real estates in London. Tywin was here on business often. He would not be
staying at a hotel—there were too many risks attached to staying at an unknown
location. He, without a doubt, would have a flat. Some place obscure but grand.
Tasteful in case he had guests. Tywin was not the type to spend money
wastefully but he had an image to maintain.
Two hours and an espresso later, Tywin Lannister heard a knock on his door.
He was surprised to see Arya Stark at his doorstep, no more than two weeks
after their meeting. She handed him a bag of cakes—expensive pastries at
that—and invited herself and her luggage in.
“I thought it’d be rude to show up unannounced without a gift. I hope you
enjoyed them. They smell like heaven’s tears.”
Tywin did not thank her for them. “Why are you here?”
 “I have a propositioned for you,” Arya answered. She sat on his couch and
inhaled the scent leather. It smelled like wealth.
“How did you find me?”
“Dancing may be my trade but I’m still a Stark. This is what we do.” If she
wasn’t trying to get on his good side, Arya would have pointed out that she
only took so long because she wasn’t her brother. He would have found Tywin,
his national ID, and his bank numbers in half the time.
“I see.” To his credit, Tywin does not appear unsettled by her presence. He
fixed himself a drink. “Which means we have to resolve the initial question.
Why are you here?”
Arya fluttered her eyelashes the way she had seen Sansa do. “I wanted to stay
the night.”
Tywin scoffed at her attempt of seduction. “Now why would I let you do that?”
“Because I want to stay in your bed with you in it.” She took off her jacket.
she hoped he could not see past her false bravado. Arya’s palms were sweaty.
Tywin either did not notice or did not care or did want to reveal his own
intentions so he kept his stoicism.
He walked over to hand her a drink. Unlike his, it was a clear liquor. She knew
it was alcoholic, though and thanked him when she took it. She smiled when she
took her first sip, never mind that the bitterness made her want to vomit.
Fuck, that was strong, she thought as she nursed her drink her hands.
Tywin seemed amused by her lack of reaction. He sat down next to her. Arya
wondered if he gave her the stronger liquor in an attempt to lose face.
“I don’t know what gave you the impression I would be interested,” He told her.
“But I don’t fuck little girls.”
“If you could see what I can do with my legs, you wouldn’t be calling me a
little girl.”
“Bodies that haven’t developed yet tend to be more limber.” He glanced over at
her chest. He was far from discreet yet Arya felt no perversion. He was trying
to humiliate her.
Fuck if Arya was going to let him do that to her.
“You know, I heard that my father publicaly renounced you for prime minister.
That must have been annoying.”
Tywin scoffed. “If you’re suggesting that sleeping with his underage daughter
will to lead to rise in the polls and not a jail sentence, you are clearly
unaware of the way politics work.” Tywin finished his drink. “Go home to your
parents.”  
“I don’t want to.”
Tywin was about to tell her that children cannot always have want they want but
she surprised him.
“The satisfaction from sleeping with me won’t come from the reveal but the
secret.” Arya set down her drink. She had no intention of going through with
this drunk like a coward. “This isn’t about sex, even. This is about power. I’m
a Stark. I’m the daughter of a man who could very well cost you this election
with his opinion.” She looked him in the eye. “You’ll be seeing a lot of my
father. And every time you look at him, every time he shakes your hand, he’ll
be shaking the hand of the man who ruined his daughter. Wouldn’t that feel
good?”
Tywin pretended to be unconvinced. He was not expecting any company tonight. He
could use a pretty, clever girl in his bed. “You’d do that to your own father?”
“I love my father,” Arya swore. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And you
won’t say anything. The scandal could cost you a career. This is more of
an…internal pleasure.”
Tywin touched her cheek. He pressed his thumb against her lips—a touch of
wetness from the liquor. “You’re too smart for your own good, has anyone ever
told you that?”
Arya smiled and sucked on his finger for the briefest moment. “Yes.”
***
The car is waiting for them when they arrive to London. Three limos for
fourteen girls and two chaperones. They are taken to a five-star hotel where
the receptionist greets them as if they were landowners from Dubai and have
completely changed their standards on quality service.
Their rooms are marvelous as expected by the hotel’s reputation. Each girl is
given a welcome basket.
Arya picks up her goods and settled onto the bed. Within it, she receives a
welcome letter with an additional message attached. She sighs when she reads
it. It did not take long for her to get off the bed and grabbed her coat.
“Arya, where are you going?” Wylla asks.
“Out. I have to do something.”
 “If you stay out too late, Syrio will get angry.”  
“I’ll be back before he wakes up,” she promises.  
Arya takes the elevator to the penthouse suite. She chuckles at the irony.
This time, Tywin Lannister is waiting for her.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Okay, Jon and Rhaegar did not get their scene in this chapter.
     Writing Tywin and Arya became more fun so I decided to focus on that.
     I decided to keep this chapter ‘sexual tension’ and drama rather than
     humor and ‘self-realization.’ They’ll probably show up eventually.
     2. Oh my goodness, I watched Yuri! On Ice and it is spectacular. I
     kind of regret not making Arya an ice skater. Nonetheless, it is the
     first anime I’ve watched in five years (I usually just read manga
     because I am impatient and don’t like to wait for scenes to happen
     when I can just read it through) and it did not disappoint. It's
     actually making me get used to tumblr because I've been scouring for
     like-minded people.
     3. If Crown the Wolf gets finished in time, I think update times are
     officially back to normal.
***** Chapter 39 *****
Chapter Notes
     There is a sex scene in the beginning with Tywin and Arya. The scene
     begins at (“Tywin does not mention the event in bed”). and ends at a
     five-star line break or, “*****”, instead of three because I wanted
     to make it easily distinguishable. Rhaegar gets really creepy in this
     chapter in regards to Jon. Played for sick laughs.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When doing her A-levels in Psychology, there was this study that fascinated
Arya. Her professor explained that the traits we loved most about someone would
end up being the reason we hate them later on in the relationship. Like how
admiration for one’s ambition becomes spite for their selfishness and how
confidence transforms into conceit once the rose-tinted glasses came off. 
“Our greatest strengths often become our worst adversary,” her father told her
in response to the observation. She was doing her assignment in her father
study—a habit from her younger years. Somehow, she knew she only started it up
again because her father wanted the reassurance she was there. Back then, Arya
stared down at her textbook, ran a finger down the spine, before closing it to
focus on her training. She could always finish her homework in the morning.   
Here in bed, she wonders if the same can be said for Tywin Lannister. She lists
his strengths in her head: ambitious, like her, smart—is scheming a better
word?  He is handsome; age is hardly the inevitable parasite of beauty society
makes it out to be. Powerful, definitely; his presence is enough to make a
lesser person weak-kneed and star-eyed.
Cruel is a more apt description.
There was headliner last year where one of his aides intercepted a potential
assassination attempt. No one was hurt. The bomb was fake. Arya remembered that
she was terrified regardless and called him, in a fit of madness, but hung up
as soon as she heard his secretary’s voice. She supposed he knew—she was so
worried she did not have the sense to hide her caller ID.
Tywin’s cruelty could have gotten him killed. He would have deserved a slow,
violent death—she witnessed so much misery while in his care. The Chambers was
an underground of blackmail and secrets, and Tywin controlled the pipes where
the worse sewage was kept. She should have accepted his death as evitable—not
run to the phone as soon as the possibility became a reality.
Tywin does not mention the event in bed.
His kindness ends with that small mercy. Tywin’s cock is buried inside her,
making these slow, deep pumps into her body, prolonging the pleasure for as
long as a man his age can. Tywin is not as young as he once was. He cannot go
for hours on ends and so he tortures her. He uses his skilled fingers to pinch
her clit and his mouth to suck her tits. Only when her toes curl and her nails
scratch his back does he go further. He bites her left nipple and her pussy
tightens around his cock, milking it for all its worth.  
“Fuck,” she swears. “Go faster.” She regrets his age; if only for the fact that
if he were younger, he could be doing this to her all night. She could feel
Tywin smirk against her breast. He grabs the underneath of her right thigh and
pushes it against her chest. It allows him to go in deeper until she can feel
him against her cervix. He is big—or Arya is small. Either way, he stretches
her to impossible lengths when he is all the way inside.
She starts crying out and unlike her movements, she is loud. Half of it is her
impulse to make a scene. She is a performer, and nothing beats the satisfaction
she receives whenever she sees the look on Tywin’s face, wondering if she is
truly enjoying his vitality or if it is all a farce. The other half is genuine.
Tywin fucks like a beast and Arya loves it. A lot of dominant men are kittens
in the bedroom but not Tywin, who is a lion inside and out.
He won’t last much longer; Arya could tell by the way he fucks her. He is
pulling out, dragging his cock out of her pussy and she could feel the veins of
his cock rubbing against her insides. Almost immediately after, he pushes in a
hard, swift, move. He does this over and over again until she feels herself
breaking.
Arya whispers the words “oh gods” over and over again and shuts her eyes to
avoid the smug look on his face. With a final thrust, he buries himself all the
way to the hilt and she climaxes. She swears she blacked out for half a second.
Tywin releases inside her after. She wants to laugh but it comes out a
guttered, choked moan.
“Of course, this would be the only thing you’d ever want to come second in,”
Arya mutters.
Tywin must have heard her because he chuckles. Arya flushes with pride and she
is embarrassed by her own foolishness. She shouldn’t be proud that she is one
of the few people whose made this cold man laugh, but she is.
Tywin leaves the bed to pour himself a glass of water. He asks if she wants
some and she refuses. “I’d rather have a bath,” she says instead. It’s a
preposterous request to ask the most powerful man in England and yet it is one
she feels well-equipped to make. He walks, bare ass and proud of his flaccid
package, to the bathroom. For some reason, he adheres to her spoiled requests
and for the life of her, she cannot understand why.
*****
The water is hot enough to burn and yet all it does is remind Arya of the
coolness of Port Hercules. She remembers the yacht Tywin chartered for his
guests last year; an unusual extravagance that contrasted Tywin’s tasteful
expenditures but one that disguised the illicit nature of Tywin’s meeting well.
The men he met with were the type of people who did not question the presence
of an underage girl by Tywin’s side. If anything, they encouraged it with their
lewd remarks and the slovenly lick of their lips. She sees her bare fingers and
remembers when that was not the case. Back then, she wore a simple gold ring
with a black turquoise centerpiece. Tywin wanted her to have some degree of
frivolity on her. It added to the show. She mocked him for it but he paid no
mind to her jeers. He bought her a dress instead. To her distaste, she liked
it. It was black and plain, but flattering on her thin body.
“If I wanted a whore, I would have bought one.”
Arya had smiled thoughtfully to herself. “What do you want?” She had asked him.
 
Tywin, as expected, did not answer her.
Even after fucking her, he keeps to himself. He visits her in the bathroom,
dressed in a silk robe that makes it clear he does not intend to join her, and
brings her a glass of whiskey.
Arya thanks him and eyes him warily when he sits on the edge of the tub. She
takes a sip.
“I suppose it’s time for me to ask why I’m here.”
“Then ask,” Tywin agrees. “The role of Daddy Longlegs only works if the
beneficiary is willing to accept her benefits without question. Ignorance has
never been your strength.”  
“Bliss is overrated,” Arya informs him. She sets her glass down and leans over
to where Tywin is. Some of the water threatens to spill over but neither of
them mind. “How is your campaign, Tywin? I heard reelection is almost
guaranteed.”
“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.”  
Arya does not mind the dodge. “It is rather fortunate that after so many
scandals, you still managed to come up on top. After all, who else can the
country turn to but one of the few, organically British leaders of the
financial world? I swear, it’s like Brexit was made to keep you in power.”
“People like to be relieved of their responsibilities when their actions carry
weight.” Tywin brushes a strand of wet hair from her face. “That’s not my
problem.”
“No, it is not.” Arya stares at him. She recalls the observations she made on
the way to the bathroom. She swore she saw a glimpse of red in the closet
covered in plastic. A new dress for a new occasion. All made in the image of
Tywin Lannister. She wonders if he has the ring she returned.
“What do you need me to do?” Arya asks. Solemn without any pretense of
foolishness.   
Just the way Tywin likes it. 
“There’s someone I want you to meet at the fundraiser,” Tywin informs her. “A
man of the Martells. He is here to strike a deal with a CEO of a major
network—a network I hope to get my hands on.”
“And how am I supposed to help with that?”
“The man has perchance for pretty girls; one of the main reasons he’s even
considered attending the event is the knowledge of a dozen young women dancing
for him.” Tywin gets his phone and pulls out a picture. “I need you to spend
some time with him; get an assessment of the amount he’s planning to bid and
lend the assumption that I am not as interested as his sources claim.”
Arya takes the phone from him. “Don’t you have enough money? Is there a purpose
for this besides your ego?”
“You can never have too much power,” Tywin denies. “And I’d be doing them a
favor. The company is in shambles and with my leadership, it’ll finally have
the means to rise up from its potential bankruptcy.”
“Your altruism is astounding.” Arya turns off the phone and hands it back to
him. “But let’s pretend that I do know you. Having a network, however mediocre,
gives you moderate control over the media. Put enough click bait, a few
cleverly disguise controversies that actually illuminate your strengths and
that means hours and hours of free press and instant viewership.”
“A good deed is a good deed regardless of the intentions.”
Arya sighs. She cannot argue with that philosophy. She leans further into the
water and tries to absorb as much of the remaining heat as she can. “I'm not
opposed to helping you nor do I have any longing attachment to the Martells.
But what’s in it for me?”
“Whatever you want within reason and worth,” Tywin answers without hesitation.
Arya smirks. “That’s my favorite answer.”
Tywin seems unsure of whether to chuckle or to sigh. Instead, he tells her,
“I’m not expecting you two to join in congress, though if that produces the
best results, by all means—get the job done and I’ll see what I can do for
you.”
“I have an idea in mind,” Arya informs him. She smiles at him, thinking about
the gold watch she caught on his wrist when she first entered his hotel room.
He had just unclasped it when she jumped him. “It’s customary for dancers to
find sponsorships and do commercial work as a way to further their income. It
has been generally assumed that I plan on using my family’s wealth to avoid
this.”
“And of course,” Tywin adds dryly. “Adhering to ones’ expectations is below
you.” He contemplates her words and asks, “I suppose once you’ve been
indoctrinated to a troupe, you’ll be aiming for exposure. Dancers who are well-
liked by the public tend to receive more lead roles, regardless of their
talent.”
“It is so refreshing not having to explain things to you. Is that how you feel
when you speak to me?”
“You run along the lines.”
Arya finishes up her glass. “I’ll be offered a place after this performance.
Then, I’ll be expected to go through training and make a formal debut in the
following year. It would really help me if I received a sponsorship from a
well-known brand to determine my role.”
“And what do you have in mind?”
Arya takes a moment to think; she even puts on the performance of giving a
thoughtful glance to the ceiling. “Tiffany & Co. has started to use celebrity
clients for their brand. Surely a word from the Lannisters could sway them into
looking in a particular direction for ambassadors." 
Tywin dips his hand into the lukewarm water. “I assume so. We do supply them a
great deal each year.”  He brushes against her lower regions. “Fair enough. You
get me what I want and I’ll make the call.”
Arya purrs when he sticks a wet finger inside her. As ripples of the water fill
her up, she bites her lips and tilts her head backward, losing herself in the
sensations.
***
Rhaegar Targaryen left the car accident with a bruise on his knee and a scrap
of his shoulder and declarations of near death that became nonexistent when a
young man—the visible product of genetic perfection—came into view. Rhaegar
could recognize a Stark anywhere. And when the boy helped him up, he swore the
boy’s curls framed his face in the exact same manner as Lyanna’s did. The most
telling truth came when the Stark turned around to open his car’s door and
Rhaegar was reacquainted with an ass rounder than the moon and bouncier than a
yoga ball. It is an ass he had fondled and obsessed over. An ass that he had
indoctrinated into memory and placed into photographs currently stored in
ironclad safety boxes. An ass like no other. But Rhaegar knew better than to
rely on memory and wayward hopes; he needed to make sure his theory was fact.
Jon feels the hand on his bum before he sees it. Having lived with Robb for so
long, the instinct to protect his bottom is gone. It is not until his left
cheek gets squeezed like a stress ball does he protest.
“Get off me, you pervert!” Jon shouts. He kicks the man in the gut and watches
the silver-haired man crumple to the ground. The composer clutches his gut and
whispers, “Lyanna, you hurt so good.”
Jon freezes.
Fuck, not this again.  
Jon considers the consequences of a hit-and-run and decides that he’s done his
part by calling Sam. He hightails it back into the car and is given a heart
attack when Rhaegar Targaryen creeps between the cracks of his door and latches
onto his lap. Jon yodels like a Swiss hanging from the alps while the man begs
him to reconsider.
“Please…whatever your name is…just…let’s talk. I promise not to press charges
or follow you afterward. Just—” Rhaegar’s ribs are burning. “Let’s have lunch.”
Jon understands that his options are limited. The man is clutching his body
like a life vest. The nurses will be out any second to cater to Rhaegar
Targaryen and everyone will know what will happen by the end of the day—gossip
travels faster than an STD in these groups. While Jon can care less about
what’s said about him, he knows this will not end well for his uncle and aunt,
or his mother for that matter. He sighs and unlocks the passenger door.
“One lunch,” Jon warns.
Rhaegar grins in triumph.
***
Rhaegar takes Jon to a discreet bistro further north, located on top of a farm
and doubles as a bed and breakfast. The wine menu is noteworthy and the décor
tasteful and minamalist—the ideal place to stay with one’s mistress. Rhaegar
orders him a light entrée and a glass to go with it. He is considerate of Jon’s
appetite but disregards the tension building between them. He waits until Jon
has drunk half his glass before asking him any questions beyond the standard
and orders another bottle for Jon to ‘test the flavors.’
Jon is not naïve, nor is he stupid. If anything, he is irritated by the
consideration. He dislikes many things about this man, starting with the way he
scrutinizes his body like a piece of meat. His annoyance is furthered when
Rhaegar orders the dishes without Jon’s approval. His excuses are light
declarations. "I know you'll love it, Jon." "It tastes so good, Jon. I can't
let you leave without having a bite." "Come on, trust me, Jon." His mother has
warned him about guys like this, maybe even because of the guy in front of him.
“This is a nice place,” Jon says evenly.
“Yes, it’s one of my favorite restaurants in the area.”   
“It’s a bit far.”
“I like the privacy. The atmosphere makes it ideal for getting to know one’s
company.”
Jon pauses. “Did you take my mother here?”
Rhaegar smiles. He takes a sip of his red wine and there’s not a stain on his
white teeth when he finishes. “I did,” he answers.
“Does your wife know?”
Rhaegar does not have the decency to look ashamed. “No, I’m afraid not. She
wouldn’t let me out of her sight if she did.”
Jon scoffs. “I doubt she has to ‘let you’ do anything. I don’t think you mind
her opinion too much.”
Rhaegar sets down his glass. “What makes you say that?”
“In my experience, men who have mistresses don’t care too much about their
wives’ feelings.”
Rhaegar chuckles. “I had one mistress and that was your mother.”
"One mistress is one too many." 
"Or just enough. At the very least, Elia is fully aware that I value her above
a common call girl. Your mother is someone special and I have never
contaminated my adoration of her by entertaining other women besides the one I
was obliged to." 
“She told me you were the biggest mistake of her life.”
Jon mentioned Lyanna in some dismal attempt to throw the man off. He does not
expect it to work, let alone cause the reaction that it did. Rhaegar’s
composure drops in a blink of an eye and the mood darkens so much so that Jon
believes that hands are asphyxiating him. The waitress brings their food. Jon
attempts to focus his attention towards the dish, but can not help but glance
over at the other man.
Rhaegar is staring at him again. Jon cannot pinpoint the heat behind the gaze.
Jon’s stomach churns at the suggestion of lust. All his life, he has been
thankful for the Stark look. He has his mother’s hair, her eyes, her lips, her
ass—which more than a number of her ex-lovers have commented on. There were
times, however, when one of Lyanna’s past lovers noticed their resemblance and
sought to win his affections. “If I can’t have her, maybe her son will do,”
said one man whom Jon shivered to think about. During those pivotal and
sometimes frightening moments, he wishes for the slightest resemblance to his
father, anything to sway their potential desire from him.  
“You weren’t the only man she was with,” Jon says at last. He hopes this will
remove the glint of desire from this man’s eyes. “I don’t know who my father is
and neither does my mother.”
Rhaegar lets out a laugh and it’s as beautiful as the harps he coordinates.
“She does,” Rhaegar assures him. “Don’t worry about that.”  
Jon is taken back. “How do you know?”
Rhaegar’s eyes sparkle. The purple gleams like amethyst. The mirth unnerves
Jon; it makes him feel as if there is a secret everyone but him knows about. He
can understand why his mother left this man; he just doesn’t understand why she
stayed in the first place.  
“Given the time frame of your conception, there is no doubt that I could be
your father. My family has a history of genetic diseases and mental illness.
It’s more prevalent in my family than most. If Lyanna is the woman I believe
she is, she would have had a paternity test to see if this was a concern for
you.”
Jon hesitates. All at once, his mind recalls the numerous ‘counseling sessions’
in his youth and the abnormal check-ups he received as a kid—visits to the
doctors that were exclusive to him that involved thousands of questions ranging
from how his day was to whether or not he had violent thoughts. There tests
that varied throughout his life; none of the examinations were invasive. The
lack of trauma made it easy to forget—until today.
Rhaegar notices his hesitance and smirks. Yes, Lyanna definitely checked. She
must not have cared for the results. 
Jon continues to wonder about his past. Lyanna was not an overprotective
parent. She hates rules and regulations and evaluations of all sorts. She never
wanted Jon to suffer through the harsh restrictions she has as a child. Despite
that, she was insistent that Jon get those tests. She demanded reports from
Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat each month about his behavior. It wasn’t until Jon was
sixteen that the visits stopped.  
Despite his curiosity, Jon never questioned his mother. The tests were more of
an inconvenience than a chore and the doctors were soft-spoken and kind. They
gave him candy after each visit and he loved to see the proud look on his
mother's face each time his results were revealed or how strangely elated she
used to get whenever he got a sunburn.
“Yes, you’re my son,” Lyanna would exclaim while applying the Aloe Vera.  “We
Starks burn so easily.” Then, she would ruffle his curls and give him a kiss.
The memory was so innocuous that Jon wonders if there were other clues his
missed in the past. Probably, hundreds. Little gremlins of facts littering his
mind that he always brushed aside.
“Can you cook?” Jon asks in volume just above a whisper.
Rhaegar smiles, remembering Lyanna’s burnt eggs and undercooked sausages.
“Quite well, actually. I find the activity relaxing. I would be happy to teach
you if you’d like to set up a date.”
Jon shakes head. “I’ll pass, thanks. I rather this be our last meeting.”
The statement turns Rhaegar’s body rigid. “And why would you want that? I could
be your father, Jon. And even if I'm not, I would love to get to know Lyanna’s
child.”
Rhaegar reaches out to grab Jon’s hand. He cradles it and uses his thumb to rub
circles on his skin. He is about to go in for a kiss when Jon pulls his hand
back.
“Thanks, but I’m content where I am.” If Rhaegar had made the offer years ago,
he might have taken it. As a teenager, all he wanted was a father. He tried to
search for them in Lyanna’s lovers and his uncle and felt unsatisfied with the
result. Today, as a young adult, he is surrounded by family who loves him and
friends he can trust with his life. “I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t need a
father in my life. Lyanna has been a great mom and Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat have
always given the…uh…stability I’ve always wanted. And…”
Rhaegar latches onto the hesitance. There’s a desperate look in his eyes. “I
don’t doubt that. But wouldn’t you like to meet your siblings? I know my
youngest has always wanted to be an older brother.” That is a lie. Aegon loves
being the spoiled youngest son. But Rhaegar knows that if Jon was raised by Ned
Stark then family is integral to his being. Rhaegar keeps his outward
appearance serene but inwardly, he is a storm of mania and lust. The boy is
gorgeous; a male replica of the woman he loves. If he can have him in his home,
then Rhaegar is confident his life will be complete. Who knows? If Jon is his
son, then perhaps he can convince Lyanna to solidify their bond once more.  
And if he isn’t, then he is sure Jon will look lovely on top of his bedsheets…
Jon smiles and it is the first time he’s done so all day. “I think they’ll be
happier without the drama. Besides, I have my hand full in the siblings’
department—”
The table shakes. “Lyanna has other children?”
Jon is startled by the furious inclination. The man’s eyes are burning. Jon
clarifies out of fear. “No—I mean, my cousins. I have a lot of them. We’re all
very close.” Too close, but that is a discussion never to be had with this man.
Rhaegar brightens up. “Ah, yes. The Stark children.” He grins. “Well, it’s not
quite the same, is it? No matter how close, having a brother and having a
cousin is an entirely different thing altogether.”
Jon requests a glass of water from a nearby waitress. “Like what?” He asks as
he is handed a glass.
“Well you can marry one but only fuck the other.”
Jon chokes. He spends a good minute coughing out the excess while listening to
his potential father chuckle at his own poor taste. Jon vaguely remembers his
mother commenting on Rhaegar’s twisted humor and a terrible story of how the
man answered a call from his wife while Lyanna was giving him head in his
office.
Rhaegar scoots his chair closer to Jon. He pats Jon’s back to ease the waterway
and then rests it there for the duration of their meal.  “There, there, let me
help,” he soothes. The pats become rubs and Rhaegar’s hand travels from the
middle of Jon’s back to the top of his nape. The situation becomes disturbingly
intimate.  
“I—I think I’m okay now.”
“Are you sure?” Rhaegar murmurs.
“Positive.” Jon’s attempts to get away are foiled by Rhaegar’s firm grasp on
his neck.
“Gods, you are beautiful. Even your neck is the same as hers. I knew you were
Lyanna’s child from the moment I saw you. No one else could give birth to such
a pretty child. I’ll be honest with you, Jon. I hope you are my son. Nothing
would get me harder than the knowledge that she’ll always have a part of me
inside you.”
Jon closes his eyes and count to ten. There are witnesses, he reminds himself.
If he can survive this lunch, he can find a more discreet way to commit murder.
There’s a lake further north. He remembers driving a few of the patients there
to go fishing. It wouldn’t be the first dead body the patients found.
“Please back off, Mr. Targaryen.” Jon is proud of how calm he sounds.
'“Call me Rhaegar. Or daddy—whatever you prefer. Papa has a nice ring to it, as
well.”
Jon surveys the restaurant for smart phones. He does not want his regurgitation
on one of the world’s most famous men to be on the internet. “Rhaegar, there’s
a chance I might not be your son.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind.” Rhaegar runs his thumb down Jon’s face. He lands on his
lips—Lyanna’s lips. “We’ll just have to find another excuse to get to know each
other.” Like a teethed worm from the bowels of hell, Rhaegar draws closer until
his lips are almost on top of Jon’s.
Jon falls off his chair trying to get away. He scampers on the floor like a
headless chicken before getting up. Once on his feet, he pulls his seat to the
opposite side of the table—away from Rhaegar. He asks for the check. When the
waitress does not come fast enough, he screams for one.
“What’s the matter, Jon?” Rhaegar tilts his head in confusion. He looks like a
child. A gorgeous, sociopathic child whose moral compass has been wrecked by
centuries of inbreeding. “I just want us to get along.”
And I want a restraining order, Jon laments. He lets out a groan of
frustration.
Rhaegar relishes in the sound. “Jon, make that noise again. You sound just like
your mother.”  
Jon dashes out the restaurant before he has to hear another word. The cool,
fresh air alleviates the tension in his lungs. He takes a deep breath. Another.
And another for good measure. “Jon, where are you going?” He hears behind him.
Jon does not bother to turn around. He knows if he does, he’ll sees Rhaegar in
all his silver-haired glory standing outside the entrance to the restaurant,
smiling with every single perfectly white molar gleaming at him. Jon runs
without thinking. Rhaegar chases after him like champion. Before he can retreat
to the sanctuary of his vehicle, Rhaegar all but tackles him against the car.
He presses his body against Jon and relishes in the feel of a Stark grinding
against him once more.
“If there wasn’t a chance you were my son, I would have fucked you top of this
car, right here and right now,” Rhaegar swears. Jon shuts his eyes. He prays to
whoever gods are listening that what is in Rhaegar’s pants is a misplaced
banana straining to get free. Jon attempts to reason with the man.
“Well, that can’t be the only reason. What about your wife? Where does she come
in this?” Jon asks, more than a bit desperate.
Rhaegar plants a chaste but morally ambiguous kiss on Jon’s neck. The man has
an obsession with that particular part of his body and Jon does not want to see
it at full force.
“Elia and I have an understanding. She’s the perfect wife and I play the
perfect husband when she needs me to be. If you’re worried about her being
bothered by this, don’t. She didn’t say a word about Lyanna and I imagine
she’ll be relieved not having to compete with another woman this time.”
“That doesn’t make it right!” Jon holds up his arms to block Rhaegar. “Are you
saying that after all these years of being married, you don’t feel a thing for
her?”
Rhaegar is frozen by the accusation. Déjà vu hits him as he recalls Lyanna’s
rage on the night they broke up and is followed by his personal indignation.
His gaze turns into a glare. He makes the same arguments he did that night,
hoping his genetics are accompanied by his sense of reasoning.  “I never wanted
to get married, Jon. Elia wanted it. Our mothers wanted it. I was trying to
appease them. I never promised Elia fidelity and I made sure she was aware of
it before she married me. I will not be held responsible for a promise I never
made!” Jon can feel his skin burn from Rhaegar’s gaze. He tries to look away
but Rhaegar grabs his face and forces him to look in his eyes. “I fell in love
with Lyanna and was trapped in a marriage I didn’t want. When I offered to
divorce Elia for your mother, Lyanna refused me. Can you believe that? Your
mother turned me down. She didn’t want to get bound to a man who loved her, who
was willing to leave his family for her.  You know what she told me? She said
that she wasn’t ready to devote herself to one man. She was a child, she called
herself. A fucking child, she says! She wasn’t a fucking child when I was
fucking her.” Rhaegar laughs at the incredulity. “But I loved her and she loved
me. That’s the reason she didn’t go through with that shotgun wedding with that
boar of a man. Because she was always in love with me.”
If Jon looks hard enough, he can find the will to protest Rhaegar's reasoning.
Instead, he decides that this is not his battle and therefore not one worth
fighting. Without thinking, Jon knees him in the groin. The man lets go of Jon
to make friends with the ground. Jon gets into his car and before he can make
his escape, he pauses. He thinks about what he just heard. He looks down at the
body below him. Then, he lets out a heavy sigh filled with exasperation. As
Rhaegar is getting up, Jon unlocks the passenger seat and rolls down his
window.
“Get in the car and I’ll take you back to the nursing home where your driver
can send you back.”
Rhaegar stares.
“This offer is only available for the next ten seconds.”
Rhaegar does not protest; he gets in.
The drive is quiet compared to the ride to the restaurant. Previously, they
were able to fill the silence with questions about Jon’s age and interests.
Now, they had nothing to fill the void but Rhaegar’s lingering regrets and
Jon’s unspoken thoughts.
Bravely, Rhaegar asks why Jon is driving him back. Jon could have just left him
there. He would have been fine. He could have gotten the innkeeper to give a
phone call.
“I wouldn’t have said a cruel word about you, Jon,” Rhaegar assures. The
Targaryen has returned to his sweet disposition. Jon knows better this time. He
grips the wheel a little harder and keeps his eyes on the road.
“Do you love your wife, even a little bit?”
Rhaegar wonders about the fascination Jon has with his wife. “Of course, I do.
She is a wonderful woman.”
“But you’re okay with hurting her?”
 “She knew what she was getting into when she married me. She knew I would
never be hers completely. When she said ‘I do,’ she accepted that this was her
fate.”
“So you acknowledge that you are hurting her? That she has to live with the
knowledge that she will always rank second in your heart?”
Rhaegar sighs. “Yes.” He tries to ease Jon’s concerns. He has been told that
his smile is mesmerizing. “But I make her happy as well. That’s why she’s still
with me, because her happiness outweighs her sorrows—even if I am responsible
for both.”
The rest of their ride is silent. Jon takes Rhaegar to the nursing home as
promise. When the older man gets out of the car, he extends his invitation
again. “I do mean it, Jon. I want to get to know you. It is narcissistic of me
to assume, but I know you’re mine. And even if you’re not, I want you to be.”
Jon does not respond. Instead, he locks the doors and drives far away. He
glances over at the passenger seat and notices a strand of silver hair
lingering on the leather. He picks it up before leaving it there. It’s a very
distinct color. He’ll be able to find it later when he needs it. When he gets
home, he goes upstairs to take a nap. He stops by Robb’s room and decides the
temperature was better suited for sleep. He huddles underneath the covers and
inhales Robb’s scent. When he wakes up, six hours later, he’ll wonder why Robb
didn’t come inside and join him.
Jon will ask him later. Right after he calls Willas. 
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. As my move date draws near and the company I work for keeps
     screwing up, I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. There are a few more things
     I have to take care of before I leave. Therefore, weekly updates will
     not return until March. But they will return. Ideally, I would like
     to finish this story at the end of August, which leads us at about
     twenty-four more chapters (If I were to update consistently every
     single week).
     2. I love making Rhaegar a creep. He just makes it too easy.
***** Chapter 40 *****
Chapter Notes
     Welcome back, everybody! Here is the new chapter since my hiatus!
     Chapters for Runs in the Family will now be updated on Wednesday. I'm
     so happy for everyone's warm wishes and happy thoughts. Hope you
     enjoy this chapter.
     Note: The dance routine I imagined was closest to this: https://
     www.youtube.com/watch?v=Llwy7wUW1m4 with Arya performing the second
     soloist (and Waif performing the first). The original dance from the
     TV series, "Hit the Floor" is better though.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The dresses provided for the dancers consists of a solid black bodysuit with a
layer of tulle for the skirt. It is a Lannister event, so the sheer material
contains spots of gold for glamor. The lack of frills makes it ideal for
dancing. They curled their hair and made sure their lip glosses gleam in the
light. The routine is simple compared to their usual performances. After all,
they are here to entertain Tywin’s guests, not network for themselves. Doing
well tonight means that opportunity will come later.
Everyone waits in position, overwhelm with excited giggles. Since none of them
are worried about their performance, all that is left is the exhilaration. Like
copper butterflies, the duration of a dancer’s career is limited. It isn’t just
their bodies that broke down, but the appeal of the stage wavers with each
performance. Arya is grateful for her youth. She is still star-eyed whenever
she puts on her shoes; she still finds her sweat as refreshing as the rain.
Finally, the announcer finishes his speech by leading into the dancers’
introduction. Syrio gives the cue to start the music. The girls advance towards
their positions. They put on happy smiles and have fun. This is nothing, they
reminded themselves. This is just a practice. Barely a show. Waif’s solo is
first and has the most technical movements. Arya reluctantly admits that her
dancing is perfect; Waif cannot make a mistake if she wanted to. Arya is next
and while her role isn’t as complicated, it relies on her charisma more than
her skill. She lets herself loose with it and judging from the audience’s
smiles, she knows her appeal is noticeable.
When the entire performance is done, the audience gives them a round of
applause. No whistles or cheering—this is a posh event after all. Though
nowhere near as impress as they would be at an actual performance, it is enough
for Tywin Lannister. The girls return to their dressing room where they get
ready for the actual party. They only have a short amount of time to prepare
themselves. Some put on a different shade of lipstick to differentiate from
their friends while others are desperate to put on their complicated laced
dresses or their too high platform shoes. Arya puts on the red dress that Tywin
bought her. Had it not been for her height, the dress would have been obscenely
short. Fortunately, the long sleeves keep the look from being inappropriate and
the flowing skirt provides her with mobility. Arya misplaces her lipstick and
is about to go outside without it when Wylla lends Arya her Dior.
“Here,” Wylla offers, “It’ll match your dress.”
Arya takes it. “Thanks.”
Wylla smiles and fixes up her hair one last time.
“That dress looks beautiful on you. Is it new?”
“Yeah, I’m surprise it fits.” Arya smacks her lips.
“Tywin Lannister, I assume.”
Arya caps the lipstick.
“I went to visit you and Jorelle last night—I thought we could have a sleepover
or something. But you were gone. And you were gone the entire night. I know,
because I stayed with Jorelle instead.”
“I had something to do.”
"Something or someone?"
Arya keeps silent.
Wylla looks around. Most of the girls are already leaving to join the guests.
Only a select few remain, second guessing their appearances because they are
afraid of looking anything less than perfection for potential sponsors. She
sits down. “I checked the front desk. I told them that my father was interested
in booking the royal suite for my performance. They said that it was occupied
until the end of the week so I went upstairs and saw one of the maids bring up
an expensive bottle of whiskey. Guess who opened the door?”
Arya returns the lipstick. “I don’t have to guess.”
Wylla takes it back. She sighs, exasperated if anything. “Listen, Arya. I get
it. I do. Well, not really but I sort of kind of understand it. I know what
it’s like for all your hard work to be credited to your family and it feels
like shit. I know you don’t want to rely on them financially and hey, as far as
sugar daddies go, Tywin Lannister is—”
“He’s not my sugar daddy.”
“You slept with him and he bought you Valentino. He is a sugar daddy. And yeah,
I’ll admit, pretty hot for an old guy. But Arya,” She sounds so tired. Arya
fights a sigh. “Tywin fucking Lannister? Your parents will kill you. I’ll kill
you. Jorelle will cry because she’s a cryer and her sisters baby her—even her
younger sister texts me to check on her in case she’s injured—and she’ll panic
and think you’re a prostitute which is cool, good for you, you’re a whore
anyways so at least you’re getting paid, but this is not something I need right
now and I can’t be worrying about you and Jorelle and getting sponsors so you
need to shut this down. Now. Tonight. Understand?"
“Yep.”
“Yep as in ‘I understand what you’re saying and I will take your advice and
stop sleeping with morally egregious men’ or ‘I understand what you’re saying
and I don’t give a fuck but thanks for the concern?”
“The latter.”
Wylla groans and curses the heavens above. “Arya!”
Arya laughs. “I’m apologize for your concern. I didn’t mean to make you
worried.”
Wylla glares. “No,I am not worried.I am fine. Jorelle is worried. You left her
alone at night.”
“But you’re the one saying something.”
“Because it needs to be said. And no one else will say it,” Wylla grumbles, “No
one said anything about Jaqen either.”
“You know about Jaqen?”
“Oh, fuck off, everyone knows about Jaqen. His eye fucks alone could get a
woman pregnant.” Wylla leans back in her chair. She’s given up on looking
perfect and she has not even left the room. “What I am saying is that you
should be careful. If Waif finds out about Tywin…”
“Then maybe Tywin will shut her up for me.” Arya shrugs. Her nonchalance sparks
a visceral reaction within Wylla and the girl storms off. “Fine, your funeral.”
Arya does not want to smile but fighting the reaction is hard. She follows her
companion to the door and grips her shoulder.
“What?” Wylla hisses.
“Thank you,” Arya tells her. She means it as well. “Thank you for caring about
me.”
Wylla grimaces. She shoves her hand off her shoulder like some sort of petulant
child. “Your personality sucks.”
“I know.”
“And Jorelle thought you got kidnapped last night. She’s the one who forced me
to check up on you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll stay in our room tonight.”
Wylla walks closer to the entrance. Jorelle is there, fiddling her fingers. In
a way, she’s the black sheep in her family. Where all the other Mormont women
are known for their aggressive natures and their ambitious dreams, Jorelle is
withdrawn and even-tempered.
“I hope it’s worth it,” Wylla tells her. Arya looks at her curiously. “Whatever
you have going on with Tywin, I hope whatever he’s offering you is something
worth the scandal and the shame you are bringing to your family.”
“He’s offering me Tiffany’s.”
“Oh fuck you.”
Arya laughs and her laughter causes Jorelle to smile. She asks the girls what
took them so long.
“We were discussing sponsorship,” Arya lies.
Wylla goes along with the story. “Arya here has a white whale she’s hoping to
attract this evening and so do I. All that’s left is you. Have you got your eye
on anybody yet?”
Jorelle shakes her head. “I…I don’t know these people like you two do. You posh
folks are on an entirely different level. Besides, I doubt they’ll care about
me when they see you.”
Wylla is quick to call her out on such nonsense. She grabs her arm and leads
her away. “If you are doing the play, that means Syrio expects the best from
you. Come on, let’s go find you a man or woman to flirt with.”
“I don’t know how to flirt.”
While Arya is inclined to join them, she spots a familiar face. Arya turns
towards her friends. She gently taps on Jorelle’s shoulder and directs her
towards one of the men. “That guy over there is Ralph Buckler. The Baratheons
are the largest minority shareholders for his company.”
“So?”
“So your sister is friends with Shireen Baratheon—the heiress of the Baratheon
fortune.”
Discomfort washes over Jorelle. “Isn’t that nepotism?”
“No, because you’re not related to him.”
“Arya,” she warns.
Arya shrugs. She slowly distances herself from her friends. “Listen, I have
work to do. But Jorelle, right now, the way to get sponsors is through charm
and connections. You have your sister. Go with it.” Jorelle looks towards Wylla
who turns the other cheek. Arya is already walking towards a completely
different stranger.
Jorelle frowns. “I thought you two hated using your connections.”
“Well, we hate using our connections. But we have connections to use. You have
a batshit crazy sister—who I love dearly and is one of my closest friends—and
it’s so rare for you to take advantage of her insanity so I say go for it.”
Without another word, Wylla drags her friend towards the Buckler male.
***
Arya walks towards Tywin Lannister with soft steps and a shy smile. His eyes
light up the way grandfathers do on Christmas and he places a tender hand on
the small of her back. The scene is charming; it reminds the guests of a movie
scene. The kind where a gentle family member introduces two young lovers to
each other at a stuffy banquet and they find solace in each other’s eyes.
“Everyone, this is Arya Stark. She is the head dancer of the troupe you saw
perform. She’ll be the female lead in Syrio’s new production with the Faceless
Men.”
“Oh how wonderful,” says an elderly blond woman. She bears a striking
resemblance to Tywin and sounds bored to death. “You were lovely, Miss Stark.”
“Their work is impressive. You must be very honored,” said another man. Unlike
the rest of the Anglo-Saxon population, his skin is warm and his voice is lit
with exoticism. Though Arya is sure he works for the Martells, he is not the
man in the picture.
None of these men are.
“I am, sir.” Arya keeps her sweet demeanor and stops herself from looking to
Tywin for support. She does not need these men questioning her motives. Arya
turns on the charm.
The boy, the youngest person of the group before Arya joined them, raises an
eyebrow. “Stark? Are you any relation to Eddard Stark by any chance?”
Arya brightens up expectantly. “Yes, he is my father. Have you met him?”
He shakes his head. “I have not. Hopefully one day, though. My family is hoping
to do business with Stark Industries. In fact, my uncle is in Yorkshire now,
hoping to strike a deal.”
Arya giggles, and it is about as real as margarine is butter. “And why are you
here?”
“I’m trying to learn the business myself. I have a transaction in London that
my father’s given me the responsibility of.”
“That’s amazing.” Arya has to think for a second—what does ‘awe’ and ‘so
impress I could drop my panties’ look like? “You’re like what? Eighteen? And
you’re already helping out your family? It’s so refreshing to see real men in
this world of ours and not boys living off their parent’s dime.”
“I’m seventeen, actually.” The boy smirks, proud of her assessment. “I don’t
think I’ve introduced myself yet. I’m Quentyn Martell."
Arya giggles because laughter is the only thing she can stuff her mouth with.
She wants to retort that her brother has been studying encryption since he
first laid hands on a computer. At the age of twelve, he was already
participating in meetings about firewall improvement. She will have to wait
until they’re alone before she starts working her magic. Arya is confident the
boy is a lady-killer where he is from, judging by the smugness etched on his
face. Arya licks her lips. She loves breaking down these boys.
As if reading her thoughts, Tywin pinches her backside. Arya, to her credit,
straightens up but does not catch his eye. They are strangers, she reminds
herself. He is her sponsor and nothing more.
“I wish I had your enthusiasm for my family’s work.” Arya continues. “I have no
talent for business—I’m such an open book, people can see right through me.
It’s so embarrassing!”
Tywin looks away to keep himself from displaying amusement. He has a reputation
to keep.
Quentyn laughs. “Honesty is not a trait to be ashamed of.”
Arya laughs. If she laughs again, her muscles are going to fall off from
overuse. “That’s why I love dancing so much. It’s the only place I know where
you can be completely honest in body and soul.”
“I can think of a few other places,” he tells her with a wink.
This time, Arya laughs and places a delicate hand over her mouth. The action
distracts him from her eye roll. Tywin interrupts their conversation by
excusing himself. “We seem to have become a nuisance to you two. Quentyn, I
believe we can settle whatever business we have at the meeting tomorrow.”
While Quentyn is charmed at the prospect of getting to know Arya, his attendant
is unsure. Tywin adds that Quentyn is young and deserves to enjoy the benefits
of youth. “You took on a great deal of responsibility by taking on this
assignment last minute. I believe you should be allocated some joy before
entering adulthood. Have a good night.”
The rest of the adults follow him. Quentyn’s attendant whispers something in
his ear that the boy brushes off. They have a discreet row which results in the
older man storming off. Quentyn reverts his attention to Arya and holds out his
arm like Aladdin on a carpet ride. Arya takes it—though she vaguely considers
suicide to spare herself the humiliation of adhering to a cliché.
The symphony plays a light melody perfect for ballroom dancing. Quentyn pulls
her in his arms. Wylla sends her a look of disgust. She knows a fuckboy when
she sees one and is judging Arya harder than Simon Cowell.
“You’re a great dancer,” Arya tells Quentyn.
“Thank you.” He spins her which gives her a window of opportunity to display
her displeasure before he takes her back wearing a smile. “I think it’s because
I have such a beautiful partner.”
“I’m flattered.” Quentyn is obviously unused to the formal movements of a waltz
but makes do with his natural rhythm. Arya was not lying earlier; he is a good
dancer for an obvious beginner. The steps buy her some time to think. “So how
busy will your work keep you this week?”
Quentyn chuckles. “Are you asking me out a date?”
Not a chance in hell. “I might be.”
“Well my schedule is packed but I could open it up for someone as pretty as
you.”
Arya gasps just the slightest to display her flattery. “Oh, I couldn’t ask that
of you. Besides, I’d hate to take your time away from Tywin. He’s been so
generous with us with the hotel accommodations and our troupe sponsorship…”
“I think you’re worth it.” He gives her a blinding smile. Arya returns it. Her
face hurts.
Out of nowhere, Quetyn expresses his thoughtfulness. “Speaking of Tywin
Lannister, were you as surprised as I was when you met him? Compare to the
rumors, he’s quite…underwhelming.”
Arya decides not to correct this fool and agrees with him. “I know! My father
actually warned me about coming here. But when we met, he was so kind to us. I
mean, he wasn’t one for conversation and he barely looked at me…” Arya laughs
to indicate a joke. Quetyn joins her. “But he has gone above and beyond his
duty. Frankly, I don’t even know why I was so scared to come here in the first
place. How about you?”
“Yes, I was nervous as well. But to be honest,” Quetyn whispers as if they are
sharing a secret. Arya wonders how many times he’s used this trick on girls.
“I’m not quite sure how to deal with Tywin Lannister. I expected a shrewd
businessman with a ruthless disposition. Instead I get an old man fading from
his prime. It’s...lackluster.”
Tywin will make him eat his words. Arya nods in agreement. “I suppose so. But
old age makes one appreciate the finer things in life. The other day, when I
was thanking him, he told me the loveliest story about his grandchildren.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, he told me that he was inspired by his grandson, Joffrey, to make amends
with the people he’s hurt. Since his wife always loved dancing, he wanted to
support our troupe. He’s even backing out of a purchase for this media company
in order to donate to the arts. His granddaughter, Myrcella, is so excited.”
“What?”
“Oh, Myrcella. She’s a cellist and utterly amazing. And she's a complete
inspiration! Have you heard? She's half-deaf from this horrible incident years
ago but still manages to play like a pro. I hope you meet her one day. She
might be performing here instead of me—.”
“No!”
Arya stares at him with faux shock. Quentyn chuckles nervously. “Sorry, I
meant—no, I would love to hear her perform. But what did you say about the
donation? Where did it come from?”
“Well, I’m not sure of the details. But Myrcella told me—her father’s a friend
of mine’s—that her grandfather is redirecting his company to more philanthropic
pursuits. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Quentyn grips her backside tighter. “Yes…it really doesn’t match his
reputation, though.” Suspicion lingers in his last statement. For the first
time, Arya is impressed by this fool. He’s not as stupid as she thinks but he’s
not smart enough to hide his skepticism.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Arya sighs all of a sudden. Quentyn is
surprised. “He’s pandering to the public for votes since his election coming
up.” She offers him a resigned look. “But to be honest, I’m not sure I care why
he’s doing it. There are so many schools that need decent art programs and
troupes like mine are losing funding every day. Even if it’s to get votes or
evade taxes, I can’t help but be happy that something good is happening. Isn’t
a good deed a good deed no matter what the intentions?”
Arya’s honest analysis is the magnet to Quentyn’s compass. He deviates from the
North and heads straight to South where she wants him to.
“I guess I can understand that,” Quentyn confesses. He turns to look at his
attendant. “Listen, I have to make a phone call. Maybe we could see each other
this week?”
“Count on it.” She’d rather dance with tacks in her shoes—again. Arya sweetens
the deal by kissing Quentyn on the cheek. She is worried about being too
aggressive when the young man flashes her a wistful grin. Arya takes back what
she was thinking earlier. Quentyn is cute—she might sleep with him if she gets
drunk enough.
While Quentyn gets some privacy with his attendant, Jaqen swoops in. Arya eases
into the dance as soon he whisks her onto the dance floor. Unlike Quentyn, who
only knew the basics of formal footing, Jaqen is a professional. The song is a
bit more upbeat and feels more like a battle than a seduction.
“Lovely work—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were falling in love.”
“But you do know,” Arya teases. “I am talking to potential sponsors. That is
part of my job, is it not?”
“Yes, the flirting and charming and seduction…all things a girl has been
trained for, has she not?”
Arya purses her lips. Jaqen is right. She chose dancing to avoid the
bureaucracy of her family’s business and yet it appears escape has never been
an option for her.
“Names are curious things. Each one carries a history and it is the history
that a girl must carry her whole life. Has a girl thought about losing her name
and taking on her own?”
She understands why her aunt took on a pseudonym. Yet, Arya has dealt with the
drama of being a Stark and though she despises the accusations of preferential
treatment, she loves her family too much to end it.
“I am Arya Stark. A thousands names and faces could never change that.” She
glances over at Tywin and sighs. Then, she looks into Jaqen’s eyes. “There is
love in my name and why a fight a love as strong and pure as that of a parent
to a child?”
Jaqen’s expression is unreadable. He seems amused—there’s a twinkle in his
eye—but whether he believes her or not is left in the air. “Have you ever been
in love? Not the sweet embrace of a mother but the kind of bleeding love that
leaves you so desperate, you would trade your last breath for a kiss?”
Arya shakes her head. “No, and I don’t care to. That kind of love…it’s
destructive.”
“But powerful. It is the love that gives you a dance worthy of a thousand
ships.”
“A thousand warships,” Arya corrects. She offers Jaqen a sincere but sardonic
smile. “My most passionate affair is the one I have with my body and the stage.
When you love someone, you should be willing to give them everything—nothing
less than your whole body and soul. If you do not, it is not a love worth
giving and you are cheating your partner of that happiness. I made the decision
to forgo a fervor romance for a tender friendship and I have not regretted it
since. This is the greatest act of love I can give to the man I love.”
The song stops and Arya lets go of him. She walks towards the gaggle of elites
interested in Eddard and Catelyn Stark’s youngest daughter.
***
Arya makes up for last night’s abandonment by watching movies with her friends
and ordering a platter of fruits and cheeses to their room. Tomorrow, they
begin dress rehearsals and will hit the London stage in a week. They are all
pretending to be calm while their intestines entangle themselves. Arya hides
her nerves through nonchalance and dry commentary. She does not want to
frighten them with her self-doubt.
When they are asleep, she places a cover over the girls and heads to the
bathroom. Arya sits in the bathtub and shuts the covers for the illusion of
privacy. She dials a number on FaceTime and waits. After five dial tones,
Gendry picks up the phone.
“Hey Arya.” He sounds tired and yawns more dramatically than necessarily. Arya
rolls her eyes. She does, however, appreciate his shirtless status.
“Having fun without me?” Arya asks. She looks behind him and sees blonde hair
scattered on his pillow. She raises an eyebrow. “Never mind, I know my answer.”
Gendry groans and gets out of bed. He heads to the bathroom. “How’s London?” He
asks. He doesn’t bother to explain and she doesn’t bother to ask. They are
beyond that.
“The same as I remember it.” Arya sighs. “Dirty, with a sky full of clouds and
streets crowded with people I hate.” She pauses and blurts out, “I met Tywin.”
Gendry is an open book—he cannot pretend to look surprise, not even for Arya’s
sake. “What did he want?”
“Business as always. What else could it be?”
“You made another deal with the devil.”
“But I got myself an amazing sponsorship with it. I’ll have the world at my
feet soon.”
“You don’t sound happy about it,” Gendry points.
“Because it’s becoming real now.” Arya smiles without it reaching her eyes. She
leans back and lies down in the tub. “All the sacrifices I’ve made and all the
games I’ve played are coming together next Friday. Can you believe I’m actually
nervous about performing? I haven’t been this afraid in years.”
“That’s because it has been child’s play until now,” Gendry reminds. “Now
you’ll be on a stage that deserves you.” The expression on his face is one that
makes Arya’s heart stop. Gendry smiles at her, dopey and tired, but it tells
Arya that she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. The smile reminds Arya
that he’s met her when she was nothing more than a spoiled rich kid who punched
her father’s car when it broke down and broke her fist. He was there for her
when she broke down in Tywin’s suite, a week after they discovered who put the
glass her shoes and she found out it was one her closest friends. He was there
to pick her up at the airport when she finally returned to England after a
yearlong absence and there to comfort her when she was terrified of reuniting
with her parents.
“Do you love me, Gendry?”
Arya forgets how often she speaks without thinking. Before she can back out of
her question, Gendry answers her.
“Yes.”
Outside of her family, Gendry is the only man who’s ever seen her cry. So she
cries and it’s soft and choking and she tries her best not to let anybody hear,
not even herself. “I love you, too,” she tells him. The words are hollow,
though, because there’s another, unspoken question that neither of them ask
because they already know the answer.
Gendry is kind in the cruelest way. He starts talking and Arya loves him too
much to tell him to shut up.
“When I realized I was in love with you, I used to think about us together—ten
years, twenty years from now. And my dream was the same. I would be a mechanic
at this small garage and I’d come home to our kids and you would be waiting for
me, every night. We would sleep in the same bed in this nice, little house and
we would be happy. Don’t get me wrong, we would argue every day—”
Arya laughs and shakes her head at the image.

“—But I would still be happy, listening to you bickering. That’s all I want.”
There is a longing smile on Gendry’s face and Arya understands what it is for
before any more words are spoken. “Do you know what’s wrong with the picture?”
Arya looks down. She nods as the sugar from the confession leads to a
bittersweet aftertaste. “I do.”
“I want a family, Arya. I want to be a father. I want a simple job and a simple
house and a stable life. That’s all I've ever wanted because it is what I never
got.” Gendry takes advantage of her silent. “But you have all those things and
you don’t need them. You want more and I love you for it.”
Arya wipes away her tears.
“I love you, Arya. I always will. That’s why I want to see you on stage, doing
what you love. I want to turn on the telly and hear about the countries you’ve
traveled and the people you’ve met. I want you to be happy and you won’t be
happy with me. You won’t be happy being my wife. You won’t be happy having my
kids.” Gendry copies her by leaning back against the door. “And I won’t be
happy with you. I want a wife who cares more about her relationship than she
does her career. I want the mother of my children to want to be with them more
than she wants to be on stage. I’m not getting that with you.”
“We want different things,” Arya concludes with regret heavy in her voice.
“Yeah, we do. And sacrificing our happiness isn’t proof that we love each
other. It’s the shovel for our grave. There’s no compromise for us. I love you
and I’m not going to be the reason you give up on your dreams.”
“I don’t want to be yours.”
Gendry’s assuredness never wavers throughout his speech. “You are going to take
everyone’s breath away, Arya. You took mine’s the first time I saw you dance.
So on Friday, get on that stage and make the world remember Arya Stark. Be
perfect. Be yourself. Be the woman I love; the girl who never once conformed to
anybody’s standards. Give me the reason to give up on you.”
Chapter End Notes
     1. I'm officially moved into my new place. I choose an AirBnB
     extended stay option because I didn't want to sign a lease until I
     knew I actually liked the city. :) I'm pretty happy with my choice of
     stay and it offers a lot of down time for my writing.
     2. Over the hiatus, I complete two and a half chapters of Runs in the
     Family, two chapters of Crown the Wolf, one one-shot, and one chapter
     of a Yuri on Ice! Story plus a number of articles for my two blogs.
     Update schedule will go like this:
     3/1/2017 (Today): Runs in the Family Ch. 40
     3/4/2017 (Saturday): Crown the Wolf Ch. 12
     3/6/2017 (Monday): Kneeling on Broken Knees (Jon/Robb Oneshot and
     Prompt Request)
     3/8/2017 (Wednesday): Runs in the Family Ch. 41
     3/11/2017 (Saturday): The Sugar Cube Boys Ch.1 (Yuri on Ice!! Story
     Premiere)
     Added Note: So one of my favorite fanfiction authors recently posted
     a note, which I respected and somewhat admired her for, and it said
     she was suspending her account because the number of reviews to her
     hits, bookmarks, and subscribes were severely disproportionate to one
     another.
     Though some people might think she was being dramatic, but as a
     writer, I agree with her choice. Fanfiction don't get paid for this.
     It's free whether I update every week or once a year. And no one
     wants to be the writer who says "oh if I don't have ten reviews, I'm
     not updating." That's bitch stuff. I transferred from ff.net to AO3
     to avoid that behavior. But it still gets irritating when I see
     people bookmarked or subscribed to my stories who have never reviewed
     before, especially since I go to the effort of posting regular
     updates.
     I'm not suspending my account--that's not fair to the people who have
     reviewed but I will say, I don't appreciate it and I certainly don't
     like the fact that I spend hours on these chapters and some people
     can't be spared a few minutes to write a comment.
     Sorry to end this update on an unhappy note.
***** Chapter 41 *****
Chapter Notes
     Flashback chapter! :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Jon woke up in the darkness to the sound of clacking keys and saw his lover
hunched over his laptop; his face immersed in backlight. Jon checked the clock.
6:49 AM.
“Have you been working all night?”
Robb leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He let out a groan. “What
time is it?”
“Almost seven.”
“PM?”
Jon sighed. “We went to bed at ten.”
“Fuck.” Robb laughed at his own suffering. “This assignment is killing me.”
“It wouldn’t have if you’d just kick that freeloader out sooner. Now, you’re
stuck doing his share of the work.” Jon got out of bed. He tied the drawstring
of his sweatpants to keep them from falling off. “Why aren’t the other members
helping you?” He asked before leaving the room. 
“It’s my fault," Robb told him, he upped his volume so that Jon could hear. "I
gave the other guy too many second chances—I don’t want to burden them with my
mistake.”
“You’re a team! That’s the point!” Jon yelled from the kitchen.
“I don’t want to be lectured on that by you!” Robb shouted back without heat.
He paused. “What are you doing?”
Jon popped his head in.  
“Making you some tea and then putting you to bed.” He returned to his task.
“I have class in two hours.”
“Two hours is better than nothing. I’ll wake you up—don’t worry.” Robb heard
the fussing in the kitchen. Instead of arguing his definite loss, Robb focused
on saving his project. The plans weren’t perfect but they were good. He had
half an hour break before class started to clean it up. 
Robb leaned back on the chair to stretch. He let out a huge groan while his
morning wood rose halfheartedly. His body was a Pavlovian delinquent; he
associated aching muscles with thrusting hips, the perception of all night
love-making and hands bonding Jon’s wrists because he was too eager to get the
handcuffs fromthe  dresser.
Jon arrived with a cup of tea shortly after his fantasy. He raised an eyebrow
at the sight. “Don’t tell me your project was that good.”
“It isn’t.” Robb took the tea from his hands. “But you are.”
Jon rolled his eyes. Robb sipped his tea. He almost choked when he watched Jon
get to his knees. “What are you—? Oh…” Jon’s hands pulled down his boxes and
unleashed his cock, still not completely hard but considerably impressive. Jon
mouthed the tip.
“You don’t have to…” Jon sucked on the head. “…fuck that’s good.”
Jon kissed the tip. “I always wake you up with a blowjob. It’s a habit by now.
Don’t think too much of it.”
Robb sighed. He was trembling as Jon engulfed him halfway. The young man’s
mouth was wet and hot. He was lathering his member with saliva and it felt so
good soaking in the heat. There was something pleasant about being inside Jon’s
mouth, even when the possibility of an orgasm was nil. “You’re so fucking
perfect,” Robb moaned. He put his tea aside, fearful of spilling. “My pretty
little cock warmer," he called him as he entangled his fingers through his
hair.
Jon spent a few more moments sucking on Robb’s member. Though the his twitching
hole was aching for fulfillment, Jon disregarded the urge. Jon was not doing
this for his pleasure; he wanted Robb to relax enough to be lullemuch-deserved
deserved nap.
The Snow child licked the glans and slurped the pre-cum as if it were a
delicacy. His attentiveness was a blessing. Before long, the cock was heavy as
a rock in his mouth. He knew from the growth of Robb’s size that the boy was
getting ready to cum. After a few more minutes of careful ravishment, Robb came
all over Jon’s face, letting his semen splatter onto Jon’s curls. The sight was
filthy.
Robb shut his eyes and sighed in pleasure. “I needed that,” he confessed.
Jon cleaned up his face. “I know.” He smirked and got off his knees. “Now let’s
get you to bed.”
Robb groaned as he was dragged out of his chair. If his muscles were sore in
the chair, his bones were gelatin standing. When Jon half-carried him to the
king-size accommodation of cotton and pillows, Robb grabbed him by the hips and
dragged him down with him.
“Robb!”
Robb made a happy noise while ignoring his boyfriend’s protests. He snuggled
against Jon’s chest. “You’re so warm,” he praised. “Let’s go to sleep
together.”
Jon tried to shove him off. “No, I have work to do.”
“Today is your day off.” Robb knew this for a fact; the two of them were
supposed to go to Stockbridge for a street fair after his classes. He was
already envisioning the thirty different flavors of cupcakes, the local
raspberries joining the lightly whipped cranachan and the gallons of caramel
toppling the shortbread. Jon would limit his sugar intake to avoid a
stomachache but little did he know that Robb spent weeks developing methods to
sneak extra treats under his reservoir.
Jon struggled for a few more moments before settling into bed with Robb. Why
did he even bother to fight? He wondered. He would end up in Robb’s arms
regardless. “I wanted to look for another job.”
Robb frowned. “Why?”
Jon shrugged as much as his limbs allowed in the embrace. “No reason.”
“Why?” Robb pushed. He let go of Jon in order to meet his eyes. His face showed
no signs of fatigue, only concern. Jon touched his cheek and the man winced.
The Snow could imagine the horrors going on in his mind: ‘Was Jon unsatisfied
with their relationship?’ ‘Was Robb paying so little attention to Jon that he
couldn’t see how unhappy he was?’ ‘Why does Jon want to spend less time with
him?’ There were thousands of inane theories that must be passing through his
head and against his conscience, Jon laughed.
“It’s nothing,” he promised. “It’s just that you have your whole life figured
out for you. You’re already halfway through your degree and afterwards, you’ll
work for your dad. I…want to be able to support you when that happens.”
“Don’t you support me already?” Robb questioned. “I mean; my apartment looks
great since you’ve moved in. And I’m actually eating proper meals.”
Jon shook his head. “I meant…” He took a deep breath. “Imagine if I figured out
what I want ten years down the line,” if they lasted that long. “And you’re at
the height of your career. All you want to do now is relax with me and have a
good time. It’s not fair that after giving up your youth, you can’t reap the
benefits. Instead, you’re too busy helping me get what I want.”  
Jon hoped the explanation was sound. He saw Robb sigh in relief.
“Thank the gods; I was worried I’d done something to upset you.” Robb shook his
head. Out of sudden, Jon is pulled into a hug; his lungs squeezed like lemons
in the embrace. He could feel Robb’s grin against his skin. “I’m so happy you
think we’ll be together for that long! I knew I was going to convince you!”
Robb kissed Jon’s chest, ignoring the dozens of yelps and protests leaving his
lover’s mouth. Each sound was deafened by Robb’s suckling lips. The Stark
called each nibble ‘the taste of victory.’ “Jon, I’m so thankful you think so
much of me. But more than anything, I want you to be happy, Jon. I’ll support
you whenever and in whatever you want to do. That’s the beauty of a
relationship. Besides, I don’t want you rushing into anything and being
miserable, especially now when I’m too busy to notice anything wrong.”
Though Jon cursed Robb’s naivety proudly, he had to turn his head away to hide
his smile. He knew Robb would say something like that. He kissed Robb’s
forehead. “I know,” he said as he stroked his hair. “I just figured it would be
easier if we go through the ‘not-quite-there in-my-career’ stage together.”
“Nothing’s easy.”
Jon gave him a reprimanding look. Robb grinned sheepishly and tried to get out
of bed. Before he could remove the sheet, Jon pounced on him. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” Jon stressed again. “You need sleep.”
“I need to help my boyfriend find himself a career. Just let me get my laptop
and we can do some good old research.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” Jon repeated. “We can brainstorm here,” Jon offered. He needed to make
sure Robb stayed in bed. The two-hour nap was diminished to an hour and half if
they were lucky. Robb fell back on the sheets. He drew Jon closer to him. Jon
pulled the covers further up.
“Well, let’s talk about what you’re good at,” Robb began. “You’re beautiful;
the most beautiful person in the world. I’d tell you to become a model but the
thought of someone laying their eyes on this perfect body…fuck, it makes me go
mental.” Robb kissed his bare shoulder. Jon rolled his eyes. 
“You’re ridiculous.”
Robb laughed. “You’re perfect.” Robb licked his lips. He lifted his fingers in
order to pry Jon’s mouth open. Jon did not hesitate. He started sucking.
Robb swore. “Jon, gods…You embody sex. I think the gods placed you on earth to
be the incarnation of temptation.” He took out his wet fingers and slipped them
into Jon’s boxer shorts. He found Jon’s cock.
Jon gasped.
“Sometimes, I wonder if I’m addicted. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to be
inside you, to have you inside me. I swear, your fluids are like an
aphrodisiac. Even your sweat drives me crazy.”
Robb squeezed Jon’s cock. His hands were rough. His grip was firm. Jon
whimpered. “Should I put that on my resume? I bet I’d could get any job I
wanted.”
“Don’t be silly,” Robb rebuked. He enforced his displeasure by pinching Jon’s
tip. Jon’s back curled in pleasure. “You’re mine.”
“Yeah…what else?” Jon wanted to be lauded with compliments. It was the kink he
never knew he had. Years of being the bastard child of Lyanna Stark, of being
hidden in the shadows, of being the family’s dirty little secret, made him
desperate for praise.
Robb hummed. He returned to his gentle ministrations. “There’s so many things
you’re good at, Jon. Every day is like a dream; I come home to a nice, home-
cooked meal, a clean house, and a nice, warm bath waiting for me. Gods, I never
imagined I would be this lucky.” Robb shot up from the bed with the biggest
smile Jon had ever seen. Jon yelped when his cock was dropped. Damn it, Robb.
He loathed to see what conclusion made Robb so happy.
“You can be a housewife!” 
Jon pulled his boyfriend down. “Stop it, Robb.”  
Robb kept on going, even as he was dragged into slumber. “Housewives are
amazing. They run the household and make sure their children are well taken
care of and keep their husbands from overworking themselves. My mother is a
housewife. We can adopt fifteen children—”
“Why fifteen?”
“That’s how many players you need to form a rugby team.”
Jon shoved a pillow into his boyfriend’s face. “Go the fuck to sleep, Robb.”
Robb pouted. “Okay, but that’s not a ‘no.’ Right, Jon? I didn’t hear a ‘no.’
We’ll put it as a ‘maybe.’ It’s good to have options.”
Jon shook his head. He should have never said anything. Now his lover was
anything but tired. He was distracted enough that he didn’t notice Robb leaning
over to their bedside table and grabbing his phone.
“Let’s just look up possible professions.”
“Robb!” Jon tried to grab the phone. Robb, the bigger of the two, fought him
off. “So aside from being a spectacular spouse, you are brilliant. Strong, you
were able to carry me home that one time I was pissed—just hauled me on your
shoulders, I was so turned on.” He thought for another moment and grinned.
“Protective; good at planning and investigation—you love those detective dramas
and you tend to figure out the culprit before the episode’s finished.” Robb’s
fingers worked themselves into a frenzy. Jon was worried they would fall with
how hard they were hitting the screen. “I rather you not travel for work.
You’ll be the primary caretaker of the family—not that I won’t participate!
I’ve always wanted to be a father. But running Stark Industries will take most
of my time…you won’t mind, will you?” Robb was anxious when he asked.
“Yeah, I figured that would be the case.” If they lasted that long, Jon’s
conscious mind reminded him.  The noise was high-pitch and screaming; Jon
longed to turn it off.
“Are you really sure? That’s what you want? And you’re not saying this to keep
me?”
“I could stab you in the heart and you’d still take me back. I’m not worried
about keeping you,” Jon confessed dryly. “And can we please stop talking about
our metaphorical children?” The notion made him more unsettled than he’d liked
to admit. Despite his earlier contentions against having children (he’d always
imagine himself as the fun uncle rather than a father), the thought of taking
care of Robb’s kids was not entirely…unpleasant.
Besides, the look of relief on Robb’s face was terribly charming. He returned
his attention to the phone and pressed ‘enter.’ “And the results are in…”
Jon waited.
Robb’s face fell. “Oh.”
Jon blinked in confusion. “What does it say?”
Robb grimaced. “Police officer.”
“Really?” Jon took the phone from his hand. He looked at the other options but
nothing else looked appealing. He blinked once or twice. “Huh. Never thought I
would get that.” He figured he’d get a job in caretaking, given his past
professions.
“It’s just a search engine response,” Robb pointed out. He took the phone back
and placed it on the dresser.
Jon’s thoughts lingered on the suggestion. “My uncle is a cop—well a detective.
He was one of my heroes growing up. I used to jump on him when he came to
visit; he had the best stories to tell.” He smiled to himself. “He lived every
day with a purpose.”  
“Doesn’t mean anything. Let’s go to sleep.”
Jon stared at Robb strangely. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?” Robb grimaced. “I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.”
“Wait.” Jon reached out to play with the scruff on Robb’s face. “You sound
upset.”
“I’m not upset.” True, Robb didn’t sound upset. Upset was the wrong word, Jon
supposed. Unhappy or disappointed would have been a better choice. Unable to
keep his mood under control, Robb sighed. “I…listen, my uncle is a cop, too.
Sure, his stories were cool but that didn’t change the fact that every time he
went out, he was facing dangerous criminals. I don’t want to have to worry
about you.”
“There are good parts, too,” Jon declared. He kissed the side of Robb’s cheek
as a form of comfort. “Doing a service for the community. Keeping wonderful,
good people safe.” Like Robb. “Protecting the innocent.” The adventure. The
excitement he couldn’t get as a nanny or a caretaker for the elderly. “And…”
Jon said with a teasing smile. “I heard the commander of Yorkshire is a total
daddy.”
Robb burst out laughing. “Is that what’s in your uncle’s reports?”
“What? I thought all uncles taught their nephews to check out older men’s
packages when they hang out?” Jon pretended to be surprised at the information.
His eyes were wide and innocent. His grin was mischievous.
Robb shook his head. “Nope, I’m afraid you’ve been misled, my love.” His
laughter died down. “I have two uncles. One’s a complete skirt chaser and the
other is as straight-laced as they come. All he cares about is catching
villains. He barely speaks to us when he visits.”
The two continued laughing together. Jon, high on the euphoria of good humor,
climbed on top of his boyfriend and kissed him. The kiss was deep and full of
hygge, the comfort of being in bed with a partner he cared deeply for and the
warmth of being worshipped by a perfect man. “Let’s not worry about it,” Jon
soothed. “I don’t even know if I want to be a cop. It’s an option, remember?”
“Like being a housewife?” Robb asked hopefully.
Jon could not deny him anything. “Yes, like being a house spouse,” he
corrected.
Robb, in his excitement, flipped him over. Now on top of him, Robb delivered a
swarm of puckering love bites and pecking kisses. “I love you so much,” he
swore. “So much. You’re going to love being my wife.”
“Husband!”
“Spouse,” Robb said at last. “And I’ll support you if you want to be a cop or a
barrister or whatever it is you want.”
Jon wanted to give into the affection. He did, however, give one last warning
to Robb’s enthusiasm. “If you don’t get some rest, you’ll be too tired for the
fair. I’m not going to accommodate your sweet tooth if you’re cranky.”
“I’ll get some sleep when I come back from class,” Robb promised. He traveled
downwards to get a taste of Jon’s cock. Jon whimpered when he felt Robb’s lips
trail down his stomach.
“See, this is why I think you’re better off at home. I’m worried what would
happen if you’re surrounded by all those authoritative types.” He kissed Jon’s
belly button.
Jon chuckled when he felt Robb’s beard brush against his pelvic region. “Sounds
like a challenge.”
Robb kissed the bottom of his cock. “Just a fact. You like me telling you what
to do too much.”
Jon disagreed.  “You like telling me what to do. I like you enough to do it.”
“And how many guys did you like enough to listen?” Robb pinched the tip of
Jon’s cock. Jon shivered deliciously. Pre-cum leaked from the entrance and
though his eyes were closed, he could imagine it wetting Robb’s lips. Jon
wanted a mouth on his cock—stat.
“Only a few,” Jon answered. Honesty was the best policy; especially if it meant
the divine torture that was to followed.
Robb’s jealousy was boundless. The gripped the cock but did not move and there
was no way to cum when his dick was being constrained.
Jon moaned. “But it was just light teasing most of the time,” Jon confessed. He
sighed when Robb loosened his grip. “Nothing extreme…promise…I never let myself
go as far as I have with you.”
Robb was relieved. He licked the side of Jon’s cock. “How many men did you
love?”
Jon squirmed in place. “None.”
All at once, Robb engulfed the member in his mouth. Jon trapped his head
between his thighs in pleasure. He moaned—louder than he ever had before. The
surprise undid him. “Robb!”
Robb let go of the cock in his mouth. Faster than Jon thought possible, the
older boy launched a sneak attack on his lips. The kiss was aggressive and
lacked sensuality; there were no tongues. Instead it was playful and brief.
“I’m going to be your first love,” he said as soon as they parted. “Not the guy
you love as a friend. Not your brother. I’m going to be the one you fall deeply
and maddeningly in love with.”
Jon gasped when the mouth was on his cock again. “My mother used to tell me
that love is a drug; it’s addictive and powerful and dangerous all at the same
time. It makes us dependent on it for happiness and when we lose it, we become
mad from withdrawal.” Jon chuckled when his cock left Robb’s mouth. The cold
air touched his cock for a brief second before Robb straddled his hips. “She
said that the only love we can depend on is the love for ourselves, for our
family, and maybe our friends.”
“Your mother is cynic. I’m going to have the time of my life changing her
mind.”
Jon bit down a smile. He refused to indulge Robb’s arrogance. “You’re pretty
cocky, Stark.”
“Just confident,” Robb countered. “I know that once I’m done with you, you’re
going to call your mother and tell her she was wrong. You’re in love and
there’s nothing she can do about it but attend the wedding.”
***
That morning, Jon had less than half an hour to fix up a substantial breakfast.
He settled for a banh mi with egg and sliced cucumbers, wrapped it up, and sent
Robb on his way before he was late to class.
Today, Jon wakes up in bed alone. He checks the clock and sees that it is a
half an hour past nine. Dinner is over. He looks around and sees that he is in
Robb’s room. There is an extra blanket on top of him.
Robb must have done that.
Jon curses his callousness. He jumps up and wonders what it must have been like
for Robb to come home and see his ex-boyfriend lying in his bed. Jon can no
longer justify his insensitivity; his spineless behavior has exceeded ignorance
and has come to bordered sociopathy. After taking a few more seconds to linger
in Robb’s scent, Jon gets out. He is reluctant to do so; weighed down by fond
memories and nostalgia and bitterness—grave bitterness he’s had for years but
has never noticed until tonight. He thinks about his mother and for once, there
is no fondness or admiration or understanding. He is angry at her and it is
unfair. It is unfair for him to be angry at a woman who is not present to
defend herself.
Jon leaves the bed and checks his phone. His screen is riddled with missed
calls and unread text messages. Most are by Willas. They have a date tomorrow.
Dread fills the pool of his stomach. He should cancel—he’s in no mood to be
burdened with romance, especially after what happened with Rhaegar Targaryen.
Willas will understand. Jon is good at attracting understanding men, not like
Lyanna, not like his own mother who was, and still is, a magnet for the
depraved and the obsessive. She drove men off cliffs and shattered them into
pieces. And Jon was just like her—everyone said so.
Jon finds it hard to breathe.
He grabs onto the desk for support, knocking off a few books in the progress.
He ignores the constriction in his heart, how these invisible arms coil around
his self-worth like a parasitical life-sucking fungus. He takes deep breaths,
one after the other, and straightens up.
Jon hears a knock on the door. He cringes.
It can be anybody. It can be Robb, wanting his room back or to talk about his
presence in it. It could be Aunt Catelyn, wondering about his presence in
Robb’s room and the status of their relationship. It could be Arya, simply
concerned for his wellbeing since he was in Robb’s room. All the while he is
thinking this, he wonders why he choose to be in Robb’s room. Why was it so
instinctive for him to seek out his cousin for help? He feels like a damn fool.
Understanding that evasion is not a possibility and escape impossible, he takes
a few, foreboding steps forward. He winces when his hand is placed on the knob.
Then, he opens it.
If he had trouble breathing before, he’s having a cardiac arrest now.
“Mom?”
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter features Lyanna and Jon.
     2. After that, I think I'm going to revert to some of my usual
     quirky, contiminated crack that I produced in earlier chapters
     because I miss it. There's been so much drama, I need to bring the
     comedy back.
     3. Thanks for all the reviews. I hope you enjoy the next chapter.
***** Chapter 42 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Benjen Stark departed from adolescence and entered the throes of puberty on the
night his father held a stag party for Jon Arryn. The man was suckered into his
third marriage after Holster Tully, seeking to cover up his daughter’s
‘abnormal weight gain,’ launched an elegant dinner party celebrating her
success at ‘a fat camp in Switzerland.’ At the party, Lysa was behaving
erratically, losing her wits in liquor and drowning herself in self-
deprecation. In contrast, Jon Arryn was in the midst of a joyous celebration,
having announced his retirement a month earlier. He enjoyed the wine freely.
Seeing an opportunity, Holster did not hesitate to bring the two together in a
drunk one-night stand nor did he pause when he switched his eldest daughter’s
pregnancy test to trick the two into getting married.
In comparison to the scandal of knocking up his friend’s daughter out of
wedlock and abandoning her at her lowest, Jon Arryn figured marrying a woman a
third of his age was expected of him. While the plot was devious, the stag
party was tamer than a milkman without a mistress. The men were old and tired
and Jon was clearly upset about the marriage. He finished his beer with a heavy
swing and left to get another. Benjen watched from his spot on the dining room
table as the man staggered to the fridge and refused the maids’ help. Benjen
swooned over his silver hairs before he even knew what swooning was. He licked
his lips imagining the color the hair of Jon’s pubic region.
“Do you need some help?” Benjen asked. He stood up and helped steadied the much
older man against the counter.
“Ah…thanks,” Jon groaned. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
Benjen felt a tingle down his spine. He shivered. “Only if I am treated right,”
he said, cautiously. "Do you want me to be a good boy for you?"
Jon nodded. He was oblivious to the innuendo. “Your brother used to talk about
you. Said you were the one he could count on more than anybody in his family
and…oh fuck.” Jon took a moment to compose himself. He wasn’t as young as he
used to be. The alcohol pounding a migraine into his head.
Benjen kept a resting hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should get some sleep,”
he suggested as he purred into his neck. He hadn't realized his voice could
sound like that. “We have a guest room…or I can take you to my room.”
There was something about that suggestion that didn’t sound right. “Why would I
sleep there?”
“Because my room is closer,” Benjen advised, wide-eyed and innocent. “And it’s
warmer. I’d make it super comfortable for you.” He leaned in. "I'd make you
very comfortable." 
The reasoning was sound; Jon’s resolved weakened with every soothing stroke of
the back. He might have gone to be with Benjen had the boy’s father not arrived
to check on him. As usual, Rickard ignored his youngest son. When they left,
Benjen sighed and went back to his room. There was time, he thought as he
sipped his Earl Grey. There was no reason to give up. In the end, he was right
to refuse surrender. After two more years of strategic planning, fantastic
seduction techniques, and the improper use of his family’s surveillance system,
his determination wore down Jon Arryn’s restraint.
Including Jon, Benjen had his unhealthy array of lovers to thank for his
lovemaking skills, each one more prosperous than the other; each one old enough
to be his father or even his grandfather. They were more than happy for his
daddy issues; it just meant they had a lover who didn’t fake an orgasm. Yet
above all of them, Jon Arryn was his favorite. There was something more devious
about sleeping with him above anybody else—probably because Jon was his
father’s friend. It certainly wasn’t the money.
When the CEO of Arryn Enterprises died, Benjen attended the funeral and stood
beside Arryn’s wife—only a little older than himself and a thousand times more
bitter. He smirked as she sneered. Jon took advantage of the fact that he
outlived his friend, Rickard. The corpse was no longer restrained towards his
affections for Benjen; he had no qualms leaving a parting gift to his lover—one
that could only be described as an inheritance. In his will, Jon thanked Benjen
Stark “for making [his] final moment worth living and the tightest ass [he’d]
ever had.” Ned was horrified. Yet, a loving brother and ward to the end, he
remained supportive. Jon’s wife was livid. She cussed and swore at him,
cradling her demented son while doing so. Benjen just shook his head and dealt
with the lawyers.
Whereas some mistresses would lose themselves to sadness or move on without a
second thought, Benjen did neither. He decided that mourning was the last thing
Jon would have wanted for him, but finding a random man to fill Jon’s legacy
was demeaning to their love. After a respectable period of thoughtful
solemnity, Benjen set forth to seduce his White Whale: Chief Commander Jeor
Mormont.
Unlike Arryn, Commander Mormont was not one to be swayed by the vivaciousness
of wanton youth. Benjen was grateful for his growing body; he was never vain
but over time, the Stark charm morphed from the appeal of a boyish nymphet to
an eye-catching incubus. He thanked his good looks and Stark stubbornness for
the feast underneath him: Jeor’s massive erection and ton-heavy balls felt like
heaven inside him. Benjen ran his hands over his chiseled abs—decorated with
rough skin and dry scars. Strong as an ox—not like Arryn who lost himself to
the stress of a neurotic wife and an ill child—and showed it through his tight
grip on Benjen’s hips. Jeor let the younger man ride his dick like he was
getting paid for it, pulled on his too-long hair that went against regulation
but he secretly loved and slapped his ass a little too hard. Benjen called him
daddy. His moans would have made Ned weep. Poor Ned, who wanted so badly to
believe that at least one of his siblings choose the path of righteousness but
instead got a little brother who was milking out each drop of sperm from his
boss’s cock as if it was his professional duty.  
When Jeor was done and due for a nap, Benjen took the time to think about his
family. It had been a while since he visited the family home; the place was
never welcoming to him after their mother died and their father remarried his
work. Rickard Stark spent most of his children's lives trying to build up his
empire through marriage contract and mergers, often losing sight of his
children. The person who endured the worst of it was Lyanna. She was his
father’s favorite and fearing death, his father did everything he could to
secure a profitable match in her favor. He kept her locked in a cage, stifled
her, coddled her until she was forced to break free or suffocate. On the rare
moments they spoke, Benjen asked Lyanna if she would ever return to their
family home for anything but a funeral.
“Maybe…if I thought the person was worth it.”  
***
“Jon!” Lyanna cheered as she held him hostage in her arms. “Oh fuck, look at
that beautiful face of yours! Fucking hells, you’ve gotten so big! By the gods,
you’re more perfect than when I left you.” She kissed him, square face on the
lips before pecking his face to death. “I just want to smother you with kisses.
Shit, that’s such a ‘mom’ thing to say, right? Shit. Ah, fuck it. I miss you so
much.” She squeezes him tighter. “I was hiding in your room, waiting for you to
wake up. I honestly pressed my ear against the wall, listening for a reaction
like some sewage dweller.”
 Jon’s amusement breaks through his shock and he laughs; he hugs his mother
because no matter how upset he is with her, he cannot deny how much he loves
her.
When they break away, he stares at her in amazement. She has not aged a day.
“Hey, mum.”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” Lyanna grins. “Where are my laurels of praise? My unstoppable
declarations of devotion? I don’t know if you noticed but I did all the hard
work just now.”
Jon kisses her cheek and hugs her again. He feels like a child again.
Subconsciously, he clutches onto her petite form—as if she’d run away from him
if he didn’t.
“What are you doing here?” He gains the sense to ask.
“My exhibit in Paris just ended—sold out every piece, I’ll have you know, and I
wanted to see my son.” She pouts. “Why? Don’t you want me here?” Her teasing is
in high spirits. Once the high of seeing his mother fades so does his own
cheer.
“No.” Jon shakes his head. “No, it’s good to see you.” He cringes at how
uncertain he sounds. Lyanna picks up on it like a hound.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” Lyanna agrees. “And when we’re done pretending I didn’t give birth to
you, you can tell me the truth.”
“Mum…”
“What?” Lyanna stares at him. “I didn’t travel over 400 miles to be lied to.
Tell me what’s wrong.”
Jon looks away. Lyanna’s instinct begs her to push, to ravage and bite and
scratch through his defenses like the wolf she is. Her maternal experiences
advise her otherwise.
“Listen, I haven’t been here in a long time. Do you know if Gage’s is still
open?”
Jon breathes a sigh of relief. He nods. “Uh, yeah. I just went there last week
to pick up some pastries.”
“Great,” Lyanna agrees. “Let’s go get some cake and sit in a park and talk like
old people who have given up on the latest generation.”
Jon nods and smiles, but there’s no humor in his expression—just resignation.
Lyanna is rightfully unnerved; her son has always been sullen and discreet but
she’s never had to work so hard to figure out the root underneath his
unhappiness.
They take the car and drive in silence. Lyanna figures the solemnity is for the
better. Lyanna has done plenty of stupid things in cars and arguments; one
noticeable example was when she was sixteen and fighting with Ned about her
driving. She tumbled out of the driver’s seat and onto the open road.
When they get into the bakery Gage’s son, Turnip, is there to greet them. He
remembers Jon but is too young to recall Lyanna. The woman chuckles when the
boy fusses about, worried to have upset her with his poor memory. She assures
the child that it is not his fault he doesn't remember her. Benjen will mock
her to the high heavens if he learns how unfamiliar this place has become to
her. Ned will frown. Brandon will not care; he hasn’t been around either.
They gather up their pastries and walk to a nearby park. Gage choose a
fantastic location, thinks Lyanna. The bakery is perfect; located snug against
a park, ideal for dates and conversations, meetings where one can enjoy a
Turkish delight or a warm croissant without having to spend an extra dollar on
the landscaping.
They find a bench and sit. Jon is focused on his brioche while Lyanna chews on
apple turnover. Lyanna swallows another bite before asking Jon if he’s ready to
talk. To her surprise, he says he is.
“Who’s my father?”  
Lyanna chokes. Jon passes her the water bottle he had the good sense to buy and
waits for her to relieve herself. Before she has time to think, he repeats the
question.
Lyanna has never doubted this day would come but all her preparations were done
for Jon’s youth. She used to fear Jon coming home, perhaps motivated by a
callous comment from an ignorant twat or a cruel jeer from a too-tall bully.
Yet whenever she was around, they were traveling. Traveling across the world
with barely a second to breathe let alone ask about paternity. Years passed,
and her saint of a brother shouldered the burden of fatherhood with a twinkle
in his eye and satisfaction from a job well done.
She is not prepared for a young man in his twenties staring at her with such
familiar brevity. Lyanna wonders if her father has come back to life to judge
her.
“What brought this on?” She asks in a weak attempt to stall for time. “You’ve
never cared before.”
“It’s not that I didn’t care,” Jon counters. “I just cared about you enough not
to ask.”
Lyanna grimaces. “What, you don’t love me anymore?” She adds mirth into her
tone so Jon knows she doesn’t mean it. Regardless if it worked or not, Jon
remains grave.
“I want you to tell me who he is.”
Lyanna sighs. “Why?” Lyanna stands up from the bench and throws away her
wrapper. She licks her fingers, fidgets, and then runs her fingers through her
hair. She is upset—far more upset than she has a right to be but the
indignation is there. “Why does it matter now? You don’t need a father, Jon. It
won’t make you happy. Gods, my father drove me crazy. I was almost forced to
marry some asshole I didn’t love because of him. And yes, I loved my
father—don’t say anything about that—but it won’t change a thing.”
“Are you saying that because I don’t need a father?” Jon stands up. “Or because
you’re afraid I’ll be like him if I knew who he is.”
“What?”
“I know you know who my father is.”
Lyanna groans. “Jon, I slept with like a hundred guys—”
“Rhaegar said you took a paternity test.”
Lyanna freezes up. She stutters as a mess of confusion and horror leaks onto
her face. “What did you—?”
“He says that if you thought there was so much as a chance he could be my
father; you would have had a paternity test done.”
“Rhaegar Targaryen is a sociopath,” Lyanna tells him. The commitment to her
secret is present on her face. “He’s fucking insane—worse than his father
because he can hide it.” She shakes her head. “What did he say to you?”
Like mother, like son, Jon avoids the question. “He is obsessed with you.”
Lyanna knows that too well. “What else did you find out about him?”
“He hit on me.”
Anger overwhelms her. “That sick fuck—!” Lyanna takes a deep breath. “Did he do
anything to you? Did he…?”
“No.” Jon shakes his head. He pauses. “I fought him off.”
“Fuck,” Lyanna swears. “And he knows. He knows you could be his son.” Lyanna
returns to the bench and rests her head in her hands. “Fucking Targaryens. Of
course, he would hit on you.”
“Careful, that might be my family you’re talking about.”
“The Starks are your family, Jon!” Lyanna shouts. She looks up at him. They
stare at each other; rage, concern, and contemplation passing through their
eyes. Finally, Jon sighs and sits down next to her.
“Please…just tell me. Is Rhaegar Targaryen…is he my father?”
Lyanna shakes her head. “I don’t even know what he’s doing here…”
“Mom!”
“Alright!” Lyanna yells. “Okay, I’ll tell you…but you need to understand. This
does not change anything. I don’t want you near him. He’s…he’s not a good
person. There’s a reason I didn’t want him to know about you.” She screams at
the sky. Jon waits until she is finished letting out her frustration. “And of
course, he had to fucking come and ruin my fucking life and my son’s life like
the fucking psychopath he is!”
She is panting when she screams some more. The birds fly out of the tree in
shock. Jon watches as a fox steps out of the bush to judge her. 
“Mom. Okay, I get it. And I know he's a creep; I’ve met him,” Jon reminds her.
He rests a hand on her shoulder. “This does not change anything. I just…I need
to know. Please tell me.”
Lyanna looks ready to cry. Instead, she sighs and shakes her head like an Etch-
A-Sketch hoping to remove the paternity results from her head. “Okay…Rhaegar
Targaryen…” She swears a bit. “He’s your father.” She lets out a deep breath,
looks at the ground and waits. 
The climatic aftershock never comes. There’s nothing. Jon feels nothing. The
confessions only confirmed a theory. The relief or satisfaction he hoped he’d
get from getting his mother to say the words does not come. Jon finds the void
emasculating and wants to scream to reclaim some dominance over his life. He
gets up and lets out his own slew of curse words.
“Fuck! Fuck! What the fucking hells!”
“Jon?”
“What is wrong with me?” He walks down the path instead of returning to the
bench. Lyanna follows.
“What?” Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s something wrong with me.”
“What?” Lyanna will have a heart attack by the end of the day. “Why would you
say that?”
“Because I don’t care who my father is?”
“What?” Lyanna’s anger takes over her sympathy. “I just almost had a fucking
break down and you’re telling me that was for nothing? What the fuck is wrong
with you?”
“I don’t know!” Jon yells. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought
learning about my psychopath of a father would mean something to me but it
doesn’t. It…” Jon tries to compose himself. “I feel nothing. All I can think of
right now is how cold I am and how I’m going to end up just like you or him and
I’ll never be able to love someone.”
“Wait, what is wrong with me?”
Jon scoffs. “This isn’t about you, mother.”
“Too bad,” Lyanna snaps. “You made this about me. Now, what’s this about not
wanting to end up like me?”
Jon refuses to answer. Lyanna returns to her natural state. She pushes this
time and there’s no kindness in her actions. “What the fuck is wrong with me
that you could compare me to that piece of shit?”
“Did you love him?” Jon interrupts.
“Where are you going with this?” Lyanna asks. Her exasperation is barely
keeping up with her anger. “Stop changing the subject.”
“This is a part of the subject. Did you love him? Because he said he loved
you.”
 Lyanna shakes her head and chuckles—sneers at the thought of Rhaegar loving
anybody. “His sense of love is warped. He damages you in order to make sure you
keep loving him.”
“Stop blaming him for everything,” Jon snaps. “Answer me. Did you love him?”
Lyanna bites her lip. She lets go and answers. “Yes.”
Jon turns his back on her.
“It’s complicated, Jon!” She yells as she catches up to him. “Love with Rhaegar
Targaryen is not simple.”
“Love is never simple with the two of you!” Jon shouts. “And because of that, I
am more fucked up than you can imagine.” Jon punches a nearby tree.
“Jon!”
The bruises and cuts paint red dots all over his fist. He tells Lyanna the
truth. “I am terrified of being in love.”
Lyanna cradles his fist. She grabs some wet cloths from her purse and cleans
it.  She swears as more blood runs down his skin. While she desperate pats it
down, she looks up at him and frowns. “Jon…please…”
She is shit at first aid; that will never change. Jon takes the cloth from her
and cleans himself up. “I’m terrified of being in love,” he admits again, this
time more breathless. “I see you. And him. He talks about you like you’re an
object but I’ve never seen anybody speak with such passion, not even…” Not even
Robb talked about him with such fervor. “He’d do anything for you—he said he’d
offered to leave his wife, was that true?”
The shame on Lyanna’s face said it all. Jon shuts his eyes. “And you, you hate
him. But there’s a tenderness in your eyes whenever you hear his music or his
name and I see all this love between you two and it hurts because I know it’s
destructive and painful and it ruined you both. I’m afraid that I’m going to do
the same things to the man I love that you two did to each other and I don’t
want that.” He clenches his fist. Lyanna tries to stop him from drawing more
blood. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
Lyanna lets go of his hands and cradles his face. She stares into his eyes—his
perfect grey eyes and tells him he looks like his uncle.
“What?”
“You look like him, more than Rhaegar or even me. People thought you were an
illegitimate child before; it was the only scandal better than Rickard Stark’s
rebellious teenage daughter getting knocked up.”
Jon tries not to laugh. “Is this your way of making me feel better?”
“Yes,” Lyanna admits. “Because it’s the reason I wanted you to stay with your
uncle and his snob of a wife.” She grimaces. “Because even though I hate her—”
She laughs and sobs to herself—a private joke in her mind. “I love the way she
treats Ned. They are the happiest couple I’ve ever met and I wanted you to see
that kind of love in your life. I wanted you to see what devotion is, not
obsession. I wanted you to see friendship and fairness and equality; real love
when people understand and respect each other.” Tears well up in her eyes and
she fights to keep them from falling. “You are not me, Jon. You are not your
father, either.”
“You used to make me swear off relationships.”
“Because I was worried for the same reasons you are freaking out now,” Lyanna
confirms. “I was worried you’d be like me and find yourself in the arms of a
man who’d ruin you and you’d lose your entire identity in him. But I know
that’s not the case. You’re not me. You are your own person, Jon. I see your
friends—god, I love your friends. And I love Robb—he reminds me of Ned but more
passionate.” She smiles to herself. “You need someone like that in your life."
The reassurance is palpable, comparable to a ship for a stranded man. Before he
can respond, his phone rings. Jon takes it out and his heart stops.
“Is that Robb?”
Jon shakes his head. “No, it’s Willas.”
“Who’s Willas?” Lyanna tilts her head in confusion. 
“New guy. Long story.”
“You and Robb just broke up.”
“A lot of things happened since then.” Jon sighs and places the phone on
vibrate. “Mom…”
“Why don't you answer?”
“Because I’m talking to you?”
“Would you have answered if it was Robb?”
Jon remains silent. 
Lyanna sighs. “Is he better than Robb?” she asks. “Does he make your heart sing
like Robb? Make you lose all reason like him?”
“Please don’t, mum.” Jon shuts his eyes. “I don’t need another voice telling me
what to do.”
“That’s an all or nothing game,” she instructs. “You either don’t listen to me
and ignore everybody else, or you take everyone’s advice including my own.
Can’t pick and choose.”
Jon shakes his head. “Why are you saying that?”
"Because I know you.” Lyanna kisses his bruised hand. “I know all the bad of
Rhaegar and all the crap from me turned you into the best thing in the world.
Two negatives make a positive.”
“I hate math.”
Lyanna chuckles “I know that.” She looks up at him, her eyes are clear and
resolute. “I know I didn’t raise an idiot—or a coward.” She lets him go. “I
raised someone who was good and kind and cared about the people he loved.” She
looks at the phone in his hand. “Do you care about this Willas?”
Jon thinks about his brown hair and kind smile. “I do.”
“Do you care about Robb?”
“Yes.”
“Then be good to them. Don’t make stupid mistakes.” She kisses his cheek. “Ned
taught you better than that.”
Lyanna waits for Jon to send the text to Willas asking him to meet up. They
walk to the car where he drops her off at her hotel. She doesn’t feel welcome
at Winterfell, she tells him. He doesn’t understand and for that, Lyanna is
grateful. 
Before she leaves the car, he asks her for the truth. “What happened between
you and Rhaegar?”
Lyanna hesitates. The memory is both terrifying and fond—like jumping out of
plane before realizing the parachute wasn’t working.
“We ran away together,” Lyanna starts off. “He offered to leave his wife and I
accepted it—at first. But in that five-star hotel, I kept listening to him make
these calls and form these plans and he never once asked what I wanted. When I
started adding in input, he either denied me or agreed on these conditions.”
She bites her lip. “And things got worse. I tried to call my father and he got
angry that I needed someone besides him. He kept me on watch. Had his employees
keep checks on me. Finally, I snuck a phone call to Brandon—just to tell him I
was okay. He found me. We’re Starks after all. And they…they got into this big
fight. Utter bloodshed.” Lyanna sighs. “I tried to stop it and ended up getting
stabbed in my shoulder. They took me to the hospital and I…” Lyanna takes a
deep breath. “I met Elia. His wife. And she looked at me like I was scum but
she never once said a cruel thing towards me.  She asked me if I was alright.”
Lyanna never cries for herself but in Jon’s car, she cries for the poor woman
who performed no crime but loving a man who did not love her back. “She tried
to make a compromise between us. She said she didn’t want Rhaegar to suffer or
their children to be abandoned and agreed to have a room set up in their
mansion for me and…fuck, she knew I was pregnant—I didn’t even know I was
pregnant! And she said she wanted our children to get along and that they could
set a trust fund for you and I…” Lyanna shudders at the memory. “I fucking
ruined this woman’s life and she was trying to make amends—as if she had done
something wrong.”
Jon waits for his mother to end this story. 
“I left him that day—told him I was a child. I was in over my head. And when he
didn’t take me seriously, I drove him crazy. Slept with a lot of men to piss
him off.” She laughs at her own promiscuity. “Father put a stop to it and tried
to get me to marry Robert Baratheon. He was willing. I was not. So in the end,
I decided to run away. Just get the fuck out of that world.”
The story ends with Lyanna’s kiss on his forehead. She gets out the car before
hearing his response. “You got to see Willas,” she instructs. “And you…do what
you always do. You think about him and what he deserves and you care…just like
you’ve always had.”
***
Willas receives Jon’s text during his night long paperwork binges. He stops
himself from dashing to the phone. As soon as he reads it, a sense of loathing
fell upon him, followed by resignation. He sighs, shakes his head, and resumes
his paperwork.
Hey, its Jon. Can we move our dinner date to lunch? I really need to talk to
you.
Unable to fight the knowing feeling in his head, he leans back and tries not to
think of his sister or his grandmother. The blissful ignorance of optimism is
eventually shot down. The Redwyne blood ran too deep to suppress the soaring
Tyrell ambitions.
“Fuck,” he curses.
The text confirms it. Tomorrow, he is getting dumped.
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter is a Jon/Robb centric chapter. We're giving a
     throwback to comedy soon which means Rhaegar will return (maybe in
     chapter 44).
     2. I am trying to make my chapters longer because my dream is to
     finish this story in 69 chapters. That would make me very happy.
***** Chapter 43 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
While a yawn to some and a shocker for others, there has never been a
descendant of Olenna Tyrell that has ever been dumped. Olenna went through
great pains to expunge her family history of rejection. Ever since her tragic
dismissal by Daeron Targaryean—which she swore to the heavens was of her own
accord and not a result of his infatuation with Jeremy Norridge, his roommate
in Eton whom he continued to live with as roommates until the end of his too-
long life—Olenna had taught all of her children and grandchildren the crooks
and crannies of relationships. She taught them how to find suitable partners
with affluence—even the smart buggers who hid their fortune to avoid gold
diggers. She took them to the mall when they were teenagers and asked them to
seek out who had the most to offer in the bedroom. She reminded her blessed
children that wealth was not enough for a spouse. Taking a page from her idol,
Lady Bracknell: “A man who wants to marry should know either everything or
nothing.” She turned to Loras and Garlan and told them to find someone who knew
everything. She then turned to her right and said to Willas and Margaery the
exact opposite. “Find someone who knows nothing."
The children laughed at their prickly grandmother—at least Garlan and Loras
did. Neither followed her advice, choosing two partners of average
intelligence. At least, she thought, Garlan had the good sense to marry a woman
who was silent and Loras’ future husband had a personality to handle Loras’
over-the-top indulgences.  
Olenna was willing to work with their carelessness. Everyone, even her oaf of a
son, Mace, had the good sense to accept her most valuable advice: how to tell
when your partner wanted to leave you.
Olenna taught them the standard codes and phrases, everything from ‘we need to
talk’ to preemptive suggestions for ‘a break.’ Her son was fortunate enough to
find a wife in his childhood sweetheart. His options were so few that he could
not afford better. Her grandchildren, however, were the champions of the
courtship scene. They heeded their grandmother’s rejection phrases like crack-
addicted squirrels and became mindful of every little movement of their
partners’ interactions.
Her advice is guaranteed gold. So much so, that when Willas receives a message
from Jon, indicating that he wants to reschedule their dinner date for lunch,
he already knows the pillars of infatuation had fallen and what is ahead of him
is a barricade of rejection.
Willas accepts the change of plans graciously; he never lets on that he is
prepared for heartbreak. Jon is a decent young man. Willas can tell that
leaving a specimen like himself would be a hardship—Jon will struggle to spare
the Tyrell’s feelings. Willas can also tell that Jon would be swift—the band-
aid method. 
The garden of abandonment Jon selected is a quaint bistro well within his
monetary means. Another sign, Willas notes, if he wasn’t already dead sure.
People who break up with other people pay for their meals. The food is
delicious—Willas never fails to appreciate a fine roasted chicken breast with
gravy and well-seasoned carrots. The drinks are made too much sugar—just the
way he likes his juice. He praises Jon to the heavens; each compliment lowers
Jon’s resolve, pulling him into the temptation of prolonging his mission. Yet,
the younger man is a Stark and Starks pull through.
Jon drinks a sip of red wine for liquid courage. The red stains his lips. He
licks the remnants off. Willas almost drops his fork. Fuck, Jon is gorgeous.
Willas wonders if it was possible for him to still get Jon into bed for pity
sex. His legs may not work properly but he can lift like a champ and Jon weighs
what? Eight? Ten stone?
“Willas…” Jon calls out.
Ever the gentleman, Willas is quick to address his partner. He removes such
thoughts from his head; he is a Tyrell and Tyrells do not settle for pity
fucks. Jon has made up his mind, and his pride depends on coming out on top in
spite of the dire circumstances. 
“Yes, Jon?”
“I…” Jon looks away. “How do you like your food?”
“It’s delicious,” Willas tells him. He smiles gently and says, “I admire your
fine taste.”
Jon flushes from the approval. He has a praise kink and Willas regrets not
utilizing that fact sooner.
“I’m glad,” said Jon. He fiddles with his pasta. “I heard about this place from
my mother.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Jon admits. “Her…boyfriend used to take her here sometimes. It was one
of their secret places. Nice, private…”
Secluded and perfect for a break-up in case someone caused a scene, thinks
Willas. Jon’s mother must be in on it. “She made a good recommendation,” says
Willas. “I’m glad we’re fortunate enough to enjoy it. Sometimes, people give us
great advice and we choose not to follow it or it turns out that while the
advice is good, it isn’t really for us.”
Jon chokes on his chicken. Willas keeps on eating.
“I guess.” Jon drinks some water instead. He takes a deep breath. “Willas, I
want to be honest with you.”
“I feel the same way,” Willas agrees. He savors the juices of fine, ripened
grapes on his tongue. “I want you to feel comfortable to say anything to me.”
He touches Jon’s hand. “I understand that you have a hard time trusting people
and I want to be the one to change that.”  
“Oh…kay.” Jon switches back to wine. “Willas, you are honestly one of the most
amazing people I’ve met in my life.” He waits for Willas to interrupt him.
Willas smiles and keeps silent. He’s the one getting dumped; he’s not making it
easy for Jon. Jon swallows his discomfort. “And I can’t thank you enough for
being so patient with me.”
“You are worth it,” confesses Willas. “I hope you don’t believe I was troubled
at all by what happened the other night. After all, it was my ex who caused a
scene.”
“I know.” Jon sighs. “But I…”
“How has Robb been since that night? Have you spoken to him?” Willas asks,
trying not too curious.
A rock of distress lodges its way into Jon’s throat. “Um, no, we haven’t. I
didn’t speak to him at all.”
Ah, so the famous Stark heir had no input into Jon’s decision to break up with
him. Willas does not know whether he should be relieved or disappointed. On one
hand, he is rather pleased that the decision is not based on their comparison
but Jon’s lingering affection. As a man with an ailment, he often suffered from
the side effects of wavering self-esteem. He was smart about it—got the help he
needed when he did, but there was always a resentment he held about his
infliction. Knowing that Jon had not had any contact with Robb made it clear
that their relationship’s termination had less to do with him and more to do
Jon’s inability to get over his loss love.
But no one liked being dumped and Willas can’t help but feel displeasure when
he realizes he cannot maneuver his way out of the situation.
The only solution is to dump Jon first.
Willas inwardly sighs. He really wished this could have been something. As he
finishes off his first glass of wine, he develops a new plot. Simply being the
person not dumped was not satisfying enough. If he was going to lose out on an
opportunity to a man like Jon, he might as well further his career in the
process. He did come here for business after all.
“Jon, I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” Willas tells him. “How can you
expected to move on in our relationship when you haven’t left that one?”
Jon tenses up as expected. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you
about—”
Willas stands up all of a sudden. “I know what you wanted to say to me.” More
so than Jon understands. “And I support you one hundred percent.” He didn’t
have time to fall in love Jon so he supposed a bit of vengeance was necessary.
His grandmother and sister expected nothing less from him. “I think I should
have a talk with him. Jon-lover to Jon-lover.”
“What?”
Willas is quicker on his feet than Jon expects. When he tries to stop him,
Willas sends a friendly reminder to the boy to take the check. “I’ll pay for
our next date,” he says with a wink. As a man with a limp, he is not fast
enough to outrun Jon to his car. The young man begs him to sit down so that
they could have a proper break-up. Willas refuses—he’s watched over his
brothers enough times to understand the benefits of playing dumb.
“Nonsense,” Willas denies. “I am doing this for us.” He turns to his driver and
rolls up his window—not fast enough, however, for Jon to hear him give the
order “to the Stark manor, please.”
As the car travels out of view, Willas chuckles to himself.
Yes, he thinks. This is much more satisfying than breaking up.
***
Willas orders his driver to run the streets without remorse. He tells him not
to worry about local law enforcement; today is the day for scandal. He never
went to a rebellious stage but he supposes one incident of bribery won’t kill
him.
Fortunately, the fates are rooting for him. He ends up in the Stark
manor—ticket-free and ready for an altercation of his lifetime. He sees Jon’s
car pulling up. The boy drove like the furies were on his trail. He rushes a
bit to get in doors. As soon as he gets in, he uses a double lock to keep his
once potential lover from getting in.
A maid stares at him. He smiles back at her. “I’m sorry to bother you but is
Robb in?”
The maid nods, a strange expression on her face; Starks hire good girls, Willas
muses. The young woman does as she is told. She knows who Willas is—having
worked the night he picked up Jon for their date. She wonders if he found out
about Jon and Robb’s relationship.
Oh, this will be a tale for decades, she coos as she notes every detail for
future gossip.
The house is big but old. Willas hears the ruckus upstairs and walks over to a
nearby chair to lean on. He massages his leg while he waits and fortunately, he
does not wait long. Robb comes down with a sleek, slightly messy shirt that has
two buttons undone for casual sex appeal. He tells Willas ‘hello’ and
reintroduces himself like a gentleman.
Willas returns his handshake and inwardly praises the young man. He imagines
the boy must want to rip his head off. He wonders if he can get him to try.
“Sorry to disturb you; I was just on a date with Jon and he said something that
led me to believe we should talk.”
From outside the house, Jon bangs on the door and tells Willas to get out so
that they could talk. Willas can hear Jon’s senses coming back to him when he
searches for his keys. He tells Robb to act.
“We need to talk: old boyfriend to new boyfriend. If Jon comes in here, that’s
it for you two. That’s years of unresolved sexual tension and bitter
misunderstandings because I’m going to say some things about you that may or
may not be true and we’re going to put him in a position where he’ll have to
choose between the two of us.” Willas smiles, knowing full well that the
younger man does not have the good sense to call his bluff. “You don’t want to
put Jon in that position, do you?”
Without further hesitance, Robb rushes to the security box and types in a code,
setting the house on a lockdown. Jon’s key is useless. They two heirs can hear
him curses at the sudden barrier and tells whoever is listening to open the
entrance. Robb orders the staff not to act on his request.
Willas chuckles. He has to give Robb some credit. The boy works fast.  
“Okay,” Robb is breathing rather harshly. For a boy in best shape of his life,
he needs to work on his endurance. “Let’s talk.” He looks at the door and a
pained expression takes over his face. “But it has to be fast.”
“This won’t take long,” Willas assures. “After all, I’m only here to inform you
that Jon plans on breaking up with me.”
“What?” Robb sends a regretful look at the security box and the door. He then
glares at Willas. “Is this some sort of a ploy to ruin our relationship?”
Willas chuckles. “No, I’m not the type of guy to fight when the war’s been
won.”
“I am,” Robb counters, naturally defiant. “So what’s this about?”
“Well, obviously this is about Jon.” Willas stares at him appraisingly. “And
apparently Jon wants you: the guy who pretty much Stockholm Syndrome-d him into
a relationship instead of the man who wants to learn about him.”
“I want to learn about him!” Robb protests.
“Really? You didn’t even know enough about him to figure out he was your
cousin.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Robb shouts. “I wanted to learn about him
naturally.”
“Did you need a learning curve?”
“No!” Robb groans. “Listen, I get it. You’re angry that Jon is going to choose
me and not you and this is some some chauvinistic face off where you try to
prove you’re better for him than me.”
“I am better than you for him. There’s no argument about that.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Just about everything, mate.” Willas sounds so sure that even Robb is
partially convinced of the truth. “Listen, we’re both men. We’re both heirs to
multi-million-dollar corporation—well, mine is a billion dollars but who’s
counting?” His sister, his grandmother, everybody in their fucking world.
“We’re handsome—let’s not indulge in false modesty for the moment—and we love
our families. Most importantly, we both like Jon.”
“I love Jon.”
Willas chuckles and there’s fleeting resignation in his smile that Robb is too
heated to take notice of. “Yes, you do.” Willas will never get the chance to
fall that hard. “But I don’t want to leave this place without saying my peace.”
 “So say it,” Robb challenges. “Or is this some sort of retaliation intended to
throw me off so you can claim the spoils of the victory?” 
“That is exactly what this is,” Willas agrees. He rests his cane and takes off
his jacket.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re going to have a fight, obviously.”
“Like chess?”
“No, no, an actual fight.” Willas rolls up his sleeves.
“You’re mental,” Robb scoffs. Willas loosened his collar. “I’m not going to hit
you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have a bum leg.”
“Bit of an ableist thing to say.”
“No, it really isn’t.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“No, it really isn’t.”
Willas prepares his punch. He cannot remember the last time he got into a
proper fight but he knows it was with his brothers so he does not hold back.
When he manages to land one on Robb, he is pleasantly surprised.
“Oh, that was a great hit,” he praises himself. He understands his brothers’
rambunctious natures more.
Robb, on instinct, sends him a retaliation punch. It knocks Willas over. One of
the maid’s shriek, stopping Robb from his rampage. His face is immediately
overcome with regret. “Shit, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you up.” Robb leans
over to give him a hand and Willas takes the opportunity to take him down.
“What the f—!”
The two end up grappling on the floor. Robb, once he gets over his shock, puts
Willas into a chokehold. The two of them are too distracted with each other to
hear the door opening. Jon comes rushing in like a bullet train. There’s no
mistaking the compromising position so when he makes his presence known—a well-
deserved and tactful “what the hell?” Willas elbows Robb in the gut, forcing
Robb to tighten his hold. Willas pretends to lose consciousness and enjoys the
sound of Robb’s verbal beating. Ah, Jon is livid.
Ah, Jon is livid.
***
Jon ends up carrying Willas to his room. They consider calling an ambulance but
Willas adds in a timely moan to indicate his unconscious but hardly
hospitalization-worthy status.
“I think he’s faking it,” Robb tells his cousin as Jon carries him to his
bedroom. “He’s doing this to get into your pants and you are falling for it by
letting him into your room."
“Shut up and open the door,” Jon snaps. “And don’t try to spin that whole ‘oh,
he wanted to fight me’ spiel.”
“But he did!” Robb protests. “He threw the first punch!”
Jon refuses to listen. He gets Willas on the bed and closes the door. He tells
Robb to get one of the maids to boil the tea. “The maids, Robb. Not you. You’ll
end up poisoning him and then we’ll end up with a bigger mess on our hands.”
When they are alone, Jon sighs and sits on the bed. He waits to hear Robb walk
down the stairs. He puts his hands in his head and says, out loud, that Robb is
gone. “You can stop pretending.”
“Oh thank the gods.” Willas sits up on the bed and smiles. “How’d you know?”
“I worked at a nursery home for awhile. I had to earn the difference between
sleeping, faking, and dead pretty quickly.”
Willas laughs. “I would love to hear about your adventures there.”
Jon quirks his lips. “Willas…”
Willas shakes his head. “I get it. You can’t get over him.”
“What was this even about?”
“I guess I wanted to size him up—see if he really deserves you.”
“I don’t know if I deserve him. Or you.”
Willas shakes his head. “There’s a thin line between humbleness and low self-
esteem and I hope one day you pick the former to dwell.” Willas sighs. “I think
a part of me thought that if I met him, I could persuade you otherwise. Young
people are so easily infatuated that they don’t realize how easy it is to fall
for the better partner.” Willas kisses Jon’s hand. “I have great faiths in my
persuasion technique.”
Jon pulls away. “What’s the other reason you came?”
Willas shrugs. “Well, obviously now, Robb has no choice but to adhere to my
demands. I am sensing a highly profitable alliance in the future.”
“He wants to kill you.”
Willas takes back Jon’s hand. “Hopefully, you can remind him about how
forgiving I was when he attacked me and my poor crippled body.”
Jon laughs and it is a beautiful sound. “You’re a horrible person.”
Willas nods. “Yeah, and you’re going to hate me more for what I’m about to do.”
Jon tenses. “And what is that?”
Willas looks at him and his gaze makes Jon feel beautiful. He wonders about
fate and realizes that Willas was not an obstacle in her plan but a test.
“Jon, I think we should stop seeing each other. You’re in love with someone
else. I don’t want to get dumped. This is just not working out.”
Jon is taken back. He is silent for a long time before he ends up laughing his
heart out. Willas still has a hand over his own and keeps it there for a final
request. “One last kiss?” He suggests.
Jon can hear Robb coming upstairs. He shakes his head and agrees. “One for the
road,” he corrects before leaning down and brushing his lips against Willas.
The expression is chaste and sweet—like old friends parting rather than ex-
lovers.
***
Jon opens the door before Robb has a chance to and takes the tea from his hand.
Before Robb can come in, the older boy slams the door in his face and locks it.
Robb waits, patiently as Greywind, before brightening up when Jon reopens the
door. Willas is smirking in the background, sending him a look of victory.
Dread overwhelms Robb’s body. Jon looks into Robb’s eyes and says they need to
talk.
Oh fuck. He knows what those words mean.
The two of them reunite in Robb’s room, where Robb is quick to reiterate his
side of the story. “He attacked me first, Jon. I didn’t want to hit him but I
had to. And in my defense, I tried to help him up and he just dragged me onto
the floor. Besides, what is the rule against hitting handicapped people,
especially if they hit you? It’s a bit abeist, isn’t—”
Jon captures his lips in a kiss.
“Please stop talking,” he begs when they part. Robb is staring at him wide-eye.
“Every word you say is just a confession that you hit a guy who can't walk
properly and trust me, there's no way you can make that look good.” He takes a
deep breath. “Just kiss me.”
Robb does not need to be told twice. They continue kissing until Jon lands on
the bed. Robb stops their necking to take a good look at Jon. He sighs. “Oh
fuck, he said you still loved me.”
“Yeah.”
“So he wasn’t lying?”
Jon laughs and brings their lips together by pulling on Robb's shirt. As Robb
tries to unbutton his pants, Jon stops him. “No,” he orders Robb.
Robb stares at him, crestfallen and the sight makes Jon’s heart weep.
“I want to take it slow,” he clarifies. “Like what we should have done.”
Robb tries not to groan. “Haven’t we been taking it slow lately? We can
consider this whole month as a really long slow-motion scene in the movie of
our relationship.”
Jon chuckles. “I want you,” he tells Robb. He lands kisses on his neck. “And
I’m not leaving, Robb. We can take our time.” He smiles at his cousin and
lover. He tosses himself onto the bed in a manner that is supposed to casual
but gives Robb a hard-on regardless. “Didn’t you say you had something plan for
us as a family? A camping trip?”
His erection is painful but not as bad as the lack of sensation od Jon’s skin.
Robb sighs and lays down beside him. “Yeah, but it has to be next weekend. This
weekend, we have to go to London and see Arya’s performance.”
“Good.” Jon grins. “I’m looking forward to it,” he tells Robb as he plays with
the hairs on Robb’s chest. “Willas is going to rest before leaving. When he’s
gone, we can discuss the perimeters of a…slow relationship.”
The pleasure of having Jon’s hands on his chest is enough to make him lose
reason. Robb nods, he’d agree to anything at this point. Jon is grateful. The
contract he promised Willas for not suing the Starks will be easier to obtain
with a more complacent Robb.
Jon is grateful. The contract he promised Willas for not suing the Starks will
be easier to obtain with a more complacent Robb.
***
When Catelyn and Ned Stark arrive home, they are greeted with the sight of
their son lying on their nephew’s lap, purring like a kitten who’s eaten the
canary and washed its bloody body down with cream. He has never looked more
content than his life.
Catelyn feels the foreboding stifle her. “Oh…I see you two made up.” She tries
to salvage the last crumbs of decency she could. Her voice is high and
squeaky—nervous from the gamble she’s about to make. “It’s great. I’m so happy
you guys are behaving like brothers again.”
Jon entangles his fingers into Robb’s own. Their son snuggles further into
Jon’s lap. “Actually, there’s something we want to tell you…”
***
Lyanna hears about the reconciliation before anybody else in their family. She
smiles, glad that her son has found true love. Robb is a good boy—nothing like
her lovers. She will have to have a talk with him before she leaves. She trusts
any son of Ned, but a customary amount of fear was necessary for dating a
Stark—or a Snow in their case.
When she arrives to her destination—a posh hotel whose standards of luxury she
secretly adores but hates admitting because it makes her seem high-
maintenance—she stands outside the entrance for a few minutes before the
doorman asks if she is lost. She tells him she is not and walks in. She marches
to the receptionist with more courage that she actually has and tells her who
she’s looking for.
When the receptionist says there’s no one by that name, she rolls her eyes and
pushes through like a true Stark.
“Don’t bullshit me, I know he’s here.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but there’s no one here by that name.”
“Yes, there is. And I know he requested that no one visit him but trust me—he’s
going to want to see me.”
“Miss—”
“Call Rhaegar Targaryen and tell him I am here. I will leave as soon as he says
he doesn’t want to see me.”
The woman is contemplating between calling security and doing as Lyanna says.
She makes the civil decision to call her manager. She is young but not stupid.
If Lyanna is telling her the truth, then she’ll be held responsible for sending
away an important man’s mistress. If she’s lying, then she’ll have to reveal
the identity of a person who does not want to be known. When the manager
arrives, Lyanna shivers—just a bit.
“Ah, Miss Stark. It has been a while.”
Lyanna stands her grounds “Yes, it has. I see you still work here.”
“Probably until the day I die,” the man jests. He leads Lyanna to the elevators
without further discussion. The woman sighs—she made the right decision. “I’ve
been offered promotions, but Rhaegar Targaryen is keen to have me stay at this
hotel, so he simply offers me a raise each year—lovely man. I do half the work
of an executive for the same amount of pay.”
“Good for you,” Lyanna tells him tactfully. They arrive at the penthouse suite.
He tells them to have a very good time with a wink. The action is cringe-
worthy.
Lyanna swallows her discomfort and marches towards the door. Before she can
enter a rampage, the entrance open and there is Rhaegar Targaryen—a god in
human form. He is shirtless—having just come out the shower and Lyanna imagines
herself licking the delectable droplets off his chest.
Lyanna hits the wall in a dramatic fashion to avoid her hypnosis. Bad girl, she
scolds. If Rhaegar found her behavior peculiar, he did not say anything. His
eyes burn with the embers of his family sigil. His gaze makes her a little
wet—she cannot help her reaction. There’s a reason she’s avoided him this
entire time. She is still in the cloud of nostalgia when he grabs her by the
arm and pulls her into his room. He is raw and lustful—his lips are on her skin
and chest and when he slips his fingers into her pants—she reacts in turn.
She slams the tip of her shoe into his manhood and kicks him with the heel.
“Okay,” Lyanna breathes out as she wipes his drool off her body. “Okay, now we
can talk.” She takes a second to immunize herself from his pheromones. She
thinks about her son and his memory gives her the strength to move forward. She
grabs a nearby chair and slams it against the coffee table they once fucked
on. 
“We’re going to have a nice, adult conversation about how you’re a fucking
psychopath and how I’m not letting you near our son ever again," She told him
as she tightened her grip on the chair and threw against the wall. One of the
legs breaks off and she is quick to collect it, wielding the branch like a
sword. 
Chapter End Notes
     Next Chapter: Lyanna and Rhaegar have a calm discussion on the matter
     of Jon. But not really.
     One of my favorite plays is The Importance of Being Earnest and you
     cannot convince me that Olenna Tyrell was not based off her.
     I was wracking my head trying to think of a way to break up that was
     funny but gave everybody closure. I ended up doing this. :) I wish
     their break up scene wasn't so fast. :( I'll try harder to pace the
     scenes better next time.
     Someone called me ableist and homophobic on Tumblr for liking the
     manhwa Killing Stalking. So that's how the ableist comment got in
     there. Just a fun fact, haters are going to call you anything just to
     make you feel bad and half their insults don't make sense. And I have
     a high standard for insults because my Chinese friends taught be how
     to talk back to people. And for them it's not just "you stupid cunt"
     it's more along the lines of "I hope someone grabs a dildo and fucks
     your ancestors to the fifteenth generation" and like this is a
     legitimate insult in Chinese but it sounds fucking awesome in
     English. And all I want is for people who hate me to give me the
     decency of a proper insult. Just saying.
***** Chapter 44 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 Lyanna’s rampage sees to the destruction of the suite’s vases and the
dismantling of every single piece of art in the room. After the statues and
paintings are disposed of, she launches an attack against the couch. Her chair
leg violates the cushions until springs fly out of the seats, popping out of
the vintage fabric like a jack-in-the-box. “My fucking son!” She shouts at
everything but him.
Rheagar stands by the sidelines. “Is there a reason you aren’t looking at me?”
Lyanna whacks a lamp off the side table. “Because everything I look at you; I
imagine bludgeoning you until the smugness bleeds over the carpet. Just
covering your body with bloody splinters and having your brains—” Lyanna points
her weapon at theTargaryenn. “—splatter against the floor. And fucking feminism
has dictated that women have to be held accountable as men in regards to
violence or else they’ll be inducing patriarchal norms that we are irrational
and weak and too emotional to be held responsible for our actions.” Lyanna
lifts up the stick and slams it on top of the glass surface.
“…she says as she breaks my end table.”
Lyanna glares. “You hit on my son,” she accused. 
“In my defense, you gave birth to a very pretty boy.”
Lyanna threw the leg at him which he dodged. She marched over to him and
slapped him across the face.
“What happened to reinforcing patriarchal norms?”
“My father once tried to sell me off in a political marriage. I’m allowed to
benefit just this once.” She hits him again. He licks his bloody lips. 
“I heard about that,” Rhaegar notes. He steps closer to her. “You bit the
bullet by refusing his hand. I heard Robert Baratheon really let himself go.”
Lyanna's hand balls up to a fist. She aims for a punch. He catches her wrist
and forces their lips together. Rhaegar grabs her hips and lifts her up so that
they are at the same height. He pushes her against the wall and grinds against
her much smaller form until she is moaning against his tongue. Lyanna wraps
herself around him, his hard chest pressed against her tits, rubbing against
her nipples. Her willpower loosens and she deepens the kiss. When they part,
Rhaegar confesses that he still imagines her underneath every night. "I think
about the way your back arches whenever I thrust my tongue inside you or how
good it feels to clench my fingers in your curls when I fuck you from behind.
When I saw Jon, all those delicious memories came flooding back.”
Lyanna gasps when his teeth brush against her collarbone. Her son's name
awakens her common sense. She shoves him off her. She hits him again. “You’re a
disgusting, vile man,” she says as she wipes the evidence of his presence off
her mouth.
Rhaegar chuckles, nursing his red cheek. “I am a connoisseur of beauty and like
any great aficionado, I long for the taste of a superior sample.” He walks up
to her; she takes a step back. “For a long time, I thought your eroticism was
unparalleled. I spent hours memorizing your body. Everything about you was
perfection, from the curves of your calves to the tenderness of your derriere
and the swelling of your breasts.” He gets closer and closer until she is
cornered once more. “I never found anyone so alluring. At least, not until I
learned what this heated trap of yours could produce.” Rhaegar’s hands lingered
on her cunt. “Absolute perfection.”
Before Lyanna can strike, the phone rings.
Like a wise man, Rhaegar walks away to pick it up. Lyanna’s breathing becomes
heavy and loud. Her inhales echo throughout the room.
“You’re such a cunt,” she curses at him.
Rhaegar smiles. “Hello?”
Lyanna waits for him to finish his phone call.
“I apologize for the noise. My companion and I are having a heated
discussion…oh, yes, everything is fine. I must offer my condolences. We’ve made
quite a mess. Please expect a generous show of my apology tomorrow.”
Lyanna rolls her eyes.
“Everything is going exactly as planned. In fact, I would love to order dinner.
What is your most expensive bottle of champagne? Ah, I see, and what is your
second most expensive bottle? One of each please. I believe it is going to be a
long night. What is on the menu today? Both sound marvelous. Rare, of course.
My Lyanna loves the taste of blood on her tongue. Please send someone up as
soon as possible.”
Rhaegar hangs up. Lyanna narrows her eyes at him.
In a gesture of peace, Rhaegar raises up his hands in defeat and tells her he
ordered them dinner. “The food will be here in half an hour. It’s your
favorite. Steak.”
Lyanna delivers more heat into her death stare.
“We can fight until the food comes,” Rhaegar offers. The suggestion goes down
much more favorably with the she-wolf.
***
The two of them almost miss the bell ringing, alerting them to the maid’s
presence. When Rhaegar answers the door, his entire appearance is disheveled.
He does not fail to seduce the maid to overlooking the mess; she winks at him
and asks if she could stop by later. He politely refuses much to the maid's
disappointed. Lyanna walks over to grab her plate. Though sporting calloused
palms and untamed locks, her beauty is enough to intimidate the girl. She
scurries away in a hurry and Lyanna snatches up her meal. They eat on the
floor; Lyanna having destroyed the dinner table. 
Rhaegar attempts to make polite conversation. “So is Jon in a relationship
now?”
Lyanna stabs a knife into her meat. The sauce and blood ooze out. “Don’t talk
about my son, you pervert.”
“Our son,” Rhaegar corrects.
“My son,” Lyanna pushes. “Hell, he might as well be Ned’s son. My brother is
the only father that kid knows.”
For the first time tonight, Rhaegar displays his bitterness. “You say that as
if I am to blame for our estrangement.”
"As far as I am concerned, you are." 
"I'm not the one who abandoned the man she claimed to love." 
Lyanna drops her fork. She narrows her eyes at him. “Really? You’re going to
play the victim here?”
“You never told me you were pregnant. I would have never neglected him if I was
aware of his existence. I would have been there for his first steps, his first
word, any accomplishment or heartbreak, I would have been there by his side
ready to accept his affection and provide him with my own. Our distance is a
result of your secrecy. You deprived him of a father.” Rhaegar sighs. “If I
didn’t love you so much, I would have never forgiven you for that.”
Lyanna trembles in rage. “So I’m at fault here?”
“I didn’t say that.” Rhaegar sighs. “Young men need fathers. A child as
stunning as Jon needs a firm, guiding hand to lead him to all the right places
in life. I did a background search on him—”
“You did what?”
“And he is an exceptionally intelligent soul. He could have gone places had I
played a hand in raising him.” Rhaegar grins to himself. “Just imagining his
tiny body under my sheets, reading bedtime stories, slipping strawberries into
his mouth during desserts.”   
“Do you hear the way you talk about him?” Lyanna’s lips curl in disgust. “He’s
not your plaything or your pet.”
“You’re right, he’s our son,” Rhaegar agrees. “I had a right to know about his
existence.”
“You lost that right,” Lyanna informs, hate seething in every word. Before
Rhaegar can defend himself, Lyanna speaks up. “You call yourself an enlightened
man yet you never stopped to wonder about why I didn’t tell you.”
“You were upset—”
“I was terrified,” Lyanna growls. Rhaegar falls silent upon the reveal. “I
thought about telling you—or at least telling Jon—several times. The first time
I considered it, Jon called my brother ‘daddy’. I was too much of a coward to
tell him otherwise so I had my older brother explain to him that he didn’t have
a father. Another incident was when I left Jon to live with Ned for a long-term
assignment and I thought ‘maybe I should leave him with someone else.’ But no,
whenever I had those thoughts, whenever the temptation came over me, I asked
myself ‘why did I think that letting my son grow up without a father was better
alternative than revealing your identity?’” Lyanna pauses. She stares him in
the eye. “Because I knew I would rather kill him and myself than ever be caught
within your family’s clutches once more.”
Lyanna stands up. "I have said my peace, Rhaegar." 
Rhaegar does not follow her. He tells her, instead, that he would have given
Jon everything. Lyanna scoffs. “Yes, at the cost of being the bastard son of
Rhaegar Targaryen. He would never have a family; he would be an outcast—”
“We could have been a family!” Rhaegar stands up.
“I didn’t want to marry you!”
“Yes, you did!” Rhaegar shouts. His eyes are blazing. “You wanted to be my
wife. That’s why we ran away together in the first place. That’s why you were
so happy when I told you I was getting a divorce. But then you gave up. You
gave up on us. You gave up on our family, Lyanna. If I wasn’t married already,
you wouldn't have hesitated to sign the papers. So do not tell me that you
didn’t want us to be together.”
Lyanna is taken back. She clenches her fist and looks away. After a few minutes
of personal contemplation, she sighs. “Either way, this is over.” 
“No, it isn’t.” Rhaegar walks over to her and grabs her wrist.
“Do you plan on locking me up again?” Lyanna mocks, but there’s sadness in her
eyes. “I’m not that stupid anymore.”
“I love you,” he confesses. Rhaegar gets on his knees and kisses her hands. “I
love you,” he tells her again. “We can still be happy,” he swears to her. “It’s
not too late.”
Lyanna shakes her head. Her face is stern and does not mirror her internal
desire to sob. “Yes, it is, Rhaegar.” She takes her hands back. “I should have
done this a long time ago, for both our sakes. Instead, I let this illness
fester because I was afraid of moving on.” Lyanna releases a resigned sigh.
“But I can’t keep doing this. It took me awhile but I can’t keep running.” She
caresses his cheek. “Goodbye, Rhaegar Targaryen.”  
Lyanna allows Rhaegar a few moments to process the information before turning
her back to him. As soon as her hand twists the knob, Rhaegar speaks.
“Jon is my son, Lyanna. You cannot keep him from me."
Tension clogs up the room and coils its demonic limbs around Lyanna’s throat.
She becomes as still as a corpse. When she turns, her face expresses every
boiling drop of rage, every thought of contempt, and every scathing insult she
could imagine.
“Stay away from my son.”
“Our son."
"Stay away from Jon." 
"I can’t do that,” he whispers. His soft-spoken exterior contrasts the madness
flickering in his eyes. “He’s my son, too. And I want him by my side.”
“Touch him and I will ruin you,” Lyanna warns. “I will reveal every secret
thought, every torrid detail, things about our affair, about your family, that
I can remember. Things that not even the infamous Targaryens can recover from.
I will riddle the papers and the news with your lunacy until the nightmares of
your family are ingrained into everyone’s head as if it were a memory. Can you
afford that?”
Rhaegar chuckled. He sounded unamused. “You’d be ruining yourself in the
process. And Jon. He’s a Targaryen, too.”
“He is not—”
“Yes, he is,” Rhaegar hisses. “There will be two spectrums of that media. One
will claim me a madmen and the other will paint you as a homewrecker—where does
Jon fit in? I can keep this quiet, Lyanna, and keep his slate clean. Draw
attention to my affairs and the world will know I have another heir.” Rhaegar’s
lips twitched. “Elia will be humiliated, but you know her, she will stay by my
side. My children will never forgive you and they certainly will never consider
Jon a brother.” Rhaegar chuckles. "He'll be more alone, won't he? He'll need me
more than ever." 
Lyanna takes a deep breath. She steps forward so that their chests are pressed
together. “What do I have to do to keep you away from him?”
Rhaegar reaches out to cradle her face. “You can’t do anything, my love.”
Lyanna winces when he tightens his grip on her. “Jon has changed the game. I
get you and I lose Jon. But Jon is half-mine. I'll have him at my side.”
Rhaegar brushes a strand of Lyanna’s hair from her face. “And soon, I’ll have
the other half that belongs to you.”
Lyanna lunges at him as he expected. Her claws scratch opens his face, leaving
a visible and bleeding scar on his flawless Targaryen complexion. He laughs
when she continues to attack him but he holds her off, eventually capturing her
in his arms. When she is done struggling, he kisses the top of her head. “Tell
Jon I look forward to seeing him,” he whispers before letting her go.Lyanna
sends him a promise of murder before slamming the door with enough force to
remove the hinges. When she is gone, Rhaegar takes the opportunity to fall into
the trap of narcissism. He checks his face in the nearby mirror, entranced by
his new mark \ his lover.
Lyanna sends him a promise of murder before slamming the door with enough force
to remove the hinges. When she is gone, Rhaegar takes the opportunity to fall
into the trap of narcissism. He checks his face in the nearby mirror, entranced
by his new mark by his lover.
***
The latest victim’s face was gnawed off to become unrecognizable. Benjen
arrives at the scene of the crime with an ass that is wailing and the respect
of his fellow colleagues.  They recognize a sex limp when they see one. Yoren,
who is inspecting the body, looks up to criticizes Benjen's tardiness and
instead slaps his back with pride.
“I see you captured the whale.”
“Eight hours,” Benjen confirms breathlessly. “He is in better shape than my
father.”
“That is not an appropriate know about your father.”
Benjen chuckles. "My father was built like a beast. He had scars everywhere,
muscles on top of his muscles, he was the kind of guy who would throw a twink
around like a carousal while having him lodged on his cock.”
“How do you know this about your father?”
“Though I have to say, even though I’ve never slept with my father—”
“Thank gods for that.”
“Commander Mormont is far superior in bed.”
“Please stop,” said a voice behind them. Detective Swan is putting on her
gloves as she purses her lips in disapproval. When they are on, she crouches
down. "We have a dead body present. Show some respect."  
"This case cannot be as hard as Commander Mormont and I proved myself worthy of
that case. This will be solved in due time."
Emma sighs. She sends Benjen a congratulatory nod. “I was just talking to
Commander Mormont. Good for you.”
Benjen raises an eyebrow. “Did he tell you?”
“No, but he was complaining about his back so I knew something was up.” She
inspects the lesions on her neck. “Turn the body on the side.”
Not one to avoid gore, Benjen and the rest of forensic team move the corpse by
an inch.
“Like’s like our serial killer,” she confirms. “What number is this now?”
“Thirteen,” Yoren clarifies. “Our lucky day, huh.”
“Thirteenth one we found,” Benjen corrects. “His victims are staining the
streets red—just because some remain black does not mean they haven't bled.”
“How poetic,” Emma notes. She stands up. “Well, I guess it’s time to release
the good news.”
“There’s good news in this?”
“There’s progress,” she clarifies. “Commander Mormont told me that if it’s
another victim of the Bloodhound, we can start interviewing suspects.”
“Thought he said we didn’t have enough substantial evidence?”
“After thirteen kills, we’d be a fool to keep biding our time,” Emma shrugs.
“He's getting permission to interview our two suspects. The higher ups have
been avoiding the scandal since Roose Bolton's ties to the government are
notorious but now they have no choice. First on our list is Ramsay Bolton. We
can talk to the Reed kid last. We need to talk to their doctor for a basic
profile. Fortunately for us, they share the same doctor. I've seen his name
before. He specializes in criminal psychiatry."
"Is he allow to share with us their sessions?"
"Not in detail, but he can tell us whether or not he believes they pose a
threat." Against her better judgment, she glances over at Benjen and winces.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did you wince?”
“You’re quite observant.”
“Why did you wince?” Benjen repeats himself. Like a dog with a bone.
Emma sighs. “I checked their addresses. You’re not going to be happy when you
learn where Jojen Reed lives.”
***
Last night, Jon slept in Robb’s room and repeated the action the next day. The
bastard was sensible; he waited until everyone was passed out in their thousand
numbered sheets to roam the halls for Robb’s bedroom. He would have escaped
Theon’s detection if the Greyjoy was not already suspicious of their
reconciliation. Theon waited for the footsteps; he lingered in the hall and
watched with a heavy heart as the Snow child entered Robb’s abode. The asshole
Stark did not even have the decency to warn him.
Instead, Robb has been avoiding him. Their secrecy makes his heartbreak worse.
Giants and storms he can see coming; but unexpected drizzles of affection, the
tender way Robb clutches onto Jon’s hand underneath the dining table or the
affectionate caress of the cheek when the older boy leaves for work. Theon
cannot avoid watching; one day, Robb will see Theon’s wounded expression—as
bloodied and bruising as his rescues—and try to mend their long unraveled
friendship.
Theon is not prepared for that day.
As soon as Robb sends him the text, Theon is packing his bags. He has nowhere
to go; only his uncle and he’d rather swallow swords than spend a second alone
with that man again. His false alarm comes in the form of a maid, asking if he
has packed for Arya’s performance. He tells her yes before grabbing his
designer suitcase and dashes off to the gods know where. He dials the only
phone number he knows will answer.
***
Ramsay is full of derision when he picks him up in his car. He calls Theon a
stupid skank for not being able to secure a tool like Robb and accuses Theon’s
pussy from being too worn out to attract any man. He does this while massaging
Theon’s cock and holding his hands through the self-deprecation. When Theon’s
eyes start to well up with tears, Ramsay is silent. After he recovers, Ramsay
continues but sticks to the slut-shaming and does not mention Robb’s name once.
To drown out his thoughts, Theon gives him a blowjob before the older boy
decides to park on the side of the road and drag him outside of the car. They
fuck in broad daylight with Theon screaming his lungs out. A car or two pass,
honking their approval. While Ramsay comes inside him, Theon remains hard.
Ramsay tells him to get used to this.
“And long as you’re living with me, you pay rent. I don’t accept freeloaders. I
expect payment every single day by the hour. If you’re in my bed, you’re on my
cock. No exceptions. You don’t like it; you can sell your ass on the street
corner for all I care.” Ramsay tightens his grip on the steering wheel as he
makes the offer. If someone so much as touches Theon, he’s feeding them to the
dogs.
 
Chapter End Notes
     See I said “Let’s try to wrap up everything in 69 chapters” and then
     I add in this Lyanna-Rhaegar-Jon drama. I don't know what to do with
     myself. :( To give myself credit, though, I did make an attempt to
     bring back the serial killer storyline and the Daenerys' wedding.
     Next Chapter: Benjen talks with Jojen and Ramsay. Guest appearance
     from Hannibal.
     Goodness, so I am moving back home soon. The first draft of my novel
     is sixty-seventy percent complete (pretty good for a month's work).
     Packing is a bitch. I am ninety percent sure that my luggage is
     overweight but at least I have nine hours to work on my writing.
     Fingers crossed.
***** Chapter 45 *****
Chapter Notes
     This may be my second longest chapters ever written for this story so
     I hope it’s worth the lateness. We’re going to have sex and drugs
     (cocaine to be specific) in this chapter, plus some dry humping.
     Ramsay and Theon are never going to have a nice, normal sex scene so
     let’s just get that out there. Bran is underage. Hannibal is bored.
     Officer Yoren is so done.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
For lunch, Hannibal bakes fresh sourdough bread with a paštetas spread, made
from the lard and liver of his latest hunt. He tops the dish with an aspic made
of beef stock and veal and accompanies the sandwich with lorne sausages
seasoned with peppercorn, sea salt, sage, and garlic. On the side is a salad
consisting of fresh watercress and baby tomatoes from the garden. When the
doctor hears his husband come into the kitchen, he asks the man to set the
table. Will complies without question; the former cop heads to the fridge to
grab two home-brewed beers. He places the bottles on the table and asks: “What
does it say about our marriage that I can’t remember the last time we’ve eaten
together? Alone?”
Hannibal smiles to himself. “As a professional, I’d say we are drifting apart.”
“Oh yeah?” Will walks up to Hannibal’s side. After their decade-long union, he
still has problems looking his husband in the eye. He fiddles with the tomato
instead; sneaks a piece into his mouth and bites, smacking his lips in the
obnoxious manner Hannibal loathes but forgives him for because he's Will.
Hannibal turns to scold him for his bad table manners but becomes distracted by
the rouge on Will’s lips. He bends down to kiss him instead. When they part,
Will admires the tasteful presentation. “Who are we having today?” He teases,
punning with the best of them.
The doorbell rings before Hannibal can answer.  
“So much for a meal alone,” Will mutters. “Which one of your patients are we
having today?”
Hannibal’s lips twitch, not quite a frown or a smile but definitely curious.
“I’m not sure.” He walks to the doorway to reveal a pair of uniform cops.
“Officers, can I help you?”
“We’re sorry to bother you, Dr. Lecter. I’m Yoren and this is Officer Stark. Is
this a good time?”
“Of course,” Will quips, coming out from the kitchen. “Our house is always
welcomed to officers of the law, especially during mealtime. Would you like
some sandwiches?”
“No thank you.” Yoren refuses. “We actually came here to ask questions about
two of your patients, Jojen Reed and Ramsay Bolton.”
“I see.” Hannibal takes a step back to let them in. “Please come in.” The
officers follow the gentleman to the dining room where a beautiful lunch is
being served. Yoren is put off by their meal; far too decorative for his taste.
Hannibal prepares a cup of coffee for each. “It’s the least I can do,” he
offers.
For the sake of his cooperation, they take the mugs. “You have a nice house,”
Yoren compliments out of civility. “Should have been a doctor if I've known I
could get a place like this.”
“Thank you,” Hannibal says as he sits down. He offers them a seat at their
kitchen counter. “Before we start, I must warn you that as a psychiatrist, I am
legally bound to the confidentiality of my patients. I apologize if I cannot be
of much help because of that and I ask that you do not push the boundaries of
my silence.”
“We understand that,” Officer Stark speaks up for the first time. His voice low
and calm; Will is familiar with the tone. Men with his level of severity made
the best interrogators. “But you are allowed to discuss observations as long as
they don’t transgress into your sessions. And you are obliged to submit any
behavioral signs that may imply danger to themselves or others.”
Hannibal smiles at the commentary. “A fine point,” he praises. “Not many people
know that part of the law.”
“We are cops,” Officer Stark replies.
Yoren sighs at his brisk nature; the Stark only has charm when it relates to
fellatios and older men. The doctor is on the younger side of Benjen’s
preferred age range but he lacks the ruggedness the gerontophile prefers. He
doubts the gentleman has ever gotten so much as a hair out of place. He
apologizes for his partner’s cold shoulder. “The case is taking a toll on us,”
and reveals a folder containing Ramsay’s picture. “How about we get started
with the Bolton? It says here that Ramsay’s probation ended six years ago—after
he left to attend university in America. Have you seen him since then?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Hannibal answers. “We set up the occasional
session.”
“He must like you,” Benjen notes, a touch below accusatory but right above
impartiality. “The word around the station is that you have a high retention
rate amongst your criminal clientele.”
“Some people find comfort in having a neutral party to talk to, especially when
their interests are condemned. People in my profession are often unable to
disassociate their own morality from those they provide mediation to. Quite
unfortunately, they begin to condemn their patients and drive them further off
the precipice of no return.”
“And you are immune to those concerns?”
“I want to help those whose society has turned their back on. Being a criminal
does not make them any less worthy of salvation, officer.”
Benjen’s expression is unreadable. He redirects his attention back to Ramsay.
“What can you tell us about Ramsay? He has the capacity of violence; we know
that from his record. Given the circumstances, do you believe he can be the
Bloodhound Killer?” 
***
Ramsay Bolton collects the damaged and forsaken, the girls who leave their
houses sporting fresh bruises from their daddies or the boys who spend their
nights giving blowjobs for a buck. He’s not one of those perverts who get off
on defiling innocence—tried the whole schoolgirl thing in college and was
disappointed with the results.
There’s no challenge in corrupting goodness. An object in mint condition is
defiled as soon as it leaves the box. That’s not to say Ramsay doesn’t ruin
their cunts when he owns them. The Bolton has spent hours filling up his
fleshlights with his cock, toys, beer bottles and baseball bats; he likes to
experiment with how far they can stretch and boy do they stretch for him. He is
fortunate that good boys and girls are never clever; all they need is a few
gentle phrases, a tender caress or two, and before long, they’re opening up
their creamy pussies in dark alleys or fingering themselves at a family diner.
Ramsay has loss count of those types of whores. As soon as he breaks them, he
throws them away, either in the garbage bins or he leaves them open for his
boys. The only mementos he has of his expeditions are the occasion pictures or
videos he took for leverage.
It was Ramsay’s older brother that taught him that the broken ones made the
greatest game. No one notices a scratch on a broken window; punching bags can
last years no matter how beaten they are. Ramsay understands the philosophy on
a practical level; the damaged ones last longer but there’s no difference in
thrill. When Ramsay meets Theon, Ramsay finally empathizes with Domeric. When
Theon Greyjoy, pretty, desperate, wanton Theon, crawled on top of him that
night, he understands his perfect brother and the similarities make him feel
like a better man. When he’s inside the Greyjoy, Ramsay is practically giddy.
Theon reminds him of a cesarean scar—a reminder of brutality and hope all at
the same time. Ramsay likes that Theon isn’t as damaged as the others in his
collection. Ramsay usually goes for guys with low self-esteem, the ones who've
abandoned their manhood and let him do whatever he wants until he hits a little
too hard. Theon isn’t one of them. He likes what Ramsay does to him—he just
doesn’t want to admit that he likes it. He gets hot and horny over a little
roughhousing but then rejects Ramsay after they’re done. With Theon, Ramsay
doesn’t want him broken; he wants him to break and beg and admit that he needs
Ramsay as much as Ramsay knows he does.
That morning, Ramsay wakes up sated—Theon forgets to blow him as they’ve agreed
the night before but Theon’s ass makes a great cockwarmer so Ramsay fucks him
when he’s asleep and then complains a bit at breakfast. Theon pouts about his
leaking ass before giving him a blowjob before he leaves for work. Ramsay’s
door closes from the outside so he’s not worried about Theon being a fucking
idiot; leaving and locking himself out. Greyjoys are notoriously stupid. He
knows he’s doing the right by keeping Theon in the house all day while Ramsay
takes care of business. Unlike that freeloader, he has a job and obligations.
When Ramsay finishes up, it's an hour pass noon. The bastard celebrates by
buying a few eightballs for him, his friends, and Theon. The good stuff from
Peter. 
When Ramsay reveals his treat, Theon is stunned while his boys scamper over to
him like dogs, tails wagging and tongues out. “…What?” Theon’s voice is high
and choke but his eyes are curious.
“…What?” Theon’s voice is high and choked, but his eyes are curious.
Ramsay smirks. “You ever try snorting coke off a dick before?”
Theon blushes. “Don’t be an asshole.”
That’s a no. Ramsay unzips his pants and takes out his cock, half-hard and
getting harder with every step his bitch takes. Theon does not bother waiting
for his command. He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it off over his head
in slow motion. His eyes are focused on Ramsay. There’s no reluctance in his
stride so consciously or not, Theon is being a tease. When he is done with his
shirt, he pulls down his pair of borrowed boxers. Ramsay’s boys, who are high
and hard, watch Theon’s strip tease with intense concentration.
You want him, Ramsay muses. You call all pump your puny dicks into him, but
this slut is mine. He wants me.  
“Such a hot fucking body,” Ramsay murmurs without meaning to. Theon smiles
slyly and the arrogance irritates Ramsay. He takes ahold of the younger man’s
wrist. “Knees,” Ramsay commands.
Theon chews on his lips, plumping those cocksuckers up. Ramsay licks his own in
anticipation. He watches Theon get on his knees and reach out for his cock.
Ramsay’s brain does not quite catch up with his dick, so he hesitates to get
the bag ready in time. Theon places a careful, kitten lick on his tip.
Ramsay groans. He hands Theon the bag and orders him to prepare him. Most of
Theon’s experience with cocaine is from movies like the Wolf of Wall Street and
Scarface—he lines a substantial bump on Ramsay’s shaft. More than necessary but
not enough to cause any major issues. Ramsay grins when Theon’s eyebrows furrow
and he puts in the effort to make the drugs look nice. Theon is shallow in the
best way; Ramsay prefers a bitch who puts in the effort to be pretty, and he
loves one who can add a bit of presentation in his high. When Theon is
satisfied with the positioning, there’s no hesitance with what happens next.
The line disappears up Theon’s nose and Theon just lets out this deep, breathy
moan of satisfaction. Ramsay chuckles, knowing that even Peter’s good stuff
takes a few minutes to work. Theon is high off the scene. He’s turned on by the
audience and the giant dick threatening to gag him till he comes. There’s a few
sprinkles left on Ramsay’s cock and Theon laps up the remains like a dog.
Ramsay groans; he pulls Theon’s head off his cock to get a good look at him.
Theon’s eyes are a little unfocused and his lips are more swollen than a
gangbanged pussy. His nipples pucker up like strawberries on his sunshine skin,
and he looks good enough to eat. His mouth gapes, all nice and dry, and there’s
a soft little pant in his voice.
Gorgeous, Ramsay thinks. He relaxes the grip on Theon’s hair and allows the
young man to get to blowing. Theon licks and sucks, angling his head so that
Ramsay is awarded the best access to his throat. Ramsay takes advantage of the
prize. He pushes down deeper, testing out the depth of his fleshlight. Theon’s
legs quiver in response; the effects of the drugs loosen up his limbs and mind.
He opens up his throat more, barely remembering a time when he was more than a
cocksleeve. All he can think about is Ramsay’s thick cock. Ramsay continues to
thrusts in, hard and fast, filling that pretty mouth with his tension and
stress. He’s glad he decided to hold off on his high; the feeling of dominance
is better sober; it’s perfect, so perfect, and then Theon gags and perfection
transforms into heaven. Ramsay releases one of the biggest loads of his life.
Like all good whores, Theon swallows his load but there's too much. He opens up
his mouth to show off the warm cum drooling down his chin.
From 0 to 60, Ramsay’s cock springs up like a jack-in-the-box. Ramsay feels
another wave of anger at how easy it is for Theon to make him lose control.
More than ever, Ramsay is aware of how gorgeous Theon is; half the men are hard
because of him and the other half came watching his horny ass shake. Their
gazes weigh on him like boxes of lust and he is getting buried alive. In their
eyes, he can see a reflection of Theon pawing at his dick, rubbing Ramsay's
hard-on against his cheek like a kitten after a milk bottle.
“Fuck,” he swears because one of his boys is getting ready to cum and he’s too
close to comfort; Ramsay swears if so much as a drop sullies Theon’s backside,
someone is getting skinned tonight. To avoid the drama, he scoops Theon up and
hefts him on his shoulder. Theon squawks at him, his face burning like a virgin
bride. Ramsay carries him back to the bedroom, kicks the door close, and flips
him onto the mattress with a little bounce.
“If any of you cunts come in here, you are dead!” He shouts. Theon is blissed
out on the drugs but he’s getting hard thinking about what happens next. Ramsay
turns Theon over to get a nice rear-view of his ass. He grabs a bag from his
pocket and empties the content across his cheeks and hole. Climbing on top of
the bed, Ramsay bends down to enjoy his pussy. He reminds himself that Theon is
all his. Theon the one who sold himself to the devil. He’s the one that wants
to be with Ramsay.
***
“Everyone has a capacity for violence. Ramsay Bolton is merely more indulgent.
He desires power, and seeks to dominate those around him. When they attempt to
reclaim their ownership or dismiss his hold, he will cut them out of his life
but not before humiliating them for their perceived wrongdoing. Hence his
tumultuous relationship with his father, and their estrangement.”
“Estrangement?” Yoren looks over the notes. “Our reports say that he is
employed by Roose Bolton.”
“That’s a recent development,” Hannibal reveals. “Ramsay has a temper, weak to
his impulses but brilliant—obscenely so. I’ve had some marvelous conversations
in our private sessions—none of which I am inclined to share,” he warns as
Benjen raises an eyebrow. “His talents make his father acknowledge him but his
lack of restraint provides Mr. Bolton with a reason for suppression. As
expected, Ramsay lashes out against the binds. When he cannot escape, he
resorts to more desperate measures.”
“Like what?” Yoren asks sarcastically. “Gnawing off his own arms?”
“Or biting the hands of his master,” Will remarks from the back. He refills
their coffee mugs and gets a cup for Hannibal.
“Yes,” Hannibal agrees without divulging on what he is agreeing to. “While I
cannot give you a confirmation on whether I believe in Ramsay’s guilt or
innocence, I can tell you that the Bloodhound Killer is far more meticulous
than the Ramsay I treated in the past.”
“How so?”
Hannibal hums. “The killer is a planner, a tracker that enjoys the chase as
much as he lusts for the kill. Leading his victims to alleyways he knows are
devoid of life, letting them wander the streets, building up hope and fear;
that would excite Ramsay. But the threat of the occasional witness would
diminish his cravings. Ramsay likes danger but he abhors complications. If the
killings had been done in a more deserted location, the woods or a basement, I
would have been persuaded otherwise.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“That’s my opinion.” 
Yoren and Benjen share a look. Yoren pulls out another portfolio. “How about
Jojen Reed? Does he display the meticulous traits of the Bloodhound killer?”
Hannibal avoids the fond smile rising to his lips. “I suppose he is a rather
detail-oriented individual.”  
***
Jojen Reed has a list of mental castrations for emergencies, organized by their
ability to leech the blood out of his erections. He goes through the catalogue
twice that morning, plagued with typical English weather fit for nothing else
but lounging and sex, and none of them work his swelling cock. His love for
Bran is his last claim to morality and like the Polish defenses of 1939, they
go down in flames. At the moment, his wrists are tied to both sides of the bed
and his ankles are similarly secured. To make things harder for him, he cannot
see Bran—having been blindfolded because his gaze made his boyfriend nervous.
Jojen releases a slew of curses as Bran runs his hands coltishly over his
chest.
Bran pauses his ministrations. “Is this okay?” he asks softly. His voice is
saccharine and pure. Jojen is hard as rocks.  
“Yes,” Jojen gasps out. “Bran, you feel so good. I bet you look so fucking
gorgeous right now with your flushed cheeks and rosy lips. Just let me have a
peek, Bran. Please. I need to see you.”  
Bran bites his lower to keep from moaning; his fingers trail towards the
blindfold but he hesitates to remove it. He is not used to praise about his
sexuality, but his body is red all over and there’s a churning in his gut he
deduces is arousal. Jojen’s words make him feel dirty and good and he likes his
newfound power. He likes that he can make Jojen squirm underneath him and do
whatever he desires because Jojen wants him that much.
The power trip rouses more daring within him. He moves his hands away from the
blindfold and slips his hands underneath Jojen’s shirt. Both of them are fully
clothed, which adds an air of decency to their date. While pressing on his
chest for balance, Bran grinds his ass against Jojen’s cock. Jojen lets out a
throaty groan. Bran giggles because he’s nervous and excited at the same time.
He lifts up his hips and jerks forward again; this time the friction feels
better; more intense because Bran is more confident of the result. Bran can’t
stop himself any longer. He does it again and again. He rolls his hips on top
of the wet spot staining Jojen’s pants and stops caring about the fact that
he’s practically humping Jojen like a dog.
Jojen begs for release but his pleas are weak. After all, it was Jojen who led
Bran into an ill-intention conversation of immobility and bondage. He supposed
he had good intentions when he suggested the ropes; Bran was convinced that his
paraplegic status would be a hindrance to their future lovemaking. Jojen wanted
to make it clear that not being able to move certain parts of his body was
nothing to be ashamed of.
In hindsight, Jojen will be happy the lesson took as well as it did. At the
moment, his cock is aching and his cocktease of a boyfriend is driving him
crazy. He agreed to the no-nudity rule for Bran's comfort and regrets the
decision immediately. His jeans are tight. Bran's skin is soft and the barrier
of cotton only makes the older boy more frustrated. He’s already so close,
pleasure building in his stretched arms and legs, spreading down his spine and
Bran’s thrusts are growing more and more erratic.
“Am I making you feel good, Jo? Do you like it when I rub against you like a
dog?”
Jojen manages a strangled “Yes” before Bran gives him a final bounce on his
cock; his plushy ass is grinding against his hard-on like a beach ball. It’s a
slutty little move he never knew possible coming from his sweet, innocent Bran
and he loves it; his orgasm is exploding through him, erasing everything else
he’s ever known. He forgets about his wrists and ankles straining against the
ropes when his hips stutter and his cock pulses hot come through his jeans.
Bran sighs in pleasure and drops to his side. He reaches forward to pull down
Jojen’s blindfold and admires the blissed-out look on Jojen’s face. His face is
swoon-worthy and Bran, still high off his sexual confidence, leans forward for
a peck on the lips—far too chaste for their previous activities. Rather than
ask for his release, Jojen repeats an earlier sentiment.
“I knew you were beautiful,” Jojen admires.
Bran flushes and hides his face in the pillows. He hears Jojen’s chuckle,
followed by some gentle coaxing out of his embarrassment. “I mean it, Bran. You
were so wonderful; absolutely perfect. I swear, I’ve never come harder in my
life and you barely touched me.”
Bran works up the courage to look at him. “Did you really like it?”
“I loved it,” Jojen admits honestly. “How about you?”
A candy-pink blush decorates his cheeks as he shyly admits his enjoyment. “I
liked it, too. I really, really liked being with you…that way.” His confession
drives him further into his shell but Jojen’s appreciative expression—so loving
and fond—keeps a steady grip on him. He continues. “It’s embarrassing but…fun.
Like I had power even though I’m a…”
“Beginner?” Jojen suggests. Before Bran can correct him, Jojen asks to be
released from his binds. Bran’s eyes widen. He hastily drags himself to each
pole, pulling on the part Jojen instructs him on. Jojen made sure to research
the best kind knot for these activities and the easiest ones to come undone.
Jojen rubs his wrists as soon as he is free.
“I’m glad you like it.” Bondage is not his preferred kink but there is nothing
wrong with testing out Bran’s boundaries. Bran will never question these things
on his own and with all the parental blocks enforced in the Stark household, he
does not even have the dark spaces of the internet to consult in. Though his
intentions are far from pure, Jojen figures that as his boyfriend, Bran
deserves a safe outlet for experimentation.
“Do you want to try it again?”
Bran blushes. “Yeah, I think so.”
Jojen leans over to give him a kiss—deeper than the one he was awarded. Bran
melts in his arms. When they part, Jojen hugs him against his chest. “If you
ever want to try something, tell me. I don’t care what it is.” Jojen will crawl
through the streets of Yorkshire, butt-naked with a bone in his mouth if Bran
so wishes it. “I don’t want us to keep secrets from one another.”
“Yeah,” Bran agrees, mumbling into Jojen’s neck.
Jojen groans; Bran’s hot breath releases a tingle down his spine. His afterglow
is ruined when his work phone vibrates on the counter. He dreads the incoming
message but understands his obligation to answer. Peter warned him about an
upcoming job in the future—a big one with a hefty pay. He loathes the gods who
made it happen today of all days.
“Give me a sec,” he murmurs, settling Bran on his side. He unlocks his phone
and examines the coded text message.
“What’s the matter?”
“Just a work thing,” Jojen answers. “My cousin really needs me to do this job.
I’m sorry, Bran.  Do you mind if I…?”
“It’s okay,” Bran assures. He’s one of the lucky few who’s never had to worry
about money and never will. He can’t possibly complain when Jojen has to
support his family. “Do you want me to leave?”
Jojen sends a quick message and gets a response within seconds. “It’ll only
take a couple of hours. Three, four tops. Do you want me to get you home or
would you rather wait in my room?” His father is out delivering a piece—Ned’s
connections has done wonders for his career, and Meera’s new project has her
pulling an all-nighter. The only concern is Bran’s situation.
Bran blushes. “Um, sure. My parents think I’m at Shireen’s house working on an
art project. She…” There’s a mixture of pride and shame on his features.
“Agreed to cover for me. Wished me good luck.”
Jojen’s heart leaps from his chest. “I’ll get you some snacks before I leave.
And pick up some when I come back. My password is…” Bran. “I’ll unlock my
computer in case you get bored. There’s some notebooks if you want to work on
something.” Jojen puts on his coat. He’s scampering around, hoping that the
faster he gets the job done, the sooner he can be reunited with Bran. He dashes
downstairs for the promised rations. While he prepares a sandwich, he wonders
where he should hide his drugs in case Bran decides to snoop.
Probably the air vent where he can’t reach.
***
“Jojen is a determined and scrupulous soul; whereas as most men falter because
of their pride, he has none. He lives and breathes for one person and that one
person is the purpose of his existence.”
Yoren would be more grateful for the poetry if he wasn’t so unhelpful. “So
you’re saying he isn’t a suspect?”
Hannibal pauses; from afar, Will sighs, dreading the tinkering of his husband’s
thoughts. He laments the prospective move; England has begun to grow on him.
The lady at the pet shop mistaken him for a Brit the other day.
“Jojen, like many men with his condition, has created a ‘mental life’ involving
the person he obsesses over. Jojen, in particular, believes that the object of
his desire is the only person he could ever love and tends to be motivated to
pursue his infatuation based on this type of thinking. Stalking, monitoring
them, investigating their likes and dislikes. For him, getting caught will lead
to their separation so he’ll do whatever it takes, no matter the time or
effort, to remove all traces of evidence.”
The behavior, while disconcerting, does not paint the portrait of a serial
killer. Perhaps Hannibal realizes this, and adds, “I’ve had several patients
whose delusions have gotten out of hand. They see the slightest flirtation
towards their love ones, and paint their apartments red as a romantic gesture.
All the person needs to say is hello to their loved one and suddenly, they are
an enemy. The worst happens when reality settles and the revelation of their
dismissed affair becomes apparent. They have absences of judgements. Often
times, these behaviors emerge in violence.”
Benjen tightens his fist. He is aware of Bran's connection to Jojen and wonders
if Hannibal is alluding to any past or future dangers. He dares not say a word;
Commander Mormont will have a fit if he believes Benjen to be impartial. 
“What about Ramsay?” Yoren asks, distracting Benjen at the moment. “He has a
history of violence. A lot of it.”
Hannibal takes a sip of his coffee to hide his smirk. “I am afraid I am not in
liberty to discuss that matter.”
***
Theon makes the prettiest sounds when he is fucked out; his hole is overused
and his cock is so limp, Ramsay swears he has a woman in his bed. With every
thrust, Theon’s fingers tangle in the sheets tightly, begging Ramsay to stop
while he spreads his legs for easier access. When they’re finish with their
latest session of the day, Ramsay is bone dry and ready for a snack. He orders
Theon to go outside and make him something to eat. Theon bitches like a wife
but complies. When he walks outside, there is a touch of limp. Ramsay swears
his cock twitched.
In the kitchen, Theon grabs four slices of bread, ham, cheese, and butter for
toasties. He somehow manages to scavenge a can of tomato soup from the
cupboards. His mother used to make him these when he was good; a treat for not
pissing off his father. He had to earn the right to eat in his household and he
figures the two hour-long fuckfest is a job well done.
Theon hears someone stumble into the kitchen and immediately tenses. Ramsay is
not one for weakness; he marches, stomps, and destroys. Theon turns around and
sees one of the Bastard's Boys, Devan or Daemon or something. The man licks his
lips and bile and fear fills up Theon’s throat.
“You look like he fed you to his dogs,” the man sneers. “Guess, he really
wanted to destroy that pussy, didn’t he? Pumped you up real good.”
“Leave me alone,” Theon murmurs as he redirects his attention to the food. He
closes his thighs, and instead of strengthening his defenses, more cum spills
out of his hole. Theon winces as the stream drips down mid-thigh. 
The dick cackles and it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. “Fucking bitch. You
think you’re allowed to talk to me that way?” He gets closer.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Theon snaps. “I’ll scream and Ramsay—”
“Ramsay won’t give a fuck if I decide to try out his bitches. He gives us his
whores when he's done with them anyways. Likes to see his sluts split between
the two of us.” His yellow teeth resemble mucus and Theon tries not to imagine
those fangs digging into him. “I’m just getting a little taste beforehand.”
Theon tries to tackle him out of the way but he lunges onto Theon. The man is
bigger, stronger, and has no problem pinning Theon against the counter. Theon
screams; he fights like a motherfucker, scratching, punching, spitting, and he
does not let up for a second. Daemon or Deric or whatever his name is certainly
didn’t expect a fight.
What happens next is a blur. The rapist is thrown off Theon and slams into the
wall. Ramsay, who is dressed in his boxers and murderous intent, grabs the
knife that Theon was using and pierces his friend's shoulder blade. 
“What the fuck, Damon? Did I say you could fucking touch him?”
“Ramsay—”
“Did I fucking say it was okay!” Ramsay thrusts the blade into Damon’s eye. He
screams bloody murder and there’s blood everywhere. “He’s mine. Do you get
that? He’s my fucking property. I own him. You don’t get to touch him.” Ramsay
grabs his head and bangs it against the floor. One of the other boys comes
in—another name Theon cannot remember. Ramsay glares. He throws the knife in
the kitchen. “Grab a chair and some alcohol. I’m going to make this punishment
hurt.” He kicks Damon upside the head. “And I’m going to make it last.”
He turns to Theon. “Hey, is the food ready yet?”
Theon stares at the grilling cheese. He hasn’t even prepared the soup so he
shakes his head.
“Fuck, can you hurry it up?”
Theon glares. “I can’t control time.”
“Don’t fucking give me sass.”
Damon groans from the ground. He starts to beg for mercy as two of the guys
drag him away. One swears at him, calling Damon a fucking idiot. The other
shakes his head. Ramsay tells them to stop when Damon begins to
apologize. “Mercy? You want fucking mercy?” Ramsay laughs. He turns to Theon.
“You’re the one who almost got his ass reamed. Tell me. Should I give him
mercy?”
Damon sends him a pleading look. He babbles to Theon about how sorry he is; how
he was only playing around. He never intended to actually hurt Theon; it was
just a joke. He'd never hurt one of Ramsay's boys. 
Theon remembers the fear he felt when he thought he was going to get violated;
the horrific reminder of when he was a child and as helpless as a fucking fish
out of water. He recalls his uncle ignoring his sobs while he begged for the
Drowned One to take him to the sea. The sight of his assailant groveling is
empowering. He imagines his uncle in the same position, a knife penetrating his
bottom. The gruesome revenge is too good for words. 
Theon returns to the stove without saying a word.
For a second, all Ramsay does is stare. This is their moment.The kind of moment
he used to share with Myranda but it’s deeper because there’s none of that
artificial connection. Myranda made herself to Ramsay’s image and boy was that
devotion hot, but it was unnatural. Artificial. This? This is something so
instinctive that Ramsay practically breathes it. It’s alive. It’s better than
any orgasm and Ramsay cannot help himself; he grabs Theon by the hair and
kisses him, hard and rough. When they part, he pulls out a steak knife from the
drawer.  
Damon never makes it to the chair. Ramsay has his fun in the middle of the
kitchen while Theon finishes up their toastie. Theon does not watch; he doesn’t
like to see people get hurt but he likes knowing that Ramsay is hurting someone
for him.
***
“Violence has been indoctrinated into Ramsay since he was young—one could say
as soon as his conception. I wish I could explain—.”
“But you cannot give details. We got that part,” Yoren interrupts. “Many, many
times.”
Will scoffs from the kitchen. He prepares a doggie bag for the cops. If he
remembers the good old days, the two of them will be out interrogating the
suspects and that requires substance. Hannibal takes too much energy to deal
with. 
“If Ramsay is responsible for the crimes, he may have help. He is unusual;
people are repulsed by his cruelty in the same manner they are intrigued by his
brutality. His magnetism attracts the attention of others like him. He is not
swayed by mere acknowledgement or material successes. His violent history stems
for his need for a primal indulgence. Ramsay sees fear as a tool for his
control or hold on a person. He does not want a challenge; he wants a
complement.”
“I see,” Yoren’s brain pulses from the riddle speak. As a routine follow-up, he
asks, “Has Jojen ever admitted to hurting someone?”
“I’m not in liberty to discuss that, either.”
“Great,” Yoren gets up from his seat. Benjen follows. "We'll keep in contact in
case anything comes up—"
“However…”
“For the love of—”
***
Bran snoops through Jojen’s room as soon as the front door closes. He has Stark
DNA; his people investigate matters that do not pertain to them and trust no
one and everyone at the same time. He heard that his ancestors were killed at a
wedding and got their family estate taken over by cannibal who fried human
flesh or something or maybe someone got their heads chopped off by a godson or
two. Who knows? There are too many stories to keep track of. All that matters
is that evolution has dictated that Bran look through his boyfriend’s things.
He crawls everywhere he is able, searching for pictures of wrongdoing, bad
habits he needs to be prepared for, a vegan cookbook or something of the like.
He discovers a box of cigarettes—fine, his brother and mum smoke; most of the
fags are in the box so at least he’s not a prolific user. Bran has mentioned
that he does not mind smoking but he’s not fond of the smell, either. There’s
some pictures of him underneath his bed and in his underwear drawer; Jojen has
confessed to those crimes already. It is unfair for Bran to hold those less
than savory images against him. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being
utterly devoted to your boyfriend and never looking at other guys. Some people
would kill to be in his position. Bran looks some more and sees a wad of cash
in a secret compartment, kept safe by a lock which has a combination identical
to Bran’s birthdate. Sweet, and Jojen has explained that he works on cash tips,
flirting with old women at a restaurant, or doing odd jobs for his cousin. Bran
continues looking, ignoring the gnawing of his conscience. There are odd
trinkets here and there. He finds a picture of Jojen at science camp and
another picture of Jojen with a bunch of guys—one of which is Henry’s
boyfriend.
One guy has his face circled, prompting a series of questions. Was he an old
fling? A crush? There are several facts about him listed in a pocket notebook.
Bran does not want to be jealous but he has no way of finding out the truth. He
cannot ask Jojen; there’s no way he can tell his boyfriend that he looked
through his belongings without permission. He cannot believe he is starting
their relationship on a lie.
***
“Officer Stark, forgive my rudeness but I cannot help but notice your
attachment to this case. Jojen Reed, after all, is a devotee of your nephew and
Ramsay Bolton works for your brother.”
“He works for a sub-branch of my brother’s company that later expanded into its
own…why does this matter?”
“Merely an observation,” Hannibal answers. “That must be a lot of pressure on
you. Your bond with your commander is truly exemplary. I cannot imagine what
persuasions you've performed to be given such a high-profiled case. Have you
spoken to your family on the matter?”
“It's not as big a deal as you would think. My family and I have built a wall
for these matters and I tend live on that wall or go beyond it. Complete
neutrality.”
“Quite admirable,” Hannibal notes. “I suppose that was quite useful for the
Locke case.”
There was a pause. Benjen narrows his eyes. He recalls the Locke case vaguely.
While not assigned to him, Commander Mormont considered silence to be a
paramount objective. As a new detective, he was encouraged to not dig deep and
like a child, he obeyed. “What do you know about that case?”
“Not much as you, of course.” Hannibal sips his coffee mug as if it is not
empty. “As the Locke boy shared a similar affliction with Jojen, I often used
him as an example of what would happen in Jojen allowed his inclinations to get
out of hand. The young man stalked several individuals before he was killed.
Brutally so.”
“No one knows what happened,” Yoren notes dryly.
“Jojen and I spoke about our theories.”
“I suppose you cannot share them with us.”
“No, those are confidential. Everything from his insufficient manner of hiding
his tracks to the exact moment Jojen suspects he died.” 
Will refuses to hide in the kitchen any longer. He comes out with two bags for
the road and portable travel mugs. “I prepared some sandwiches for you guys. I
can tell you’re in for a long day.”
“Thanks.” Yoren takes the free food. Despite his reluctance to take food from
strangers, he can tell from the aroma that the meal is going to be better than
any drive-thru. He stares at Will and furrows his brow. “Do I know you from
somewhere?”
Hannibal answers for him. “Will used to be a cop. He taught at the FBI academy
for a few years.” The declaration is full of pride.
“You’re Will Graham," Yoren realizes. 
The announcement captures Benjen's attention. "You wrote about the mentality of
serial killers and how to detect their movements,” Benjen notes, a little more
intrigued than he'd liked to admit. “Some of your papers are required reading
for our profiling courses.”
“Glad to know my work is universally making people suffer in academic.” Will
hands them the bag.
“I heard you retired.”
“I did. For love,” Will informs, showcasing his wedding band. “I’m a kept man
now.”
Yoren scans the home a second time. Fancy decorations. Nice clothes. Artwork
made by dead guys. “Not a bad deal.”
Will chuckles. When he gets close enough, he warns them to make an escape. “My
husband has a tendency to psychoanalyze his guests so I suggest you get out
while you still can.”
The cops thank them for their time. Hannibal walks them to the doorway. Before
they leave, he offers them his services. “While I often find myself immersed in
criminal affairs, I haven’t had the opportunity to delve into the workings of
an officer in a long time. If you are interested, I recommend testing out a
trial period with me.”
“That’s quite alright,” Yoren refuses. “I drown my problems with liquor and
humor.”
“Ah,” Hannibal notes. “Well, if either of you ever change your mind. Perhaps we
can discuss Officer Stark’s inability to deal with his father’s emotional
abandonment and your history of falling for your partners once they’ve attained
relationships with other people. I think it'll be good for you two." 
Hannibal shuts the door before either of them can protest his evaluation.
When he turns back to the living room, Will is judging him. “What have you
done?” He asks after he sighs in resignation. 
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Next chapter will hopefully be on time. Have not planned it out.
     Fingers crossed. This was not a productive week for me.
     2. So, it turns out that medical professionals can and are legally
     obliged to tell the authorities if they fear their patients pose a
     risk to themselves or others.
     So if someone confesses to being a serial killer, doctor-patient
     confidentiality does not apply. It’s not priesthood. You can lose
     your license for not revealing this information to the cops. However,
     if you admit to killing someone but it was a one-time thing, like
     say, killing your father for abusing your mother, the doctor is not
     obliged to tell anyone.
     Furthermore, they cannot give explicit details as to what is spoken
     during sessions. I tried to make that clear. So Hannibal can say that
     “Ramsay is violent.” He cannot say “Ramsay said he did this and
     that.”
     Basically, the doctor has to assess the danger, especially if its
     criminals on parole. This is why psychiatrists are allowed to tell
     the parole boards if their patient is doing well or not but they are
     still not allowed to give actual details to the board. When you get a
     fucked up doctor like Hannibal, the evaluation gets a little screwy.
***** Chapter 46 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
For better or worse, Howland Reed does not believe in labels. He supposes, if
anything, he is an optimist who seeks the betterment of his circumstances
rather than linger on old news and past behaviors. Labels serve as a reminder
of a past better forgotten and present that is meant to improve. He is not
poor; his material health is severely declined. He is not an artist; he is a
truth seeker through the medium of wood. He considers Ned Stark to be an old
companion who he almost shared a homosexual encounter with, and though the word
‘friend’ sounds nice, he doubts a friend would have the number of latent sexual
fantasies he has towards that man.
His disregard has led to a number of jeers, from a high of ‘oblivious’ to a low
of a ‘leeching devil whose children will rape the world.’ Howland pays them no
mind. He understands that the accusation is based on his son’s past and though
he cannot fault them, he wishes they would stop interfering with his son’s
recovery. Jojen can do without the hateful words that people threw around like
chimpanzees wielding dog shit. 
Howland shakes his head. He unloads his newest piece—a bookcase with a carving
of a pubescent Ganymede clinging on the side while being undressed by the claws
of a majestic eagle. Upon his client’s request, a wealthy Greek banker who
escaped the financial crisis on the backs of the working class, he adds an
engraving at the top of Ganymede’s backside—a tramp-stamp that gave the owner
an excuse to stare without offending his guest. He pushes the piece into the
house and admires the rest of his client's collection. While the house is no
stranger to famous pieces of art, there are some obscure artists as well. His
client coos at the craftsmanship as soon as he sees Howland's work and pays the
Reed a substantial bonus for his beauty. He promises another commission in the
future and even offers to lend his name to a few friends. Howland thanks him
for the business and accepts a cup of tea before he leaves.
While Howland waits for his cuppa, he avoids asking questions of his host. They
talk about the weather and the news while avoiding personal details of his
life. If he knew something about his insanely rich client, what would it
matter? Who is Howland to judge the gentleman for his answers? Who is anybody
to judge Howland’s son? Jojen is not a stalker; he is a young man with a less
than healthy attachment to an underage boy. And who can blame him for that?
Those Starks are extremely fuckable.
“What are you thinking about?” purrs his client. He hands Howland his tea
without tasting his own.
“Oh, just my children,” Howland answers. He lifts up the cup, not noticing the
anxious look on his companion’s face. More thoughts of Jojen cloud his head,
and he puts the ceramic down with a sigh. The man’s face drops. “My son—he is
such a smart kid. Some people call him a genius but I abhor labels. I like to
think of him as a young man with a keen perception of the universe. And he is
lovely, always working so hard to take care of his sister and me. Never resents
me for a second for being unable to make ends meet."
“He sounds great,” his client agrees. “You look stress. Drink some of the tea;
it’ll calm you down.”
Howland hums and nods. He is about to drink, but Jojen’s memory keeps nagging
him. He puts the cup down again. “I wish I could do more about the backlash he
receives.” Howland bites his lip. He explains to his client that, “Jojen got
into trouble with the law a year ago. A small matter. But the judge let him off
with a lesser sentence because he knew Jojen had a good heart.” Not to mention
that Howland worked on that dreadful ‘heterosexual’ label the old barrister
insisted on keeping. “It’s completely unfair for people to be so quick to brand
my son. He is not a cow.”  
Howland sees the other nod. He is eager; ready to swing his head off in
approval. “I agree. People can be so harsh with their judgments. Now drink the
tea.”
Howland thanks him for his sympathies. He places the cup up to his mouth, a
sliver of the liquid touches his lips, but before anything can enter him,
Howland reaches an epiphany. He slams the cup on the table—not a drop loss,
inside or out of Howland. “You’re right. People are horrible and here I am,
drinking tea. If anything, I should be convincing them to disregard his
judgements and see him for the divine creature he is.”
“What?”
Howland kisses the man on the cheek. “You’ve been so kind to me, Mr. Nestoris.
I hope you keep my number in the future.” The artist who is more than an artist
skips out of the room, leaving Tycho Nestoris cradling his cheek. The banker
glances over at the dejected tea cup, lukewarm with chamomile and roofies, and
clutches its meager handle with regret. Soon, he thought, soon.
Howland climbs into his car seat and braves himself for the journey. He sends
Meera and Jojen a text, telling them he will be home late. Catelyn might be at
the estate, but first, he needs to facilitate a mediator., He drives to Ned.
The man is most likely in his office, doing work in those cute suits of his and
that ever sensual frown. Howland needs to talk to them both about Jojen. His
son may have committed a crime but he is in no way a criminal.
***
“We are all going to jail,” Jojen announces. There is not a shred of doubt in
his voice, not when he is staring at eighty-eight pounds of broken cocaine
bricks because one of Peter’s lost boys tripped over his own feet and the bales
went flying across the warehouse. Their only saving is grace is that the docks
are bustling with business, sailors and fishermen going on about their daily
lives—no one can hear the boy’s screams as Peter kicks his gut until the blood
erupts from his throat. Jojen sighs. While the rest of the boys watched, Jojen
grabs a trash bag and collects the remaining pieces inside. Though the
presentation is ruined, the stuff is pure gold and at worst, Peter will mix it
with baking soda to sell on the streets. He’ll turn a profit either way. When
he informs Peter of this, the young man calms down.
Jojen casts a side glance towards the bloodied mess on the ground. If the
victim is lucky, Jojen, Peter, and the rest of the lost boys will finish in a
timely manner—he’ll be able to call an ambulance and there’s a good chance the
internal bleeding won’t kill him. If he squeals, Peter will.
Jojen’s cousin is visibly pleased by his dedication; he grabs one of the bags
from Jojen’s hand and weighs it. He grabs the other and turns them both over to
one of his men. They take it out to the truck and continue moving along as if
the trip and the beating never happened; Patting Jojen on the shoulder, he
tells him good job.
“You were made for this line of work.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Anything can be a compliment if you’re confident.”
Jojen orders the other boys to the final stack of goods but leads Jojen to the
entrance. While they get closer to the door, Peter promises to increase his
portion when they prepare the dust for sale. To his credit, Jojen does not roll
his eyes. Peter does the same thing each time the younger man refuses the
option of a future with Peter. He reminds Jojen of his talents before offering
him a substantial bonus to hook him back on the pole. Before Bran, Jojen used
to play along, gathering incentives until he gets too high and they laugh it
off. Instead, Jojen keeps silent to avoid spurring Peter’s streak. He
graciously accepts the offer but refuses to negotiate further on his salary—the
next step in their little cat and mouse game. Peter is suspicious, but before
he can question Jojen’s behavior, one of their lookouts comes barging in.
“The popo are here! I repeat: the popo are here!”
Madness ensues.
The lost boys rampage over the warehouse like derange monkeys, swinging from
crate to box and box to crate. Their survival instincts are not overwhelmed by
their fear of Peter, or perhaps Peter is the cause of their hysteria because
the teenagers latch onto the drugs and began cart it into the trucks in record
time. Marching footsteps become an earthquake—Jojen can tell the police were
drawing near. The rest of the boys grab the remains and start hiding the coke
within their bodies, one or two stuffing bags into random orifices. When the
last of the amounts are ready to go, the steel doors slams open.
“Police! Put your hands in the air!”
Peter, in response, shouts the following words right before the rain of bullets
fell through. “Operation human shield, motherfuckers!”
The bullets fly. Peter grabs a nearby runner and uses him to take the rubber
bullet in the chest. He uses the kid as a cover on his way to the entrance. The
poor boy is no more than a lump of marinated meat, made tender by two more
rubber poundings and a tranquilizer dart. As Jojen ducks and rolls to a nearby
crate, he notices several other senior members—Felix, for example—are also
grabbing a junior party for protection.
Huh. Operation Human Shield.
“Run! Run! Run!” Peter orders. The lucky members manage to make their way
outside, with one or two strays getting caught. Peter throws his shield at the
policemen; Jojen uses the distraction to get to the doorway. He dashes towards
his car, and just as he is about to leave, Peter rips open the passenger seat
and hops in.
“Drive, Jojen! Now!” Jojen is tempted to park out of spite. The thought of
arriving home in handcuffs dissuades him.
“You weren’t going to tell me about Operation Human Shield?” Jojen asks. His
control is on the verge of collapse. He steps on the accelerator before Peter
can have a chance to put on his seatbelt.
“Fuck!” Peter’s head bangs against the window. He is about to face Jojen, but
his cousin makes another sharp turn, and he lurches forward. Peter grabs his
throat; Jojen steps on the breaks. “Do that again; I dare you.”
Challenge accepted. Jojen removes his foot and returns to the other pedal.
Without so much as glancing at the street, he drives straight into open
traffic. Peter is just as mad as he is and the two have a standoff of balls
with their lives on the line. Jojen, who is observing his surroundings, sees
the cars get out his way. It won’t be long until they drive head first into an
unlucky vehicle, especially not with the fact that their vehicle is swerving
out of control. His hands are not on the wheel. Jojen’s foot is still on the
accelerator.  As they draw dangerously close to a red BMW, Peter clenches his
jaw. Finally, he lets go of Jojen to give the teenager an opportunity to save
both their hides. Jojen latches onto the steering wheel and returns to a steady
pace. He hears the cars honking and the distant sound of sirens. They need to
get off the street.
“I can’t believe you came up with that plan,” Jojen tells him. “I can’t believe
you didn’t tell me. What the fuck? Operation Human Shield?”
“Henry picked out the name,” Peter informs. “And it was common sense. Police
shootouts happen all the time in this business and bullet proof vests are
uncomfortable. Plus, giving them to the youngins seemed like a waste of funds.
Gets them scared, too.”
“I could have gotten killed.”
“Stop being a drama queen, they were rubber bullets,” Peter says. The cops used
them whenever they infiltrated one of Peter’s jobs. That was the best part
about using kids for his gang. “And it’s not like I betrayed you.”
“Really? Because just seconds ago, I almost got shot,” Jojen hisses.
“If I meant to betray you, I would have made you a shield in ‘Operation Human
Shield,’” Peter points out. “Instead, I choose someone else as my bullet
buffer. And he was smaller than you, so much less to work with. I put myself in
greater danger for you. And here you are, berating me because you maybe could
have taken a bullet or two? Selfish, Jojen, utterly selfish. If anybody should
be offended, it’s me. Where’s my sympathy for dragging another kid into the
line of fire?”
“You’re a saint.” Jojen rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t change the fact you didn’t
tell me!”
Peter sighs. “Listen, it’s no big deal. Only the most senior members knew, and
you’re a freelancer. Nothing personal. I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”
“We’re family, you asshole.”
“Okay, there you go again, playing the family card.”
Jojen fights the urge to scoff indignantly. Just hours ago, Peter played the
‘family card’ to do this stupid mission. He tightens his grip on the wheel and
tries to get onto an emptier road. His phone rings and he assumes it's Bran,
wondering where he is.
“It’s an unknown number. You want me to pick it up?”
Jojen furrows his brow. He racks his head for a possible caller and receives
nothing. “Yeah, hang up if it’s a telemarketer.” Peter answers and puts the
caller on speakerphone. 
A chill runs down his spine when he hears the voice.
“Hello Jojen, how’s your day been? Should I call later? You seem busy.”
The saccharinity of the voice is thick enough to turn him immobile. Chills run
down his spine; a sense of numbness overwhelms him. With a deep breath, he
smiles—tight and false. He is using his body to convince his mind that
everything is fine.
“I’m quite well, Sansa. Tell me, what do I owe this call?”
“Nothing in particular. I was just thinking about you.”
The sirens in the background are getting louder. Jojen steps on the peddle to
keep the distance. “Really? I’m flattered and terrified at the same time.” His
nonchalance sounds fake, even to his ears. “Should I be worried that your
precious Sandor will come after me?”
“Of course not. But funny you should mention him.” Sansa gives a little
laugh—far more real than Jojen's smile. She is genuinely amused and more than a
little vengeful. “He was visiting a friend near the docks, and he swore he saw
you. He would have said ‘hi, ’ but he thought you looked busy, o he called me
instead. Reminded me that I owed you a gift. Did you like it?”
Oh, his devious, beautiful, red-headed friend.
“How thoughtful of you, but it saddens me to say I didn’t receive it. There was
someone waiting for me at home so I left before it was delivered.”
Sansa hums in delight. Jojen bites his lips to hold back his laughter. Sansa is
so smug; she has no clue that her brother is in his bed, washing Jojen's cheap
sheets with his luxurious scent. “Oh well, I guess I’ll try again next time.”
“Don’t be so sure there's going to be a next time, Sansa.”
“Oh, I’m sure there will be, Jojen. Sandor has a lot of friends in those pools
you dip your toes in and all it takes is for a little ripple to drown. Your
probation relies on good behavior, doesn't it?”
“You’re just begging me to talk to your parents, aren’t you? Tell them about
your gift-wrapping skills.”
“See, I figured you might bring that up," Sansa interrupts. "But see, I
realized that we have an unspoken agreement about the matter. You don’t go to
my parents about me and I don’t send them after you. This… gift…is a grey
area.”
“You know I’m going to have to retaliate.” 
“I figured it’d be on your mind.” Sansa smiles. “But you won’t hurt me, Jojen.
Not while Sandor is by my side. All you can do is to try not to get seen next
time. I might just have to send another man in uniform after you—a postman, of
course.”
“Because you want to deliver a gift,” Jojen mocks.
“Yes,” she says and then there is a pause. “Have a good afternoon, Jojen. Keep
an eye out.”
Sansa hangs up. Jojen wants to scream at the ceiling in rage. He composes
himself as always, pondering on the best course of revenge that does not
involve hurting her—physically.
Peter speaks up. “That’s Sansa Stark, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The sister of your boytoy?”
“The sister of my boyfriend.”
Peter nods absentmindedly. “Seems like she isn’t okay with you dating her
little brother.”
“It is not her decision to be okay about.” Jojen keeps on driving. "What does
it matter? You're the one who set us up together." 
"I suppose you're right. Besides, I'm no stranger to forbidden romances." The
sirens drift into muteness and for a second Jojen feels safe. While he is
lulled into tranquility, he barely notices his cousin sneaking over and
unbuckling his seatbelt. When he does catch him, Jojen asks, “Why are you
unbuckling my seatbelt?”
“No reason,” Peter answers as he unlocks the car door. “But you really should
have told me about the target on your back. I could have been shot. I could
have gotten killed.” Those are the last words Jojen hears before he is shoved
out of the car like a puppy in suburbia. Jojen tumbles out of the street,
nearly gets hit by a car or two, rolls underneath a truck, and lands on the
side of the road. He moves his hand just when it is about to be run over and
drags it through his hair. Thank goodness they are England because there is no
sun. There is never any sun.
***
Yoren and Benjen are driving to the Stark estate when they see a wayward
teenager walking in the same direction. From their view of his back, they
notice a series of scars and bruises, as if the young man had gotten into a
fight with the pavement. They drive closer to him. While the boy looks down,
minding his own business, Yoren catches a glimpse of his face.
“Fucking hells, it’s Jojen Reed.”
“What?” Benjen stares out the window. “You’re right. What do we do? Should we
grab him?”  
Yoren swears at him. “Benjen, we’re cops.”
“They’ll never suspect us.”
Yoren ignores his partner. “He looks like he’s going somewhere. Wonder why he’s
walking on the open street.”
“Maybe his car broke down or he lost his ride?”
“Maybe.”
While they follow him, Jojen snaps his head in their direction. The men jump.
To their disbelief, Jojen begins to walk towards them.
“Play it cool, Stark. This is our chance. We can have him eating out of the
palm of our hands.”
“We have more time for questioning if he gets in the car,” Benjen whispers.
“It’d be easy. You’re good at picking children off the street.”
“For the last time, I was trying to bring your niece home—Benjen, he’s coming
closer!”
Jojen knocks on their glass window. They jump. Benjen shares a look with his
partner before rolling his window down.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Ah yes, I’m sorry to bother you but my car broke down and it’s a bit of a walk
from where I live. I think we’re going in the same direction. Can I trouble you
for a ride?”
The men marvel at their fortune. Yoren speaks first. “No problem. Hop on in.”
Jojen complies to the order. He smiles, somewhat amused that his latest
excursion inside a cop’s car is upon his request and unlike the last time, he
is not wearing handcuffs. The day is looking up for him.
“So, do you have a name, kid?”
“It’s Jojen, Jojen Reed.”
“Of course it is,” Benjen mutters from the passenger seat.  
“What?”
“He means it is a good name. Jojen,” Yoren clears up. “Not the sort of name a
serial killer would have. And we’re not saying you’re a serial killer just
because you are hitchhiking a ride. Not all hitchhikers are serial killers.”
“I am not a serial killer,” Jojen agrees, rather amused.
“Sounds like something a serial killer would say,” Benjen mutters. Jojen laughs
at the joke and Yoren laughs harder and Benjen does not laugh as hard because
by then, the laugh will have sound forced. When the laughter dies down, they
are left with uncomfortable silence. Yoren cracks his knuckles dramatically and
prepares for an impromptu interrogation. He ignores the exasperated look coming
from his partner’s eyes.
“So, about your car, have you called a tow-truck yet?” Yoren starts out, casual
as a pigeon eating chicken.
“My phone died,” Jojen explains. “Couldn't call a truck or a cab for that
matter." Wouldn't be able to afford it, either way. "Though, on the plus side,
I don’t think I’ll be needing it much. Had a bit of a row with my boss.”
“Hope it didn’t turn too violent,” Benjen says, hoping to deviate from Yoren’s
plans.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Do you get into fights often?”
“More than I care to admit,” Jojen confesses. “I’m hoping to turn a new leaf
soon. Today was a real eye-opener.”
“Oh?” Yoren latches onto the clue. “Anything happen recently? Say, two nights
ago around 2:00 AM?”
“No, I was at home, talking to my boyfriend. He and I—we’re really getting
serious and I don’t want him to have to carry all the baggage I have. Guess
it’s true what they say: love changes you.”
Yoren nods. “Do you what else changes you? A pack of dogs gnawing on your
face.”
Jojen pauses. “That would certainly be eye-opening.”
“Do you like dogs?”
Jojen thinks of Summer and his luxurious fur and the smile he brings to Bran’s
face. “Sure, but I like my boyfriend’s dog the most. Don't have any of my own,
though.”
“Have you ever taken that dog out? Hunting?”
“He’s a service dog,” Jojen informs. “The sweetest disposition I’ve ever seen
on an animal.”
“Oh, so you wouldn’t take him out in the middle of the night to go hunting.”
“No…I’ve never thought about it.”
Yoren winks at Benjen. Benjen rolls his eyes. He interrupts their strange
conversation to ask where the boy is going. “We forgot to ask and ended up at
the station.”
“Unless you want to come in and give a statement,” Yoren adds.
“That’s quite alright,” Jojen assures, unaware of the suspicious glare Yoren is
giving him through the mirror. He tells them his address and they move on their
way.
When they arrive at the Stark estate, Jojen gets out of the car. He goes to the
driver’s window and apologizes for his rudeness. “I’d offer you a cup of tea
but I live in the guest house and it’s a bit of a walk from here. I’d hate to
inconvenience you more than I already have. So all I can say is thank you.”
“The sentiment is appreciated,”  Benjen tells him. Yoren is about to drive away
when Jojen narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, officers. I did not get either of your
names.”
Benjen looks in the other direction. Yoren answers. “I’m Officer Yoren and this
is Officer…Swan. Is there a problem?”
Jojen shakes his head and smiles. “I’m sorry, Officer Swan looked familiar. I
was wondering if I offended him by forgetting. He was rather silent during our
ride.”
“I think we’d remember a fine non-serial killer like yourself,” Yoren says. He
shakes the boy's hand and bids him a good day. While they drive off to the
sunset, Yoren asks how he did.
Benjen raises an eyebrow. “You were about as smooth as chunky peanut butter.”
***
When Jojen returns to the house, Bran is reading a book upside down and the
room is cleaner than when he left. Jojen does not appreciate the secrecy but
his drugs are hidden and there’s an explanation for everything out in the open
and more than a few lies for the secrets locked away. Bran drops the book when
Jojen announces his arrival and he beams at Jojen—smiles like Jojen is the
morning of Christmas and he’s a child guilty of opening his presents the day
before. Jojen considers pushing him for details, reassuring that he loves him
even when the younger boy snoops around his room; thus, guaranteeing that while
Jojen can keep secrets from him, Bran will never be able to do the same. After
today’s  police bust, he decides to ignore the lies of omission and focus on
the honest truth. He has tomorrow to confront Bran’s behavior.
“I missed you so much,” Jojen confesses as soon as crawls onto the bed.
Bran blushes. Though guilt gently haunts his face, Jojen reminds him that their
love is infinite. He kisses him deeply.  Bran moans and kisses back. They
indulge for a few minutes, taking short breaks for air before finding each
other again.
When they part, Jojen delivers one lingering kiss on his forehead. “Sorry, our
date ended so soon.” He comforts Bran with the knowledge that his absence will
no longer be an issue. “I think I quit, or maybe got sacked. I'm not too sure.”
Bran nods, not able to look Jojen in the eye after his arousing make-out
session. “It’s fine. But it is getting dark—I should get going.”
“Yeah,” Jojen agrees half-heartedly. He gets up from the bed to prepare the
wheelchair. When he finishes dragging it to the bed, he pauses from lifting
Bran to position. “Hey, can I ask for a favor?”
“Anything,” Bran promises sweetly.
Ah, fuck, Bran is too good for him. Jojen leans in and gives Bran another kiss.
The younger boy purrs into his lips. When they part, Jojen smiles wistfully.
“I…I’ve been meaning to ask but can I…can I get a picture of you? An intimate
picture. I know it’s a bit forward, but I’d like something to remember you by
on those cold, lonely nights.” Jojen presses his hand against Bran’s thigh.
Bran feels nothing but he does blush at the offer.
“What did you have in mind?” He asks, not able to refuse Jojen’s gorgeous voice
and smothering eyes.
Jojen smiles. “Just a simple gift from you to me.”
***
Sansa is celebrating her victory in Sandor’s bathtub, lounging in the bubbles
with Sandor's chest pressed against her back. While she relaxes against his
muscled arms, she sighs in pleasure. This is the life; this is her future in
New York or London or Paris—wherever the gods take her; this is where she is
meant to be. Her dream is shattered when her phone vibrates.
“Don’t pick it up,” Sandor growls.
Sansa sighs. “I have to; it might be important. Mother has been going on
nonstop about us packing for Arya’s performance.”
“When are you leaving again?”
“Tomorrow night,” Sansa sighs. “At least I’ll get to visit my schools.” She
takes her phone and puts in the password. The image on the phone causes her to
drop it in the tub.
“What’s the matter, little bird?”
Sansa says nothing.
“Sansa?”
Sansa remains frozen solid.
Sandor fishes out the phone from the tub. He adds in Sansa’s password and the
picture is the first thing he sees. His eyes widen. “Sansa—”
"I'll kill him." 
"Sansa, you should stay calm—." 
“I am going to fucking kill him!” The wolf lets out her howl in the form of a
bloodcurdling scream. Sandor throws the phone against the wall in hopes of
salvaging what’s left of his girlfriend’s sanity. He knows the gesture is for
nothing. No one can truly recover from seeing their little brother’s anus.   
 
Chapter End Notes
     Due to my inability to read, I ended up deleting my Tumblr account
     when I meant to delete my blog. Oh well! My mistake was for the best.
     I applaud people for being able to withstand Tumblr’s environment
     because the toxicity was intense. I’ll return eventually but for now,
     no more Tumblr until I grow a thicker skin. Sigh. Sometimes, you just
     have to cut off the balls to keep the beast from growing.
     So, without my Tumblr, I have to take requests the old fashion way.
     If you desire something, please write it in the comment section. Once
     I finish Mama’s Boys, the “time slot” will be filled with one-shots
     or short fics. I already have a Willas/Jon in mind—which involves a
     masquerade and hallway sex, and possibly a Rhaegar/Jon—which is up
     for debate.
     This chapter is not early but it is not late either. I finished this
     at 11:35 PM Hawaii time. So yes, I am recovering from my day-late
     status.
***** Chapter 47 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When Howland arrives at Ned’s office, a pack of lagers in hand and a sensuous
sway of the hips, he announces he has two questions for the man. "And you must
answer them, or I'll be terribly upset and never forgive you." It’s twenty
minutes past five and Ned is expected home by six; six-thirty at the latest.
Ned knows he should postpone their meeting; Howland has a habit of stealing
time under his nose, yet he could never resist Howland’s flair. He makes no
attempt to escape, submitting to the thrall of Howland’s presence and the
seduction of a good lager. The brunet walks over to him and sits on his desk,
crossing one leg over the other. It reminds Ned of those stag films Robert
watches, the one in memory is the young secretary desperate for a raise. He
sips his bottle in amusement.
Howland pouts and pats him on the head with the cool bottle. “Pay attention, I
am interrogating you.”
Ned chuckles. “Yes, your two questions.”
“Well first, you need to explain to me how, after all these years and five
children, you are still the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Howland plays
with the buttons on Ned’s shirt. “I swear; you have the body of men half your
age.”
“Money helps,” Ned answers dryly. “And a state of the art gym that receives
thousands of dollars in upgrades every five years.”
“You rich people and your extravagances.” Howland teases before directing his
attention to Ned’s hair. The length is the one thing besides his gorgeous,
bulging muscles that make him look like an outlaw and not a CEO. 
A frown threatens to mire Ned’s lips. “Does it make you uncomfortable when I
talk about money?”
“Because I have so little?” Howland teases. “No, I like it when you talk about
your purchases. Makes me see what kind of things interest you—thought it was
cute when you bought all those small airplanes.”
“Robert made fun of me for months when he found out.”
“In all fairness, you called yourself a pilot. You even joined a club. It was
like you wanted to get bullied.”
“Jon Arryn said that’s what we’re supposed to call ourselves,” Ned defends.
“And I didn’t get bullied.”
“Because Robert beat up anybody who tried. All they had to do was make one
snide comment, and he'd hear it; made them eat lunch through a straw for weeks.
No matter how popular he was, he wanted everyone to know that Ned Stark, short,
boring, stick in the mud Stark, was his best friend. People thought it was so
weird." Howland chuckles. "That is until you joined the rugby club together and
gained a hundred pounds of muscle. You could have spoken Klingon, and there
wouldn't have been a dirty look in sight." 
 “My brother made a lot of homophobic remarks, though.” Ned sighs. “Especially
about me and Robert. And you and me. And you and the entire school.”
“Your brother went to prison. The list of things he can judge me on is
laughably short.” Howland shrugs. “Besides, we went to an all-boys school in
the eighties. Insults about sexual preferences were customary. And they all
shut up after I slept with them.” Howland giggles. “Those were some fun times.
I miss being the prettiest thing around.”
“You still are,” Ned offers. “Jory’s jaw dropped when he saw you walking to my
office. I had to reassure him that you were my friend and not an escort. He was
rather disappointed that he couldn’t get your number. Or rates.”
Howland recalls a man in his twenties with longish hair and a nervous glitch.
Howland smiled at him—the same smile he uses when he is hooking a wealthy male
client and wonders if he should have let the child off easy with a nod.
“Well, if I ever decide to change professions, you’ll be the first to know.”
Howland pecks Ned on the cheek. “And you can tell that lovely young man I am
open for business.”
Ned shakes his head. “I hope it never comes to that.”
“Why not?” Howland asks playfully. “I’ll even let you have the first taste. On
the house.”
As always, Ned takes Howland’s words as a joke. He declines Howland’s offer
with a faux apology about being too busy to invest in the Reed’s services.
Howland sighs, the same sigh he always gives whenever Ned rejects him.
Nonetheless, he chooses not to dwell on his disappointment. One of the reasons
he adores Ned is his honor. 
Since their conversation drops Ned’s defenses, Howland attacks. He takes
advantage of the atmosphere to get off the desk and skip behind his friend. He
moves his hands to Ned’s broad shoulders and grinds into the tension. Howland
bites back a moan when his palms touch Ned's body. No stranger to Howland’s
skinship, Ned leans back.
“I must say, I love how firm your body is. Looking at it is enough to give me a
hard-on but the feel of it…” Howland sighs in pleasure. “Just the best. You had
the greatest cock in the school, too. Believe me, I checked. I almost got on my
knees a few times.”
It says something about their friendship that Ned doesn’t find his compliments
offensive or uncomfortable. They are just so Howland that he’s learned to live
with the inappropriateness. So he asks, out of genuine curiosity, “Is it normal
to look at other men’s bodies in the shower? Or just a ‘you’ thing.”
“It’s normal,” Howland lies. His nonchalance is Oscar worthy. “Guys look at
other guys in the shower all the time. There’s nothing wrong with a little
staring.” He adds that Ned was never interested in being ‘normal.’ “You were so
obsessed with Catelyn Tully that nothing ever interested you.” Howland laughs
to himself. “I was so jealous of her. Catching your eye like that.”
Ned is about to reply when Howland massages into a particularly tight spot and
Ned's entire body loosen. He moans. “Gods, that’s good.”
Howland bends down and whispers in Ned’s ear. “I can be better,” he offers as
he slips his hands down to Ned’s chest and runs his fingers up and down his
torso. Howland licks his lips. He could spend all night playing Ned’s abs like
a xylophone.
Meanwhile, Ned wonders about Howland’s second question. He remains oblivious to
Howland’s sexual harassment. “Anyways, as lovely as your visit is, I don’t want
to keep Cat waiting. She’s fixing dinner and worries when I’m not home by 6:30.
I was hoping to catch her in an apron—she has the loveliest collection, matches
her hair and eyes. I wish you could see her.” Ned sighs in delight. “So what
was your other question?”
“Hmm?”
“You said you had two questions to ask me. I hope it was as nice as the first.”
Howland’s eyes snap open; he backs away with his hands on his side and curses
Ned’s sexiness. The man has a habit of caging his self-control and letting his
yearnings run wild. Simultaneously, he swears at Ned’s faithfulness. Of the
ninety-eight percent of spouses who remain faithful, Howland had to have a
hard-on for the minority.
“Isn’t it drafty in here?” Howland asks as he leaves Ned’s side.
“No, but since I’m on the way out, you’re welcome to raise the temperature.”
“Thanks.” Howland walks over to the thermostat and turns up the heat. Once it
is high enough, he undoes three buttons of his shirt and wishes for the best.
“So back to my second question,” Howland says. He saunters back to Ned’s table,
bending over his desk like some tawdry hooker. He's happy he decided to sport
his nipple ring; he can see the gleam on the vase. “Why is it that in the
entire month I’ve lived on your estate, we’ve only seen each other a total of
five times? Doesn’t seem right. If anything, I should be catching you in your
bathrobe every day of the week.”
“I don’t have a bathrobe. I just tie a towel around my waist—Catelyn says she
prefers the view.”
“I bet she does,” Howland mutters. The horrible thing is that Howland likes
Catelyn, he does, and she is a wonderful wife to Ned. But there’s a part of him
who knows that if he was in her shoes, Ned Stark wouldn’t be able to get out of
bed each morning because Howland would have used him up like a nun used a
vibrator.
Quite frankly, it isn't fair.
“You’re changing the topic, Ned,” Howland teases. He sees a sweat drip from his
friend’s neck and wipes it off with his finger before licking it clean. “Why
haven’t we’ve seen each other?”
“We see each other,” Ned denies. “We went drinking with Robert and I took you
out to meet potential clients—”
“Which I am grateful for but that’s not what I meant.” Howland tries to smile,
but the looming reality hits him when he realizes he’s about to ask for his
son’s forgiveness through the father of the victim. He wonders when the notion
became unsettling. Then, he realizes that his conscience, of all curses, is
acting up. “Ned, we can’t keep going on like this. This miasma of negativity is
too thick to breathe and when we crouch down to avoid it, we end up crushing on
those eggshells we walk on.”
“I am amazed by your ability to spew poetry and porn from the same mouth.”
“Ned,” Howland reprimands—though his smile resurfaces from the man’s attempt at
humor. “My son’s probation is about to end. He is applying for university and
when the scandal is revealed—because these things always come back, one way or
another—people will talk. They will turn to your family to figure out what the
appropriate reaction is and since this is England, people of my standing are
not necessarily favored.”
 “Howland, what are you asking me to do?”
“Give him a chance to apologize. Directly to Bran. I know it’s selfish.”
Howland closes his eyes to make a quick prayer. He is doing a dirty thing,
appealing to Ned’s honor; the former soldier loves a redeemed man, a man who
can confess his sins and walk the path of righteousness after enduring a trial
of fire. Howland, in truth, does not know what Jojen wants; all he cares about
is his son’s future, consequences be damned. For all he knows, Jojen keeps a
temple in his closet dedicated to Bran and sacrifices rabbits on a full moon in
his honor. The matter means little to Howland. This meeting is about restoring
Jojen’s reputation and singeing off loose ends, not about being good people.
Ned speaks, “Bran doesn’t even know what happened. We never told him.”
“All the more reason to tell him now.” Howland says pointedly. “Imagine what
will happen when he does hear about Jojen. If they never meet under secure
circumstances, Bran will never get closure. He will live knowing that the boy
who once stalked him is out in the world and may still be watching him. Now,
Jojen wouldn’t do that,” Howland is quick to clarify. “But Bran doesn’t
understand him. Keeping silent means you are willing to sentence him to a life
of paranoia and distress. And here’s the thing,” The clincher, the thing that
will may or break his deal. “One day, Bran might make the decision to meet
Jojen on his own. Regardless if I tell you he is cured, there’s a part of you
that is not convinced. I don’t blame you for that. But if they are bound to
meet, I am offering you a reconciliation on your terms.” 
Howland’s point is valid. Jojen and Bran are bound to meet at least once this
summer. He and Catelyn cannot afford a repeat of history. The only thinking
keeping him from agreeing are his qualms. There is something about Howland’s
proposition that makes him uncomfortable. He decides to stall until he figures
out what it is. “Howland, I understand what you’re saying but this isn’t the
best time for that.”
“Ned,” Howland says seriously—the most severe tone he’s taken in his entire
life, sans Jojen’s trial. “I adore you and I trust your judgment. But Jojen’s
restraining order is finished. He can contact Bran if he wishes. He asked me to
come here, not as a courtesy, but because he wants to ask you for the right.
And frankly,” Howland has practiced his stare all night. When he looks into
Ned’s eyes, he can see his reflection and he is proud; proud to have conveyed
the severity of his statement. “This isn’t your apology to accept and it
certainly isn’t your forgiveness to give.”
The last statement is the nail in the coffin. Ned stands up. He takes the
remote and turns off the thermostat while setting the office into a close.
Technology is amazing, Howland wonders as the lights dim. He hears the speaker
announce that a total shutdown will activate in five minutes.
“Arya has a performance this weekend. It’s opening on Friday so we're leaving
tonight to make the Saturday show. We want to avoid embarrassing her. I…will
talk to Catelyn tonight about setting up a meeting between the two. You have my
word.”
Ned’s word is better than gold. Howland embraces his longtime friend in thanks.
“You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“I do,” Ned responds because he does. He loves his children as much as Howland
does and understands the depths of a father’s love. Ned caresses Howland’s face
in a manner that makes the other man swoon. Howland asks as he fiddles with the
hem of Ned’s shirt if his former classmate would like to seal their deal with a
kiss.
Ned never fails to interpret flirtation as a joke. He laughs in humor and
Howland laughs in a prize unclaimed and they continue laughing until they walk
out the office. When he enters his car, the clock reads fifteen minutes past
six. The day is not over and yet Howland is satisfied for progress made. He has
sold his artwork, bought groceries, and negotiated with Ned over Jojen’s
redemption.
Howland hums in delight. Jojen is going to be ecstatic when he learns that
he’ll get to meet Bran Stark—without the latter being unconscious.
***
Howland regrets his jinx because the misfortune he is hit with can only be
described as a curse. He cannot fathom how his son—who is brilliant in every
definition, who has won awards for his intellect and was labeled, gods, does
Howland hate that word, a genius—can be so fucking stupid.
“You are supposed to be a smart kid!” Howland yells, raising his voice to a
height he never knew possible. He sounds hysterical to his own ears but for an
outside audience, is no louder than a parent using their ‘outdoor voice’ for
when they are frustrated with their children. “I know you’re smart! We had you
tested! The doctors all said you were smart but I didn’t believe them! Hells, I
wanted to get a fourth opinion but I thought four was an evil number so I
didn't! And now, I realize that I should have gotten you tested again because
then I wouldn’t be so surprised when you pull shit like this!”
“Father—”
“Silence, child of mine!” Howland reverts to his dramatism whenever he is
stressed. “You have disgraced my efforts and now I must seek a suitable
retribution.”
Jojen winces. Near the doorway is Bran Stark, waddling in his wheelchair while
looking guiltier than a boy of his innocence should. His presence is the latch
holding together Howland’s sanity. Howland pauses his lecture to meet the
Stark. The boy quivers and shrinks as he draws near.
Howland puts on a serene smile full of warmth and seduction—the same smile he
used on the boy’s father. He hopes the young boy's youthful innocence will
allow him to disregard the sensuous nature of the grin because he cannot turn
that off—not that Ned Stark notices it. 
“Oh sweetheart, forgive me for scaring you. It’s just that you’re not supposed
to be here. Jojen knows you’re not supposed to be here.” Howland shoots Jojen a
bitter glare. “But he’s an idiot so he doesn’t care about how much trouble he
can get just by looking at you.”
Bran hastily nods. He hopes Jojen’s father realizes that he’s nodding to the
‘trouble’ part and not the ‘idiot’ part. “I know! Jojen told me everything.”
Howland pauses. “He did?” He turns around to see Jojen’s sigh. Howland watches
as his son nods, signifying his full discretion towards the Stark.
“I told him everything.” Jojen smiles and Howland’s heart skips a beat at
seeing his happiness again. “We’re dating. I didn’t want our relationship to
start off on a lie.”
If Howland is half as stupid as Jojen is being right now, he might have
believed him. But instead of calling Jojen out on the lie, he focuses on the
saving grace his son handed to him. Howland may not be able to quantify
particles in his head, but he has spent his entire life cleaning up the messes
of a depressed wife and a wayward son.
 “Bran, I understand you are fourteen?”
There’s more hesitance in his answer. Howland sighs in relief. The boy knows he
is a boy in the eyes of the law; he recognizes the danger in answering his age.
“Yes, sir.”
“Jojen is seventeen. Now, I’m sure you are smart enough to know that at
fourteen, you are underage and this relationship is illegal.”   
“We didn’t do anything!” Bran confesses. “Nothing! I mean, we kissed. And yeah,
we’ve done stuff but not that kindof stuff. All our clothes were on.”
“That doesn’t matter. If you’re dating, people are going to assume there’s been
sexual activity. While there’s no way to prove it, there’s also no way to
disprove it, either. Jojen can get into a lot of trouble for dating you. He can
go to jail.”
The haunting reality crashes Bran’s daydreams. Before Jojen can comfort him,
Bran speaks too fast. “I don’t want to break up with him,” Bran whispers; his
voice is so soft Howland barely catches his concession.
Howland feels for him, but he has to protect his son first. “I know. And you
don’t have to,” Howland reassures. He sighs when he sees the relief on Bran’s
face. “But you need to be more discreet. If I caught you coming out of the
house, who’s to say one of the groundskeepers won’t? Or a gardener? Or a maid?
They’ll tell your parents and they will ship you away to some boarding school
and Jojen…well, Jojen has a record. And he’s almost of age. Prison is a major
possibility for him.”
Bran chokes. Jojen is desperate to comfort him but Howland sends him a look to
keep quiet.
“Bran, do you care about my son?”
Bran nods eagerly. Even in shaky uncertainty, the boy smiles like his father;
there’s no deception in his grin and Howland’s heart breaks for the loss of
innocence.
“I know Jojen loves you. He’s made that very clear in the past.” The last note
is almost an accusation. “There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to protect you.
Including taking the fall for this relationship if someone finds out. If tha
happens, it won’t be a case of ‘you fell in love.’ The media will paint him as
a rapist and a pedophile. You will be nothing more than a victim and he won’t
fight those lies. He will do anything to spare you grief, including letting you
go.” The notion is false but effective. Jojen will chase Bran to the ends of
the earth, regardless of a life sentence. Nonetheless, the guilt on Bran’s face
is not only delicious but effective. Jojen narrows his eyes at his father in
both anger and appreciation. The man is a master of manipulation and he’s
turning Bran into something so pliable, he might as well be putty. “Bran, can
you live with that? Can you live with the knowledge that you sent Jojen to
jail?”
Bran’s breathing becomes harsh. Once his panic is fully set in, Howland becomes
the good cop to his bad, and the healer to his disease. “Please, don’t take
this as a threat.” Howland’s words are not a threat; it is the warning before
the bomb is dropped. “You make my son so happy. I won’t keep you guys apart but
I am concerned. For that reason, I’ll do everything in my power to help..”
Jojen almost snorts. His father keeps piling the bodies on top of Bran and his
lover is caving under the pressure. “But I can’t do this alone. I need you to
promise to protect my son.”
Bran agrees without question. Howland smiles and kisses him on the forehead. He
wishes the boy goodnight and tells Jojen to send him away, close enough to the
estate that he can get there safely but far enough not to be seen. Jojen
understands the distance, having mastered it weeks ago. Despite the trauma his
father put his boyfriend through, Jojen is thankful. Bran clutches onto his
hand in devotion and the assertion of their relationship makes him warm. He
mouths a ‘thank you’ to his father. Howland catches it and rolls his eyes.
He’ll tell Jojen when he returns to make it up to him with a university
acceptance and a decent scholarship—the parental thing to say.
Meera comes home shortly. She sees Howland yelling—or however close he can to
yelling—and asks what is going on.   
“Do we have to tell her?” Jojen asks.
Howland crosses his arms. He uncrosses them when he catches a reflection of
himself in the mirror. “We’re telling her.”
“Telling me what?” Meera puts her bag on the ground and sits beside Jojen,
effectively offering her support while keeping him cornered.
His sister is so clever, Jojen praises inwardly.
“Jojen has been contacting Bran.”
“What?”
“They’re dating,” Howland adds. “Apparently. I talked to Bran and that’s the
story they’re going with.”
“What?” Meera grabs Jojen by the collar. “Jojen, he is fourteen years old!
Meeting him alone begs suspicion but his age? Dating him? Do you know how much
trouble you can get into for just looking at him? What the hell were you
thinking?”
“That maybe my sister would be more grateful I wasn’t dealing drugs?” Jojen
shrugs. He is doing both, but he figures Meera deserves the deception. 
“Jojen, you can go to jail if the Starks find out! I’m surprised the cops
aren’t here yet.”
“Bran and I aren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”
“Fuck, Jojen. This isn’t a joke.” Meera fights to urge to pull at her hair. She
swears the pressure is making her frizz more than normal. “He could tell
someone. You never know. He’s young. All it takes is one little fight, he
overreacts, and you are screwed.”
Howland tries to calm down his daughter by saying he’s taken care of the issue.
“I’ve spoken to Bran. He’s aware of the consequences of his actions if he were
to tell.”
Meera’s head snap towards her father. “What did you say?”
Howland shrugs. 
“I told him that if someone finds out about their relationship, Jojen would
most likely go to jail and he’d be responsible.”
Meera’s jaw drops. Howland wonders about the incredulous look on her face when
his daughter starts yelling.
“You emotionally manipulated a young boy into lying for you! You made it his
fault if this goes wrong!”
“That’s the point of blaming the victim. Nothing else keeps them silent.” 
Meera groans; she turns to Jojen to see what he has to say about the situation
but the younger male shrugs. She throws her hands up in the air. “This is why
Jojen has issues, dad! You cannot keep condoning his criminal behavior!”
“Bran says they haven’t been intimate. See what I just did? I took Bran’s word
because I know Jojen lies. Does that sound like someone who condones criminal
behavior?”
“In all fairness, Bran chose to be with me. I’m not forcing him to do anything.
Plus, I’ve told him the truth.”
“You and I both know you haven’t told him everything,” Meera accuses. "You
haven't even told me everything. The only person you tell anything to is that
damn psychiatrist of yours." 
They continue having a row on the matter until the doorbell rings. The Reeds
freeze up. No one makes a move, each looking at each other to confirm whether
or not it is an uninvited guest. When no one offers a suggestion, Jojen gets
up.
“What are you doing?” Meera hisses. She has not moved a muscle since the
visitor arrived.
“We’re in the living room. They won’t see us anyways so I don’t understand why
we’re standing still. Secondly, I’m going to see who it is at the door.”
“It could be the Starks with pitchforks.”
“Then I won’t let them in.”
“No!” Meera snaps. She walks past Jojen and tells him to sit down. “I am
getting the door. Starks are like dogs; they can sense impure thoughts and we
cannot afford either of you projecting your illicit fantasies."
“Too late for that,” Howland mutters.
Meera glares. “At least I can play dumb. Both of you keep me in the dark enough
for that.”
With the decision made, Meera goes up to the door and looks through the
peephole. The image through the lens leaves her confused and cursing.  
***
Sansa slams the door when she comes home, announcing her presence to her mother
and the dead. Her arrival is a day earlier than expected so Catelyn suspects
the worst: bloodshot eyes and tears turning her mascara into watercolor paint.
Instead, Sansa blazes into the kitchen, burning hotter than her hair. Catelyn
does not have time to ask her what happened before her daughter demands they
bake a cake.
Catelyn watches her daughter shove the maids aside. She grabs bowls and pots
and rolling pins—the child has never cracked an egg in her life and there’s
utter bewilderment on her face when she takes out a whisk.
“Sansa, what is this about?”
Sansa analyzes a bottle opener and narrows her eyes. “I want to bake a cake.
What is this?”
Catelyn takes the device before her daughter kills herself. “Why do you want to
bake a cake? Do you want extra dessert?”
“No,” Sansa denies. She drops another stray contraption on the table. “I was
thinking about baking one of the Reeds. As, well, a peace treaty.”
Catelyn takes a moment to herself to get over her shock. “…the Reeds?” She
rushes over to her daughter to check her temperature. “Sansa, are you sick? Has
the man you’ve been seeing given you an STD? Sweetheart, I know I told you that
pregnancy scares are a great way to weed out weakness in a man, but that
doesn’t mean you remove protection altogether. You always get the man tested.
That, or date a virgin. I mean, I know it is hard work but damn, are the
results worth it. You can teach them to do anything you want.”
“Mother!” Though Sansa’s blood still boils from her battle with Jojen, the
horror of her mother’s words pierces through her concentration. “I’m fine.”
Catelyn snaps out of her rant. “Right, this is about the Reeds. You are not
baking a cake. You are not giving them anything.” Catelyn returns to making
dinner, chopping through the onions like a samurai with a vengeance. The other
maids awkwardly move in place but Sansa stops them. She sends them an
apologetic look with a sigh.
There’s a corner in her brain that is dwelling on the fact that her mother
knows she is sexually active but she shuts that corner off for her own sanity.
She refers back to her original plan.
“We have two more months with them, mum. At this point, we are prolonging the
unavoidable and quite frankly, the elephant in the room is taking up too much
space. I'm not having it.”
Catelyn’s knife cuts through the board. Sansa’s winces but continues her
speech, “As long as they live here, we are only making ourselves more miserable
by evading them. I say we make the first step to becoming better people.”
Catelyn closes her eyes and sigh. “So you believe cake is going to fix things?”
“Or pie. Or any sort of pudding, really," Sansa tells her. "I'm not going to be
afraid anymore. I want Jojen Reed to understand that while I don't forgive him,
I wish him the best for his recovery. He has left Bran alone and for that, I
applaud him." The last statement physically hurt to say.
Her sentiment touches Catelyn’s heart and stimulates her pride. She cannot
believe she raised such an upstanding young woman. “I suppose we can make a
quick red velvet cake—nothing extravagant but still delicious. I have some
frosting left over from last night’s dessert. I think they’ll like it.”
Sansa brightens up. “Great! What do we need?”
“Sugar, cocoa, red food dye…” Traditionally, Catelyn makes her coloring with
beet juice but she figures the Reed didn’t deserve that much of an effort. She
rattles off the ingredients for Sansa to fetch. The girl stumbles through the
cabinets and makes a mess of things, but Sansa is her daughter so she loves her
despite her faults.
“So what do we need, like two pounds of sugar?” Sansa asks, dropping two bags
onto the counter.
“Yes,” Catelyn agrees. “If your definition of becoming a better person is to
give the Reeds diabetes, that is definitely the amount you should start with.”
Sansa’s face drops as she takes back one of the bags and puts it on the
opposite side. Her mother is putting back the unnecessary materials and getting
ready for the prime product. She cleans up a nice little workspace, even
calling the maids back to help her make dinner. When Sansa is near the fridge,
Catelyn calls out for some eggs—but only two. “We’re making a cake, not cooking
for the Navy. Don’t overdo it, Sansa. You tend to be a bit much.”
Sansa obeys, regretting her impatience. If she had waited until tomorrow, she
could have gotten Jon to teach her. While the inability to cook was a factor of
their Stark genes, the desire not to learn was all Tully—namely, their mother’s
ability to rip away any sort of joy that can be had in the kitchen. For some
reason, the domestic sphere transformed their loving mama wolf to a shark out
for blood. It was why Jon survived so well with her—he was used to being
treated badly.
Unable to take the tension, Sansa makes a hasty retreat to her bedroom while
her mother confects a sugar treaty. Catelyn says something about being ready in
an hour. She barely notices her daughter's departure. The timing is tight but
doable for dinner. Sansa passes by her younger brother’s room on her way to her
own and Bran looks so sweet, lounging on his bed without a care in the world.
It isn’t until he turns over to the side that Sansa remembers the picture and
almost loses her lunch.
***
After the cake is finished, Sansa puts on a silver pair of heels and marches to
their guest house. The first thing Meera does when she sees Sansa Stark is
compliment her shoes.
“Thank you,” Sansa says as she gives the older girl a little pose. “Manolo
Blahniks.”
“Of course they are.” Meera wishes she could tell Robb’s younger sister that
the shoes are too much. Meera blocks the entrance instead. The younger woman is
holding a delicious looking cake. By laws of etiquette, Meera has to invite her
in for tea but she figures there's no harm in prolonging the offer. After, a
few minutes of awkward small talk, Sansa asks if Jojen is home.
“Why? Have you imagined he committed a crime again?”
Sansa responds with a tense smile. “No, but when he does, you’ll be the first
to know. After all, who else can he trust for an alibi?”
“He doesn’t need an alibi. Just a hysterical ginger discrediting herself on the
stand.”
"Or a troubled mother to help his insanity case." 
Their bickering has the potential to last forever. Jojen gets up from the couch
and goes to the hallway. “Ooh cake,” he says as he grabs the plate and heads
into the kitchen. Sansa narrows her eyes at him and grits her teeth when he
ignores her. Not even a greeting. 
Meera bites her tongue before speaking. “Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”
“That’s quite alright,” Sansa rejects. She straightens up and the already tall
girl is practically a giant in front of Meera. “I have dinner after this. I
only wanted to drop off a cake for your family.” Sansa smiles. “I baked it
myself.”  
Bullshit, Meera thinks. She’s a Stark and Starks don’t cook. “You came all this
way to deliver a cake?” Meera raises an eyebrow. “Is it poisoned?”
Sansa’s scoff ruins her smile. She resorts to the dignity of a hardened stare
instead. “No. If anything, it is little unsweetened. But given what has
happened between your family and mine’s, I figure I extend an offer of
neutrality.” Sansa pauses. “Can I speak to Jojen now?”
“No,” Meera answers. “You speak to me.”
Though she is uncomfortable, Sansa puts on a brave face. She will not bow down
to anyone, certainly not Meera Reed. “I’m afraid this matter is between me and
him.”
“Well, if the cake is for our entire family then you might as well deliver the
message to all of us. You should understand better than anyone how family
sticks together.”  
Sansa takes a step forward in her guest home. She corners Meera who is a good
half a foot shorter than her. Meera curses her petite stature; it’s hard to
look intimidating when her assailant can literally look down on her.
“You seem like a level-headed woman, Meera. Despite having Jojen as a brother
and your family’s financial difficulties, you’ve managed to rise above your
circumstances. I’d hate to hurt you—not after all you’ve accomplished.”
“Then don’t,” Meera snaps. 
Sansa’s eyes narrow. “But your brother is dredging on dangerous territory. And
I’m afraid that the law is no longer an option for me to consider—not after
last time and certainly not after today.”
Today? Meera wonders. She clenches her jaw at the thought of losing her brother
again and screams inwardly at whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into.
“Keep your brother in check," Sansa orders. "Or better yet, keep him away from
my brother. Because I know that he’s somehow managed to manipulate Bran into
something twisted and you know that too. If memory serves, the last time you
were this overprotective, it was a cover for his wrongdoing.”
“He was punished. He did his time. Anything that happens between them is none
of our business.”
“As long as Bran is my little brother, it is my business,” Sansa retorts. “I
will protect my little brother, just as you have, time and time again. Only
this time, I have alternative means to keep him safe.” Sansa smirks. And
there’s only so much you can protect him from.”
The hairs on Meera’s back rises. “Are you threatening him?”
“Was I being too vague?” Sansa mocks. "Yes, this is a threat. You—"
Without warning, Meera slams the door in her face. She rushes into the kitchen
where Jojen and Howland are eating cake and drinking tea. Howland sees the
panic expression on her face and mouths an order to Jojen to ‘pour.’
“What’s the matter, honey?” He asks as he walks up to her. He cradles her face
in his hands. "Are you alright?" 
Meera breathes a little heavier. She pulls out of his arms. “Jojen, give me
your phone.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.”
Howland sends him a warning look and Jojen reluctantly complies. She swipes the
phone from his hand and asks Jojen what would happen if she looks through his
messages to Bran.
“They’re completely innocent,” he insists.
“Are you sure?”
Jojen nods.
Meera clutches onto his device and asks what would happen if she called Bran.
“He'll tell you that he cares about me and wants to continue our relationship.”
“Do you really mean that?”
Jojen looks her deep in her eyes. “I do.”
"Can you promise to wait until he's sixteen?" 
"If that's what he wants." 
"Jojen!" Meera snaps. 
Jojen sighs. "I will wait for however long he wants to. But I will swear not to
pressure or even bring it up until he turns sixteen." 
With her hands still shaking, she returns the phone back to Jojen. “Then, I
believe you. I trust you. I know that no matter how many times you’ve lied to
me, you are telling me the truth now.” She says it like she's trying to
convince herself and not him. 
Jojen takes the phone back. “What happened with Sansa?”
Meera grimaces. “Whatever war you two started. I’m in it, now.”
Howland looks back and forth at his children. He sighs. “As dramatic as that
scene was, I feel like I should have said something earlier.”
“About what?” 
“Well, I kind set up a reconciliation appointment through Ned Stark. Nothing is
confirmed but Jojen will be able to meet Bran for an 'apology.'" Howland
giggles because Jojen is far from sorry. The sound is almost maniacal. "I mean
if you want to throw down with Sansa Stark then I will support you. But in my
opinion, it’s a bit pointless.”
Meera’s head nearly crashes onto the table.
“I fucking hate this family,” she mutters.  
Chapter End Notes
     One of my longest chapters and I still had to cut stuff out of my
     outline. :(
     Anyways, thank you for reading this!
     Next chapter is going to have a brief moment of Willas and Olenna and
     the Starks go to London. Robb and Jon will get naughty. Theon and
     Ramsay make a reappearance with the cops. It's going to be a weird
     chapter.
***** Chapter 48 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sigh…warnings…there’s a sex scene between Ramsay and Theon. That will
     always require a warning.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Several hours after ending their encounters, Willas bought a ticket home. He
was bound back in East Anglia on Wednesday afternoon. The Tyrell estate was
bustling with flowers that day. Olenna minded her own business; she had her
high tea while reading the cards sent by her grandchildren’s suitors. Her oaf
of a son and his wife were at the train station, picking up her eldest
grandson. Stupidity tended to make Willas smile, even in the worst of times.
 Margaery, her clever girl, was in the gardens vetting the candidates for her
affection. She was swiping through the pictures of her phone, deleting the
numbers that no longer entertained her. There were so many eligible men in the
country that she was forced to widen her standards. 
While Olenna finished reading an ode written by one of the Redwyne twins—her
grandnephews were insufferable and slovenly, but at least they were half-decent
literates—two maids arrived with more gifts. Each one was packing a floral
arrangement and fruit basket.
“Who is it now?” Olenna asked. Roses and fruits. Always roses and fruits. The
Tyrells owned one of the world’s largest agriculture company's in the world,
and people thought it was a good idea to gift them with things they already
had.
“This is from Lambert Turnberry, and the other is from a Bayard Norcross,
madam.”
Insignificant names were vying for the attentions of significant girl. Has
there ever been anything more depressing?  “Inspect and rearrange them with our
personal floral wraps. We’ll send one to Baelor Hightower to celebrate his
engagement and the other to my sister-in-law. My nephew always forgets his
wife’s anniversary.”
“Shall we attach a card?”
“No, you shall send a dead body with the message ‘you will always have my
heart’ carved into its chest. Yes, send a damn card.”
The maids rush off while another girl pops in. “Another delivery!” she chimed. 
Olenna rolled her eyes. “We have more flowers in this room than the earth has
the bees to pollinate them. Who is it now?”
“Oh, it’s from the master of the house—”
“I assure you, my son has never been the master of anything.”
The maid continues her announcement with less cheer. “It’s his daily bouquet
for the lady of the house. The first one is to praise her for being especially
lovely today and the second is because he ‘hoped she would be surrounded by
something that could come close to her natural beauty.’”
The message made Olenna shake her head and sigh. She had to hand it to her son.
The man couldn't be trusted to breathe. He did not inherit an ounce of her
sense but at least no one could ever say that he did not treat his wife well.
It seemed that Olenna’s discipline was not a complete failure.
Three sets of deliveries later, Olenna was prepared to throw the latest out.
The men were damaged goods at this point. She wass about to give the command
when the faintest whiff of chocolate entered her nostrils. She ordered the
hands that carry the boxes of gourmet cocoa to come forth. There was only one
man with the wiles to send chocolate over flowers. She swiped the velvet card
resting on top of the delicacies and saw a handwritten message—the sender had
beautiful cursive; the sigil of a man with talented hands. 
Slut, Olenna thought.
 My darling Willas, 
It comes with great pleasure and devastation for me to learn that you have
become unattached. Devastation, because I know that with every heartbreak you
experience, it is as if my own heart is ripping out of my chest. Though your
trip did not bear the fruits you've toiled for, I beg you not to think your
efforts were for naught. Seeing you again has sparked every visceral urge
within me. Memories of our time shared flooded into my mind's eye and I replay
the scenes like a lovelorn fool. I long for you, Willas. I believe I am the one
who shall return the twinkle to your eyes and the smile on your glowing face. 
Come back to me. My bed has been plagued with the chills of regret, and only
your warmth can give me ailment. I miss the way your curly hair tangled within
my fingers. How your insides were tight, hot, and how I stroked your special
spot until you screamed. I remember how you begged, urging me to explode my
seed inside your mouth; how your perfect, wet tongue and plump lips kissed my
tip before I stretched out your throat. Most of all, I yearn for those intimate
moments where we rested in each other’s arms.
Do you know when I discovered you were the missing link to our broken chain? It
was years ago. Ellaria was swimming while we sat on the outside of the
fountain. Your head was resting on my lap. When Ellaria raised her head above
the surface of the water, you let her kiss you and held my hand as she did it.
We shared something that day that I can never replace. 
I will be coming to East Anglia to win back your love. I will not waver nor
fail. 
Your true love,
Oberyn Martel
“That is so romantic,” said one of the maids leaning over her shoulder to read.
Another girl sighed dreamily. “Oh, can you read it out loud?”  
Olenna turned around to shoot them a glare. She crushed the card in her hand.
“It’s filth,” she insisted. When she recognized the uncertainty on their faces,
she ordered them away. “Don’t you have work to do?” The girls scurried like
mice evading the family cat—a virile hunter whose meals run on the livers of
the fallen. On their way out, her companion spy smacks her on the shoulder for
getting them caught.
Before Olenna could think of a way to handle the situation, she heard Willas
coming close. “Grandmother, the prodigal son is home!”
If she ripped it up, Willas would discover its existence through the paper
droppings. She quickly shoved the letter into her bosom and fixed up her dress
to conceal her criminality. “No need to yell, I may have cataracts, but it’ll
be another ten years before they take my hearing.”
Willas laughed like a man without a broken heart. He came in and gave her a
kiss on the cheek. His hands were holding bags of presents, sweets, and
sweaters that people actually want and pieces of artwork from the unknowns that
her son hung up because he believed it made him look cultural and distinctive.
The fool in question followed their voices into the dining room. Olenna watched
her daughter-in-law gasp over the newest arrangement to her name and kissed her
husband senseless. Mace had been buying her flowers for all twenty years and
not once does she get tired of them—or hay fever.
While they traded compliments with each other, Willas unraveled his gifts,
displaying curd tarts and clotted cream and various other puddings. Olenna
narrowed his eyes. The last time Willas ate so much was when he quit physical
therapy to wallow in his grief like a pussy.
“Are you sure you’re okay, honey?” Alerie asked. Like her mother-in-law, she
also recognized kummerspeck or grief bacon. Though Olenna was impressed by her
insight, her brief foray into perceptiveness was not enough to change Olenna’s
opinion of her. Olenna considered her the most foolish person in the room; if
Mace was able to convince her to fall in love with him rather than his money,
Olenna concluded that she must be simple. At least her intelligence skipped a
generation.
“Hey, is that chocolate?”
Olenna stood corrected.
When Garlan comes into the room—a waifish wife in toll—he lunged onto the boxes
of cacao bliss and opens a box, not noticing Willas’ surprise expression.
“These are great. Willas’ ex used to send these by the pound when they were
together. Who bought them?” He raised up a random piece to meet his wife’s
lips. The young woman obediently chomped on the morsel and moaned in pleasure
when the chocolate melted in her mouth. As soon as she swallowed, she pushed
onto her tippy-toes and reaches for a kiss. The two were obscene; after three
years of marriage, the couple behaved as if they were teenagers sneaking out
for a quickie in the library.
Willas grabbed a box as well. Instead of eating the chocolate, he turned to
Olenna and asked, “When did these arrive?”
Olenna remained calm. “Shortly before you did. I suppose he figured he had a
fighting shot again.” Olenna paused, just enough to display her contempt in an
academic fashion. “Do you think he could have found out about your thwarted
romance?”
“Well, he did come to Yorkshire for his own business. That could be a
possibility,” Willas mused. There was a small smile on his face, a glimmer of
appreciation for the Martell that Olenna could not allow to prosper.
She shrugged with a perfected nonchalance. “Oh, so you've kept in contact with
him?”
WIllas shook his head. “No, I was preoccupied with Jon.”
Olenna thanked the Sweet Seven. “So how would he have been able to find out you
left Yorkshire?”
“Well, I guess he…spied on me.” The waxing smile turned into a new full frown.
“Of course he did.” He threw the box on the table and took a seat. “Mother, can
you order the chef to fix me something to eat?”
“Of course honey,” Alerie agreed. She exited the room, leaving behind her
eldest son, mother-in-law, husband, and her second oldest son in the throttles
of passion with her daughter-in-law.
Olenna decided to use the opportunity to strike. “Willas, I understand you are
upset, but this is not the time to remain feeble-hearted. You have to find a
partner for the wedding.”
“I'm afraid I’m not interested in dating at the moment, grandmother.” He
massaged his aching leg. It was his only vice in regards to traveling.
“Nonsense. This is the time you should be interested. I heard the young man
you’ve been seeing is dating a Stark. The eldest Stark.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read your texts, my dear.”
“You have to stop doing that.”
“No, I don’t. I stayed married to your grandfather for over thirty years; I
paid for the right to invade your privacy with monthly payments of my vagina.
Let me say that while he wasn’t smart, he did have a dick as large as the
stallions you breed.”
“Please stop; I don’t care if you read my texts anymore.”
“Good sex saved my marriage. It can save your relationship status,” Olenna
informed. “Your father makes the bed drop to the floor, and yet your mother is
still brave enough to climb on top of him. You need to get back in the game and
show the world that the Tyrells have more to offer than any Stark.”
Willas shook his head.  “Jon was in love with Robb Stark before he met me. I’m
upset, but it’s not hostile. I don’t blame Jon or Robb. I wish them the best.”
Olenna scoffs. “Don’t be honorable, Willas. This is not the time or occasion
for civility. You were a plot device to get those two together. Jon could have
slipped a tenner in your pocket, blew a load on your backside, and it would
still make you less cheap.”
“I don’t understand how I ended up in this conversation.”
Olenna flicked his forehead. He bit back curse; Olenna would have slapped him
with a newspaper for getting out of line. “All it takes is a sliver of regret
to reclaim vindication. Find someone for the wedding, Willas. Someone better.
Use this,” she pointed to his head. “And this,” she patted him on the crotch.
“I’ve seen you naked. The sausage you are packing is the reason I knew you
didn’t sleep with that child bride—he would have never let you go if you did.”
“Grandmother, please stop.”
“Robb Stark will take him to the wedding—assuming they last that long. You need
to bring someone else. You can’t possibly let this boy toy see you alone. Why,
that’ll just confirm your social leprosy. You might as well kill yourself!
It’ll be a lot less painful. Or humiliating.”
“Out of all your motivational speeches, this is only top twenty.”
Olenna swatted him on the head again. “We’ll find someone. Someone who can
swallow the sword but still get it sharpened for dinner.” Olenna pretends to
have random, ingenious idea. “How about we go see a show? There’s a performance
by the Faceless Men that Tywin Lannister is funding and there should be a
plethora of eligible singles.”  
“That’s in London,” Willas reminded her. “I don’t think I’m ready for another
trip. I still have to see my doctor for a checkup.”
“I’m sure Dr. Lomys can pencil you in today,” Olenna insisted. “We’ll make it a
family trip in case you break the other leg making love. We can convince your
brother to buy you a hooker to make sure everything works alright. Soon, you’ll
be up and running as good as new.”
Willas sighed before agreeing. There was a scheme in the works and Willas was
battered and broken down by the long trip, the break-up, the chocolates—god
damn it, Oberyn—and no longer has the willpower to fight. Once he regained his
strength, he could win the war. While submission guaranteed his survival, he
made an attempt to prolong his defeat by opting for a compromise. “Sure, I’ll
get some rest and give you my answer later.”  
“No. You can make your decision now, or I can tell our men to drag you by the
hind legs to London.”
“Grandmother, I am too tired to reach a reasonable consensus on the matter.”
“I am over eighty-years-old. Every day, I make decisions while seconds away
from death. Fatigue is nothing.”
“If you don’t live to a hundred, I will throw myself off the roof.”
“Willas, you are going to London.” She pauses. “Loras is already there, and you
can take Margaery with you. She needs to broaden her horizons.”
Willas scoffed. Margaery’s horizons include a roster of men, ranked in marriage
eligibility, organized by name, and separated by wealth and inheritance. She
had an entire library dedicated to the pursuit of networking. She had business
partners on one shelf, potential ‘friends’ on the others—not to mention the
spouses she planned to set them up with—a group of pathetic men and women who’d
fallen for her but knew they never stood a chance—and on the sides were the
‘neutral parties’ she doesn’t wish to delete in case they become useful. In
that folder were people like Robb Stark or Sansa Stark or just every Stark in
existence. Margaery was fearless and terrifying and Willas was so proud of his
little sister. 
“Fine, I’ll go and take Margaery with me. Can I have a nap now?”
Olenna pursed her lips. “You are not a child, Willas. You don’t need my
permission for a nap. You only need to listen to me when I tell you where to
work, when to go out, what to say, who to date, and how to manage your
lifestyle under the Tyrell name.”
Willas refused to answer. He made that mistake already. The next time Olenna
saw him would be at dinner, and that was when he would have his fun. On his way
to his room, he told one of the maids to grab his old wheelchair from storage.
“Is your leg acting up again?” The maid asked concern draped over her
features. 
“Yes,” Willas lied. “It’s probably all the traveling I did, but I want to take
it easy for now. Can you have it sent to my room with the luggage? Thanks.” The
young woman scurried off to grab the device. Willas grinned. He cannot wait to
see his grandmother’s face scrunch up when she caught him in the wheelchair.
She hated dealing with him when he used it.  She knew he was emphasizing his
pain to garner sympathy, but even she was not so crass as to ask someone in a
wheelchair to prove he needed one.
The thought of her shock expression when she sees him wheeling into the dining
room was enough to make him consider bringing one to London out of spite.
***
The Starks book an entire car to themselves for leisure and ease. They receive
a complimentary dinner upon their arrival, accompanied by their own dessert
cart and an open bar. All of the children find a way to entertain themselves.
Sansa is skittish as a cat on cocaine, checking her phone and texting Sandor
for updates on Jojen. Her boyfriend humors her paranoia like a man who did too
well and knows it. Rickon is glaring at Bran, climbing on top of the couches
for the opportunity to steal his phone or at least read his conversations with
Shireen. According to his older brother, Bran has been in contact with Shireen
and his other friend Henry, all day. The information, unbeknownst to his
brother and mother, is a lie. In actuality, he spent the entire morning
contacting Jojen. Catelyn would usually be concerned with the fact that her son
hasn’t taken his eyes off his phone in hours but she’s too distracted by the
lovebirds at the end of the car. Robb and Jon have been inseparable since their
reconciliation. Though Jon has the consideration not to engage in major public
displays of affection, Robb does not. He’s been showing off their relationship
like it’s the cure for cancer. “Oh hey, Darcy, I can’t hang out tonight, I have
to pack for London with my boyfriend, Jon.” “No, Bran, I haven’t seen your
notebook. Why don’t you ask my boyfriend, Jon?” “Yeah, I’m looking forward to
going back to school, father. I can’t wait to move back into my apartment
with my boyfriend, Jon.” “Yeah, Sansa, those heels look good enough to kill.
You know who else looks good enough to kill—”
“Your boyfriend, Jon?”
Robb would grin. “My boyfriend, Jon.”
“You are an idiot.”
“You know who's dating this idiot? My boyfriend, Jon.”
The child is insufferable.
Thankfully, the only person who can stand to be around Robb is the only person
he wants to be near. They look happy in love, sneaking kisses when they think
no one is looking and perhaps it’s Jon’s resemblance to Ned and Robb’s
resemblance to herself, but Catelyn cannot, for the life of her, act against
them. She’ll need more time to adjust but there’s nothing she can do to fight
the throes of passion that has befallen on her children. If she is lucky, Robb
and Jon will fall apart and she’ll be able to salvage her relationships with
both of them.
“Are you okay?” Ned asks when he notices her attention has not wavered since
their trip. 
Catelyn sighs. “I suppose I have to be.”
“Well.” Ned coughs awkwardly. “If you can’t keep your mind off them, I
could...provide a distraction?”  
Catelyn stares at him in surprise. She grins, absolutely delighted. “Ned Stark,
as I live and breathe, are you suggesting we have some quality time on a
train?” 
Ned blushes. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“We were much younger then. I could hold in my voice better.”
“You have a beautiful voice.”
Catelyn bites her lip in amusement. She moves her hand over to his groin and
gives his cock a half-hearted squeeze. “I suppose I need to clear my head.”
“I can help with that,” Ned moans.
“Can you?”
“Better than anyone you know.”
His answer is all she needs to stands up and head to the bathroom. Thankfully,
their private car came with its own bathrooms. The only people who will hear
her scream are her own children and since everyone has more or less seen
them in flagrante delicto, she decides that her pride is no longer worth her
orgasm. If anything, she has a duty to her generation and gender to showcase
her sexual peak. Ned follows a second later, not understanding discretion as
well as his wife. Everyone is too concern with their own issues to notice their
departure.   
 Everyone but Jon and Robb.
When Robb notices that his parents have left the vicinity, his mind does not
put two and two together. He is, however, aware that they are more or less
alone. With the boldness one will expect from an heir, he leans over and
captures Jon’s lips.
When the part, a little breathless from waiting so long to do so, Robb asks if
he wants a repeat performance. “I still get chills about the last time we were
on a train.”
“I think the bathrooms are occupied,” Jon teases.  
Robb shrugs. With a grin, he points out that the couches are comfortable.
“They’re almost as plush as that ass of yours.” The most chagrining thing is
that Robb said that out loud. To their fortune, no one overhears or doesn’t
care enough to comment. The reassurance of everyone’s apathy does nothing for
Jon’s nerves.
“Robb,” Jon hisses. “Your siblings are here.”
“So? I gave Bran the sex talk and I’ve seen Sansa’s underwear. She has red
panties. There’s no way she’s a virgin.”
“Robb, stop it.”
Robb grins. He blows against his ear. “Let’s have some fun. No one is paying
attention, and we’ll be discreet.”
“You don’t know what discreet means.”
Robb chuckles and starts sucking onto Jon’s neck, licking and lapping onto his
skin like a dog. Jon bites his lips to fight back a moan. He can feel the
hickey rising.
“Come on; it’ll be fun. Doesn’t it excite you, knowing we can get caught at any
second? That my parents can waltz in and see my cock inside you?”
“Robb, you are a freak, and I love you but shut up.”
Robb pouts. He looks around and catches the eye of a blanket across the room.
Leaning over, he grabs it and wiggles his eyes in a wicked gesture. “Sit on my
lap; I promise I won’t try anything.”  
Jon scoffs. “Robb, I was born at night, not last night. One does not sit on his
boyfriend’s lap unless he plans on putting out. Unless he is a tease.”
“Well, you may make me laugh but you definitely put out.” Robb quips. His grin
never falters. “Come on,” he urges. “Doesn’t my lap look good?” He pats his
thighs like he’s playing daddy and Jon is his good boy. The thought makes the
Snow shiver. Jon hesitates longer to fake an air of decency before curling up
into Robb’s embrace. His back is pressed against Robb’s chest and Robb spreads
the blanket and Jon’s thighs across his lap.
Despite his initial reluctance, Jon cannot deny his arousal. His cousins may
mind their own business now, but the second they turn around, they will see his
flush expression from Robb’s cock jutting against his ass. He almost yelps when
Robb undoes their belts.
Robb shifts a bit to grab his emergency lube from his pocket and dribbles it on
top of his fingers. Jon chokes when he feels the two fingers pressing into his
entrance.
“Love, you are so hot like this,” Robb praises as he kisses Jon’s bare neck. He
puts in a third finger and starts to move inside him. He quickens his pace a
bit, unsure of whether his parents are coming back. The risk makes their entire
situation more thrilling and desperate. Robb loves how reckless they are
acting. His fingers scissor and split Jon’s insides until Jon has to stuff his
cousin’s fingers into his mouth to cover up his moans. When Robb believes Jon
to be sufficiently stretch, he starts moving in, inch by inch until Jon’s
greedy ass is wrapped around him.
“Robb,” Jon moans through his muffled mouth. The curly hair boy rolls his hips
and rocks backward onto Robb’s cock. The movements are slow and inconspicuous,
but if someone came close, they would be able to hear the little squicks of
their joining. It makes Robb hot to think about, so he keeps buckling forward.
He starts grinding Jon onto his cock. 
When Robb sets a rhythm, Jon tries to slow things down by tightening and
untightening around Robb’s cock. Robb lets out a filthy moan of his own.
“So good when you move like that, getting my dick all nice and wet,” he
whispers into Jon’s ear. “You’re acting like my cockwarmer.” 
Jon whimpers and his voice is so loud; it travels to the other seats. To Jon’s
humiliation, Bran looks up from his phone. They are far enough in that their
baggage hides them but if Bran were to squint, just the slightest, they’d be
incriminated.
“Is everything okay?” He asks.
Jon moans out a response. “Fine, Bran. We’re just…trying to get some rest
before the trip.” He winces when Robb thrusts his hips up a little too hard. He
bites his lip hard.
Robb chuckles, and the sound is like velvet. “That’s the spirit. Show him how
much you enjoy riding my cock.”
"Okay." Bran turns his attention back to his phone.
Robb decides to add the finishing blow. When Jon’s ass makes another gratifying
clench, he pumps harder against Jon’s prostate. If his thrusts weren’t so
shallow, Jon would have been wailing in pleasure. He comes all over their
blanket instead, leaving a stain on the wool. Robb spends a few extra minutes
thrusting into Jon’s willing ass with leisure before spilling his own orgasm
into Jon’s body. When they are finished, both young men decide to stay in their
position. They close their eyes and drift off to a well-deserved nap. As long
as no one moves the blanket, no one will be any wiser.
Except Sansa, who watch the scene from the corner of her eye and had to bite
her hand to keep herself from masturbating. She told herself that it was
improper for a young woman to touch herself to the lovemaking of relatives. No
matter how delicious Jon looked when his cheeks were flushed, and his mouth
gaped with pleasure. The hardest part of the whole ordeal was that she wasn’t
able to retreat to the bathroom for phone sex with Sandor. If her parents
weren’t back now, they would probably continue until the trip ended.
The sexual frustration is unbearable.  
Her only distraction came when Rickon, after another failed attempt to grab
Bran’s phone, ask her where Theon is.
Sansa sighs. She can’t tell Rickon the truth—that Theon couldn’t stand the
sight of Robb and Jon in pre-marital bliss, so he bailed on their entire
family. The answer will only depress him in the same way it made her angry.
Instead, she tells him that Theon has other engagements.
Rickon raises an eyebrow. “Like what kind of engagements?”
“The kind that…” Sansa winces. “…involves meeting new people.” She becomes more
compose as she explains that: “Since all his friends are Robb’s friends and
he’s not talking to Robb at the moment, he’s putting himself out there more.”
“Don’t you mean he’s putting out more?”
“Rickon!” Sansa shouts, aghast. 
Rickon shrugs. “It’s true. We all know he’s not going back home. He hates his
family. So he’s probably freeloading off some sucker through his sucking. It’s
okay. Mum once said: there’s nothing wrong with using what the gods gave you to
get ahead.” Rickon pauses. “Or give head in Theon’s case.”
Sansa feels horror clutching onto her heart. “Rickon!”
“I was able to skip my math lessons to read books about cannibalism because my
teacher likes curly hair boys. She even lets me use her computer if I sit on
her lap. I get to watch cartoons for six hours.”
“Rickon, you are too young to know what that word means!”
“Sansa,” he shakes her head as if she is the naïve one. “Every school has a
pedophile. It’s nothing special. Besides, I don’t let her touch me. The only
person who will play with my privates is Shireen Baratheon.”
“Huh?” Sansa is more confused than she’s ever been in her entire life. Then,
she is horrified. She gasps. "No! No privates! No touching! No! I won't allow
it!" Why are all of her brothers' innocences slipping out of her fingers? 
Rickon’s eyes become misty and far off. “It’ll be a beautiful day, ten years
from now. I’ll be twenty…something. She’ll be twenty…something. The age
difference won’t matter when you’re that old, look at mum and dad. She will
never see our love coming. It’ll be a regular day for her, baking a cake,
thinking she’s protected in her home. Then, I’m going to break into her house.”
“No.”
“We have wildling blood, Sansa. You can’t deny this. So I’ll grab her by her
beautiful face and kiss her—that means we’re engaged.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“That’s what the stories say, Sansa.” Rickon rolls his eyes. “If you kiss
someone, you are engaged. I don’t make the rules.”
“Please stop.”
“We’ll get married underneath a tree—like the old days. I’ll murder our enemies
and present a coat made with their flesh.”
“You are eleven. You don’t have enemies!”
“I will get enemies!”
Sansa drops her face into her hands. “Where did you learn these things?”
Rickon shrugs. "I read, duh." 
"I meant the sex things." 
As if on cue, Catelyn and Ned Stark return from their sex-a-thon drench in
sweat and other bodily fluids. Catelyn lights up a well-deserved cigarette and
sighs with pleasure. She looks like sex, Sansa thinks horrifically. Her parents
look like sex. Rickon sends Sansa a pointed look. She snaps her mouth shut,
lamenting her family’s sex drive. When she regains her poise, she makes it
clear to Rickon that she will no longer like to learn of his planned exploits.
“The bottom line is, Theon is fine,” she tells him, hoping that the original
subject of his questionnaire will cleanse the sins of their conversation.  “He
has contacted Robb and explained his feelings in a calm and collected manner.
He just needs time to recuperate from the blow.”
Rickon purses his lips in apparent suspicion. Then, he giggles.
Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because.” Rickon shakes his head. “That's a really adult thing to do."
“I know,” Sansa agrees.
“You don’t get it?” Rickon looks like he feels sorry for her. First, he thinks
she's foolish; now he's pitying her. “There’s no way Theon Greyjoy, the guy who
is singlehandedly responsible for the destruction of twelve relationships,
whose pined after our brother for years instead of telling him, who abandoned
Bran and me in a farmhouse just to have alone time with Robb, made a
reasonable decision by himself.”
As soon as realization hits Sansa’s face, it is replaced by exasperation and
exhaustion.
***
Hours before the train ride, Theon and Ramsay were in bed trying to fit as many
vibrating eggs into Theon’s asshole as they could before he passed out. At
four, Theon’s eyes were rolling to the back of his head. He was q shaking,
drooling mess who wanted to get off so badly, he was humping the mattress like
a dog. Gods, Ramsay fucking loved him.
It.
He fucking loved it.
A surge of anger followed Ramsay's mental slip-up and like always, he wrongly
directed it at Theon. The older man shoved another egg up his playmate’s ass.
Theon wailed. He came a third time since they started their little experiment.
“Fuck, it’s like your hole is starving for more eggs,” Ramsay whispered, almost
reverent of the sight. Theon’s ass continued to milk the objects like they were
cocks. Theon panted and jerked like a fish out of water.
“There are so many things I can fit into your loose cunt,” Ramsay told him. He
slapped Theon’s ass. The roughness made the eggs go in deeper. They rammed
against Theon’s prostate, electrifying his entire body.
Ramsay pulled down his pants and whacked himself to full hardness. He grabbed
the strings connecting to the eggs and yanked them all out at once. Theon
screamed so loud, his voice could be heard from the ground level. Ramsay took a
deep breath. He stared at Theon’s gaping hole. It tried to return to normal but
no matter how hard Theon clenched, it never closed completely. Ramsay could see
his insides, and it looked as good as a creamy cunt. Pride built up his chest.
He managed to fuck Theon’s ass open.
Just as he was about to shove his cock in, the doorbell rang. He ignored it,
the head of his cock was pressed against Theon’s hole when it rang again. “Fuck
off!” He yelled outside the door. He slipped inside with ease. Even though it
was just the beginning, Theon’s pussy felt like Jello. Ramsay moaned. Theon was
ruined. He was literally ruined for other men. Loose was nice but no man would
ever want a cunt this used.
“This is the police,” He heard his guests say after ringing the doorbell a
third time. “We heard a scream. If you don’t open this door, we will break it
down.”
"Those fucking cunts," Ramsay swore. He retracted his cock, ignoring the
delicious whimper that came from Theon’s lips.
“Ramsay, please…I’m so empty.”
Didn’t he fucking know it? He was about to grab the eggs from the floor when
the police issued their final warning. Ramsay growled monstrously. He grabbed
the back of Theon’s head and kissed him before throwing him back on the bed.
“When I come back, I am going to breed your ass so hard, you’ll end up with
twins,” he promised.
Theon’s whimper was his response.
Satisfied with his slut, Ramsay rushed out of his bedroom. He tucked his cock
back in and grabbed a t-shirt off his floor to appear presentable. “I’m
coming!” he shouted. He opened the door and revealed two cops. They introduced
themselves as Detective Benjen Stark and Yoren, just Yoren. The name Stark made
him narrow his eyes. He widened his door to let them in, familiar with the
process.
“We heard screaming.”
“That was Theon,” Ramsay told them. He was not a beat out of place. “We were
having some fun.”
"Theon is your boyfriend?" 
"He's my cumdump," Ramsay sneered. The men twitched at the description. 
When Theon heard his name, he crawled out of bed to see what was going on. He
stopped himself from entering when he saw Benjen Stark sitting across the table
from Ramsay. He shrunk back into the shadows, trying not to get caught.
“Can we talk to him?”
“Sure,” Ramsay agreed. “But he’s sleeping right now. Can we do it after, when
he’s gotten more rest? You can ask me the questions you came here for.”
“What makes you think we have questions for you?”
“Why else would you come here?”
“We told you. We heard screaming.”
Ramsay smirked. “My neighbors know better than to call you. I’m sure of that. I
have quite a reputation for making my partners scream.”
“Oh?” Benjen raised an eyebrow. “Care to list their names?”
Ramsay chuckled. “I would if I could remember them. You’d be amazed by a number
of sluts in the city. You show them a big dick and they’re clawing at me,
trying to get a free ride. Once I get my rocks off, they’re gone. I don’t keep
bitches once I’m done getting my dick wet.”
“Classy,” Benjen noted dryly. “So, we heard you moved here several months ago?”
“Yeah, I just graduated last fall. Spent some the time in London before my
father decided it was time I learned the family business,” Ramsay grinned.
“You’ve heard of him, right? I mean, you are a Stark. You have to know about
Roose Bolton.”
“He went to school with my oldest brother,” Benjen admitted. “Never met him
personally.”
“Lucky you.”
Yoren watched the two interact before moving on with the questioning. “Ramsay,
are you aware that your arrival fits in with the time frame of the recent
killings?”
A severe expression overcame Ramsay’s face. “Of course I do. Considering I was
responsible for one of them,” Ramsay admitted.
“What?”
The two cops were shocked by the blatant confession. With mouths gaped and eyes
full, they stuttered to come up with a response. Benjen, the warrior of the
two, reached for his weapon. Ramsay did his best not to laugh.
“Oh, please don’t take it wrong the way! I meant …it’s my fault one of the
girls got killed,” Ramsay clarified, though it only added to their confusion.
“I knew one of the victims. She was a sex friend of mine,” he explained,
emphasizing the sex part. “But she wanted to be my girlfriend. From the start,
I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in that romance crap but she didn’t
get the message. We got into a fight. Clawed at me, punched me, I had to fend
her off.”
“Which would explain why your DNA would be on her fingers,” Yoren remarked, a
sense of foreboding coming upon him. Their hypothesis was correct. Myranda's
death was not planned.
Ramsay pretended to be surprised by his analysis. “Which is why my DNA and the
killer’s would be under her fingers. I could never hurt her,” he lied. “But we
were near the area. At a bar, in fact. Dozens of people saw us get into a
fight. She left the bar alone—made her an easy target. I stayed and hung out
with my friends.”
“How fortunate,” Benjen noted. “To have witnesses for the one victim that could
be linked to you.”
Ramsay shrugged. “That’s not a crime.”
Benjen did not give up. “Do you mind telling us where you were for the other
murders?”
“I’m only human,” Ramsay told him, pretending to be surprised by his request.
“The, what do you call him, the Bloodhound Killer has been attacking women for
months. I can’t remember where I was every single day of my life.” Ramsay
smirked at him. “But if you can provide me the dates, I can get my cell phone.
My calendar has all my events listed. I’m a bit neurotic, you see.”
Benjen narrowed his eyes. The reports were right. Ramsay was not stupid. It
would have been too suspicious to be able to recall all his alibis offhand. By
claiming he had a planner, he was able to provide an excuse without making it
looked like he prepared for their arrival. He pulled out his cell phone.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Yoren and Benjen shared a look. Yoren grabbed his own phone to start recanting
the known murders’ within the last six months.
“January 11th.”
“Birthday party, mine. We lit up an entire club for hours.” Yoren and Benjen
glanced at each other. A party was a solid alibi but busy enough to sneak out
of. Of course, a serial killer would choose their birthday to start their
streak. The bastard was getting lucky in more ways that one. 
“January 16th.”
“Had dinner over at my father’s place and stayed over. Trust me, that man
couldn’t sleep through a feather dropping.” 
Roose was a man who valued reputation. He cleaned up his son's mess last time
and he would do it again. There was no breaking him.
“February 14th.” That was a complete massacred. Four girls slaughtered like
cows.
“Me and I friends were hooking up all night. You know.” Ramsay grinned. “The
rejects who couldn’t get a date and have self-esteem so low, they’d fit you and
your friend in as long as you told them they were pretty.”
“No, I don’t know,” Benjen told him.
Yoren saw him clench his fist. He continued the questioning.  
“March 5th.”
“Out at a pub. My friends and I were celebrating a deal I made. We took a cab
home. The bartender called for us and even watched us get in. I can give you
the location afterward.”
“March 17th.”
“Another pub. Same one as before. One of my friends got a drink thrown in his
face and the other got into a fight. Everyone in the bar would have remembered
us.”
 “April 12th.”
“Myranda and I were trying out something new. The neighbors heard us.”
Benjen glanced over at Yoren. They were fighting a losing battle.
“April 20th.”
“At home. Alone.”
Benjen glared.
Ramsay grinned. “What? You don’t think I was busy every night? Who does that
unless they were trying to hide something?”
“May 24th.”
“That was the day of the fight with Myranda. You know what happened. What
else?”
Ramsay was prepared to show them out. Then, Yoren said the next date.
“June 1st.”
Ramsay paused. For the first time, the man appeared unsure. He looked down at
his phone and squinted his eyes; it was evident to both of the detectives that
he spotted an anomaly.
“What’s the matter?” Yoren asked, a little too smug for either Benjen’s or
Ramsay’s liking.
“I…” Ramsay paused. He squinted at his phone and noticed something peculiar. “I
was visiting an old friend. From my juvie years.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Ramsay noted. He was curt, the cockiness from his voice disappearing
and replaced with uncertainty. “Are you sure it was June 1st?”
“Yes,” Benjen said, though even he was unsure at this point. “Let’s move on.”
“Move on? There’s more?”
There was more confusion in his voice. If Ramsay was the killer, he was playing
the role of a bewildered citizen quite well. The young man recovered but his
stance was not as confident as before. He seemed…unnerved. 
“Yes, June 11th.”
Theon recognized the date as the day he met Ramsay—and told Robb he loved him,
of course. Theon built up the courage to peek outside and saw Ramsay going
through his calendars.
“I was at a pub,” he answered.
“Alright, what about June…”
“Even if I had no alibi for another date does it mean anything?” Ramsay spat
out. “There’s no way I could be the Bloodhound Killer. I’ve had alibis for most
of those murders.”
The sudden anger made Benjen aware of how close they were to the mine field. He
could hear the ticking radiating from Ramsay’s persona. He was going to blow.
Benjen just needed to keep on pushing.
Unfortunately, Theon could hear the bomb as well. Without thinking, he walked
outside.
“Benjen?” Theon asked, pretending to be surprised by his presence. “What are
you doing here?”
"Theon?" Benjen could feel the bile build up in his throat. Ramsay's Theon was
the Stark's Theon. 
Yoren raised an eyebrow. He’d seen the kid before at the Stark residence. A
friend of the eldest. “You must be the screamer,” he joked, He almost laughed
at Theon’s red face, but held it in due to the severity of the situation. He
got up from his seat and stretched out his hand. “Detective Yoren. This is…”
“He knows who I am.” Benjen got out as well. “Does Robb know you’re here?”
Theon flushed. “He’s leaving for London to see Arya’s performance.” Realizing
what he just said, Theon's shyness was replaced with a snarl. “And I don’t need
his permission to be here. He isn’t my keeper.”
He should be, Benjen thought but didn’t say out loud. Robb would have never let
Theon out his sight if he knew Theon was getting involved with men like Ramsay
Bolton. “You should go home,” he warned. “Not getting your rocks off with him.”
He spat the latter of the sentence out. “We all make mistakes.”
Ramsay glared. He got up from his chair and grabbed Theon to his side. The
manhandled male did not protest. “This is his home,” Ramsay hissed. “He came to
me weeks ago begging for a place to stay. I let him. I don’t even charge him
rent. He pays me the good ol’ fashion way. Like a housewife.”
Benjen was not the only one to notice the way Theon shivered. “How did you two
meet?”
“We met on June 11th,” Theon answered before Ramsay could. Ramsay pinched his
side to discipline him but otherwise, let him talk. He was warning him not to
get out of line but trusted him enough to speak. The faith was nice. “Um, I was
at a pub with Robb but we got into a fight. I met Ramsay and we started…” Going
out? Hanging out? Having sex? “meeting up.”
“So you’re dating?” Yoren clarified.
Theon wanted to say it was complicated. Ramsay agreed with the sentiment.
“This pretty little slut couldn’t get enough of my cock,” Ramsay told them. He
squeezed Theon’s ass, earning a mew from the younger boy. Both Benjen and Yoren
were unnerved by his treatment of the boy, especially Benjen, who had seen him
grow alongside his nephew. “I decided to take pity on him when he begged to
move in with me.” Ramsay grinned, though it was shakier than the ones before.
“We’ve been fucking ever since.”
Yoren raised an eyebrow. “You expect us to believe you moved in with a guy
you’ve been fucking for two weeks?”
Theon was insulted at that question. Yoren was a bit taken back by the fire of
his answer. “I’m sorry, should that honor be reserved for Stark heirs and their
stupid cousins?”
“Not this again,” Benjen muttered.
Ramsay and Yoren shared something in common that day. They were both incredibly
confused. Yoren turned to Benjen with a question mark on his face.
Benjen sighed. “My nephews,” he said as if the answer cleared everything up
instead of bringing more questions.
“Your nephew moved in with his boyfriend after two weeks?” Yoren asked.
“Nephews,” Theon hissed. “Plural.”
"More than one of your nephews moved in with a total stranger after two weeks?”
“In all fairness, it was to each other.”
“Wait, what?” Ramsay popped in. “Your nephews dated each other?”
“They didn’t realize they were cousins at the time,” Theon muttered.
“Wait--!” Yoren stood up. “Are you talking about Jon? Jon and Robb? They grew
up together!”
“How the fuck does someone not know they are cousins after growing up with each
other?” Ramsay asked. “My father recognized I was his son as soon we met.”
“Because my nephews aren’t that bright!” Benjen shouted. His announcement
silenced the room. He massaged his forehead and sighed.
Ramsay turned to Theon. “You fell for a guy like that?”
Theon blushed. “He is very sweet.”
“So is sugar but if it had a dick I wouldn’t suck it.”
"You wouldn't?" Yoren asked. "That's the type of dick you should suck." 
Benjen adjourned the meeting then and there. He told Ramsay that they would be
in contact in an attempt to salvage the severity of the situation. It was not
enough, but he was sure Ramsay would get the message. Or at least strengthen
his defenses. If he did so, it would be more of an indication of his guilt.
Benjen dragged Yoren out of there before they could switch topics.
When the detectives got on the road, they drove in silence. Finally, Yoren took
the plunge. .
"So...were you molested by your uncle or something? Is that the reason Starks
never turn out okay?"
Chapter End Notes
     1. Another long chapter. I am really determined to finish this within
     69 chapters. This was not supposed to be so long but I hope it was
     good.
     2. The Olenna/Willas scene was supposed to be a paragraph or two and
     ended up being two thousand words. In fact, everything about this
     chapter was made longer than it really was. Theon and Ramsay weren't
     even supposed to get sexy times but they did.
     3. In the early chapters, I used to get requests for a Jon topping
     Robb. I need to know if this is still a thing. Like do you guys want
     that? Yay or nay? I can make it happen upon popular request.
     4. Next chapter: London. That's all I can say.
***** Chapter 49 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning: Not a trigger warning but a “I rewrote the timeline so that
     the Starks were going to watch the Saturday show, not the Friday show
     because traveling makes me sleepy and I didn’t want to tucker them
     out.” I simultaneously put way too much and way too little thought
     into this.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The Starks book three rooms for the entire weekend: two suites, one for Catelyn
and Ned, another for Sansa, Rickon, and Bran, and a studio for Robb and Jon to
share. Ned prefers to have Robb and Jon take the extra room in their suite but
his eldest child insist on privacy with his lover.
"The expense is extravagant for a weekend getaway," Ned notes. 
“This is the first time we’ve been alone since the summer began.” Robb tells
him. They are waiting for their keys. “I intend to make the most of it.
Besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have a whole suite to yourself? You’ll have the
freedom to do whatever you want to mother.”   
“Your presence wouldn’t have stopped us from having sex,” Ned informs, a bit
perplexed by the suggestion. “I assumed it wouldn’t matter with Jon’s screams
drowning out your mother’s voice.”
“You’d been okay with that?”
“Yes.”
Robb is overcome with relief. “I knew it wasn’t a strange suggestion! Jon was
adamant about getting a separate room. He kept saying that it was bizarre to
have sex while you two could listen in. I tried to tell him you'd be busy with
your own activities but he wouldn't listen.”
“Your mother said something like that as well.” Ned finds it preposterous to
assume that Jon and Robb wouldn’t be having sex just because they shared a
suite. At most, the gags would be brought out. He even packed a ball just in
case.
“I suppose we should humor them." 
“We should,” Ned agrees. He pats his son on the back. “Good thinking. Keep this
up, and you’ll make a fine husband.”
Robb beams. “Funny you should say that. I wanted to talk to you about pro—”
“We got the key!” Jon runs up to Robb and grabs his wrist. He whispers
something into Robb’s ear, and it makes the student break out into a wide grin.
“Really?”
Jon bites his lip and nods. “As long as it isn’t bigger than a wine bottle.”
Jon regrets saying so immediately. Robb interprets limits as permissions and
normally, it's Jon's sore body the next morning that has to pay the cost for
the lack of clarification. Without another word, Robb drags his cousin from the
rest of the family. They are halfway through the elevator before the rest of
the keys are distributed. Catelyn shakes her head in exasperation.
“We should call Arya. Her opening show should be over by now.”
“I already texted her,” Sansa tells her mother. “She hasn’t responded, yet. But
it's her opening night so I assume she's dead tired. We should just let her
rest. We'll see her tomorrow, anyways.”
Catelyn sighs. “I suppose so. I just miss her so much. Help me put the children
to sleep?”
“I’m not a child,” Bran grumbles. Catelyn is taken back by his attitude. When
he realizes his slip up, Bran sends her a shy smile. “Sorry, I’m a bit tired
myself.” He rushes to the elevator to avoid her questioning.
Sansa sends her a sheepish look. “I’ll take care of it,” she promises. They get
to their rooms; when they enter, the boys want nothing more than a good night’s
sleep. Sansa makes sure Rickon brushes his teeth and helps Bran into his
pajamas.
Bran is less than pleased about the latter.
“I can take off my clothes, Sansa. I don't need help.”
“Apparently not,” Sansa mutters.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Sansa cheerily answers. “But you must be tired. Please, I insist.”
Bran’s protests fail to dent in Sansa’s determination. She practically rips his
shirt off his back. When his torso is revealed, Sansa scans his chest for
marks. She prods and pokes, even flicks a nipple or two to check his
sensitivity.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking your body for numbness. Are you having trouble feeling?”
“Yes, I think something might be off about my legs.”
Sansa pouts. Bran gets so testy when he’s tired. After checking the entirety of
his top half, Sansa is no less suspicious than when she started. She sees no
hickies and assumes they must be hiding in a more obscure location. The notion
that they don’t exist never occurs to her. When Bran is about to remove his
pants, he asks Sansa to leave. She doesn't. "I insist." "Which you can't do
because I refuse." "Don't be stubborn, just let me take them off you. Close
your eyes; you might even enjoy it." "Sansa, get out!" Sansa continues to
'help' him without provocation. The results are not pretty. Her hands are
pulling down his trousers while he screams.
“Seriously Sansa, let go!”
Sansa is a lady; even when she is stripping her little brother of his
sweatpants. “Don’t be like that, Bran. Just lay back and let me take care of
you,” Sansa soothes over the protests. “Just pretend I’m Jojen.”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
Sansa goes through with her inspection. There’s nothing amidst and it gets
Sansa angrier because she concludes Jojen refrained from leaving marks. That
bastard! He knew Sansa would try and incriminate him. He is probably biding his
time to wrong her brother. Sansa tosses Bran's pants on the side. She shoves
his pajamas into his hands so he can dress himself. Bran hastily puts them on.
“What is wrong with you?”
Sansa tilts her head in confusion. “Sweet brother, what are you talking about?”
“T-hat! This! Wh-what you just did!” Bran sputters out.
Sansa sighs lovingly. “Oh, you’re so cute Bran. I told you: I was inspecting
your body for injuries. It’s been a while since you’ve traveled so far away
from home. I want to make sure everything was okay. There are so many things
that can happen from the train station to the hotel. You could have gotten a
bruise when we lifted you into the cab, a cut from a stranger’s sharpened nail,
Jojen could have dicked you, ringworm, an assault from downtrodden robber…”
“What—?”
“Point is, I was concerned,” Sansa interrupts him. “And with Robb distracted by
Jon, I’m the second oldest so I have to be responsible for all of you. So just
let me take care of you. Like I’ll take care of Jojen.” Bran is speechless
because he swears he heard her say his name. He never has a chance to question
her because Sansa swoops in like a harpy eagle about to pluck a monkey off the
earth. Her lips kiss Bran goodnight, cementing the end of her gaslighting.
When Sansa goes into the living room, she is met with incessant knocking. She
opens the door to her suite and her mother barges in. She scolds her for being
idle before thanking her for being a good sister. Treats and the water bottle
all at once.
"I assume the boys are asleep." 
"Yes," Sansa tells her. 
"Good. We need to have a talk." 
They head to the fridge together. As requested, the hotel has provided them
with a variety of puddings, from strawberry shortcakes to crème caramel, and a
fresh pitcher of milk and wine. Sansa sets two plates. She receives a lemon
cake while Catelyn takes out a piece of Mont Blanc. Together, they feast.
“Do you think Arya has come back to her hotel yet?”
Sansa shrugs. “She hasn’t texted me back so she’s probably busy.”
“She could be ignoring you.”
Sansa disagrees. “Arya’s not that self-centered. If she knew we were here, she
would have checked to see if we were alive—all while pretending she doesn’t
care.”
Catelyn giggles. “You’re right. That sounds like her.” She sighs, “Oh, I just
wish we could have stayed at her hotel.”
“Was it all booked?”
Catelyn chuckles. “Worse; Tywin Lannister was staying there, and you know how
your father feels about him.”
“Of course, I wrote a report on it.” Sansa tries to remember the exact wording
of the Stark's statement. “‘…Tywin Lannister has left a social and moral vacuum
in which the rich can reign over the poor and capitalized on the hungry...he
has dismantled the infrastructures that aim to close the gap between classes,
from his cuts on state education...etcetera, etcetera.’”
“Exactly,” Catelyn sighs. “I want us to be civil when we meet him and frankly,
your father does not have the endurance to do so in the same hotel.
“Why is civility so important now?”
“Before,” Catelyn reminds her daughter, “He wasn’t funding Arya’s show, and his
influences stretch beyond finances or politics. He has a stake in the arts,
too. He can open doors for Arya.”  
“I thought you hated her dancing.”
Catelyn admits that she does. “However, hatred of her career can't stop how I
feel about her. I love your sister; she loves dancing. I’ve tried to get her to
quit and that just pushes her away from me. I can’t afford to lose her again.”
She smiles sadly. “The only thing left now is to support her.”
“Like you’re supporting Robb and Jon?” Sansa teases, hoping to brighten the
mood.
Catelyn laughs. “All my children are stubborn bastards who hate me.” Her mother
shakes her head and bemoans her bad luck. Sansa smiles at her but there is no
meanness. “Before I know it, Bran will have fallen into the arms of some
hoodlum.”
Her daughter stops laughing.
Catelyn does not notice the end of her humor. Before she does, Sansa returns to
the topic of her father and Tywin Lannister. “Do you think father can maintain
his good graces tomorrow? I heard Tywin’s taken a liking to Arya; there are
several pictures of them together at charity events and at her practices. I
didn’t want to bring it up but…” Sansa hesitates but her mother’s calm
motivates her to continue. “Father won’t like that, and he certainly doesn’t
like to play games.”
Sansa’s mother does not seem surprised. She takes a bite of her cake and
uncorks the wine. “Did I ever tell you how your father got to be CEO of Stark
Industries?”
Sansa stares at her curiously. “I thought Uncle Brandon went to prison.”
“Uncle Brandon did go to prison,” Catelyn admits with tense cheer and a
nostalgia that is inclined towards bitterness. “But that only removed him as
the successor; it didn’t make him ineligible. Your grandfather didn’t name your
father as his heir because he wanted Ned to prove himself.” Catelyn stabs her
cake. Sansa scoots her chair further away. “He was worried he’d make the same
mistake with him as he did with Brandon.” As she almost did with Brandon as
well. “As soon as your father was finished with his tour, Rickard put Ned at
the bottom of his company and forced him to work to the top. He would have
never made his precious Brandon do that. Or gods forbid, Lyanna, that whore—”
“Mother,” Sansa warns. "The story?" 
“Of course, after climbing to the top, your grandfather fell ill. Instead of
using the last of his strength to give your father what he deserved, he wasted
it on sentimentality. I mean, it can't be that hard to change a will while
saying 'I love you'—”
“Mother, please.”
Catelyn coughs. “The disease took him before a CEO was chosen. So the family
was left with the dilemma on who was to inherit.”
“Even though father did all that hard work?”
“Yes,” Catelyn agrees, and her shark-tooth smile reappears. “It was up to the
board to decide who would be elected as CEO. As majority shareholders, the
Starks can cast one vote as a whole. Ned and Brandon stayed silent for obvious
reasons. Lyanna remain neutral, that bitch—”
“Mother.”
“But Benjen casted his vote for Ned, and that’s why he’s the only one of your
father’s siblings that was allowed to watch you when you were children.” Which
is saying something, considering he slept with her sister’s husband.
“Please get on with the story.”
Catelyn does. “Now, Ned was the obvious candidate. He was dependable,
hardworking and trustworthy; he kept a steady ship. He studied the material
like a madman, got his degree, and had a stable business plan for the company.”
“Then what was the problem?”
Catelyn sighs lovingly.
“He was so boring.” 
Sansa raises an eyebrow.
“Your father was a proponent for tradition. He was good at keeping the line
straight but the shareholders wanted to see it climb. They wanted to take the
company in a new direction. Brandon was a volatile fool who could have easily
burnt the company to the ground but he was innovative; he liked change and he
was not a complete idiot on security matters either.” Catelyn clenches her jaw.
“Furthermore, people liked him.”
Sansa raises an eyebrow. “And they didn’t like father?”
Catelyn rolls her eyes at the irritable members of the board who still tremble
in fear whenever she attends the board meetings at Stark Industries. “Your
father couldn’t get clients like Brandon could. They trusted him but trust is
built over time, and when you have 48 hours to convince a multi-million-dollar
corporation to invest in you, time was not of the essence.”
“So what happened?”
“I did.” She grins. “I convinced Ned’s employees to rally in his honor. There’s
a saying you should take to heart: never judge a man by how he treats his
superiors but how he treats his inferiors. Ned was loved by his employees—from
the custodians to the accountants. We dug up information on all the board
members and had our prettiest boys and girls bend over the desk for a few of
them. They did if for your father. Some of them were able to channel that love
into doing anal. Especially your uncle; he had half the board eating him out.”
“You mean eating out of the palm of his hand.”
“That, too.”
Sansa takes a moment to process the information. “You blackmailed and
prostituted people to get father a promotion.”
“The things we do for love.” Catelyn finished off her wine. “Remember, Sansa.
It’s okay to bend the rules to get what you want. There’s no shame in a smile,
even if it’s towards the scourge of the earth. All that matters tomorrow is
supporting your sister on the job of her dreams.”  
Sansa nods. Though the game of masquerade has rarely brought Sansa discomfort,
the eldest Stark girl has never felt more proud of her deception. Like her
mother before her, she, too, will help her family in any way she can.  
***
“What took you so long?”
When Catelyn returns to her husband, the man is stripped down to his boxers,
and his idle hands are twitching for the chance to undress someone else.
Catelyn asks him to help remove her dress, and she laughs when he almost
stumbles over to do so, kissing her neck down to the small of her back.  
“I was talking to Sansa,” Catelyn answers. She smiles when he starts to massage
her tummy. He pulls her gently into his lap and returns his attention to her
neck. “I have to confess; we truly lucked out with her. Out of all the
children, she's the one I worry about the least”
“Really?” Ned pauses. “Well, if you say so.” He continues kissing her until
Catelyn turns her head. Figuring she wants frontal action, he launches an
attack on her lips. She pulls back.
“What do you mean? Who do you trust the most?”
“To take care of themselves? Arya,” Ned replies without hesitation. “She’s
proven she doesn’t need our help to survive. We can also count on her to give
the kids a piece of reality if they need it and she’s career driven.”
“Huh.” Catelyn has a list of objections, but his argument makes sense. “Either
way, we agree it's the girls we don't have to worry about. I don’t know what to
do with our boys. Robb is the most stable he’s been in a long time, and he’s
dating his cousin.”
Ned could live with incest if he had the stability, to be honest. “Who do you
worry about the most?” He asks curiously.
“Bran, for obvious reasons.” Catelyn is determined to keep that boy nesting
until his wings lose the will to fly. “Things are going to be harder for him
than for anyone else.” Catelyn sounds so sure Ned almost feels bad for
disagreeing.
“Bran has a good head on his shoulders.” He says neutrally. “It’s Jon I’m
worried about.” 
“Jon?”
Ned nods. “Sometimes, that boy reminds me too much of my sister." 
***
Room service leaves behind a cart for Robb’s pleasure. The heir had ordered
several different delicacies that have gone cold and two bottles of champagne
that rest in lukewarm water. Jon is panting after their first round. Robb wants
to pop the bottle, but Jon insists on getting another bucket of ice and a
break.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises. He glances over to the champagne bottle. He
takes one and hands it over to his boyfriend. “Then we can finish that up and
try something new.”
Robb groans as the images fill his mind. “Come back soon,” he begs.
Adorned in a black robe, Jon heads out to the ice machine located in a hole in
the wall. A few moments later, he feels a hand wander to his ass. After a
healthy squeeze, he closes his eyes and moans. “Robb, couldn’t you have
waited?”
“I’m afraid you’re too pretty to resist,” says a much deeper voice that is
familiar but not welcomed. Jon’s eyes snap open. He drops his bucket and turns
around.
“What the hell, Rhaegar?” Jon tries to push him off, but the man traps him
against the wall. “Get the fuck off me!”
“Don’t use that language with me, Jon. I’m still your father.”
Jon struggles to get away. Rhaegar laughs off his violent attempts to break
free; swatting away his hisses and scratches like a show of roughhousing
between father and son.
“You’re so cute, Jon. I can see why your lover can’t get enough of you.”
Rhaegar parts Jon’s robe to reveal the garden of love bites on his chest. He
licks his lips. “Such a virile young man you’ve snagged. Of course, Starks are
insatiable.” His arms wrap around Jon's waist and he grabs both butt cheeks. “I
bet his cock fits so snuggly inside your quim. Tell me, what has he done to
this heavenly body of yours?”
Jon doesn’t know what he’s more disgusted by; the fact that Rhaegar uses the
word ‘quim’ or the hands groping his ass. Both things need to stop, so Jon
throws a punch at him. Rhaegar slams him against the wall before it makes an
impact.  
Jon glares after a few more futile squirms. “What do you want?”
Rhaegar smiles. He nestles his head against Jon’s neck and inhales. “Oh, you’ve
been sweating. How about you take a nice long shower in my room? I can
introduce you to Aegon. One look at you and he’ll be begging for a taste. How
about it? A brother is only one step away from a cousin.”
The mention of Jon's brother—a young man who Jon may have heard the name of,
makes him shiver. More than ever, he tries his hardest to escape. “Rhaegar, let
me go.”
“Call me daddy,” Rhaegar insists. “And I’ll consider it.”   
“Let. Me. Go.”
Rhaegar sighs. The child is stubborn, like his mother—and like him, he thinks
giddily. Jon is his child, too. Rhaegar starts laughing, ignoring the
frightened expression on his son’s face. He recovers the fallen bucket on the
floor—keeping a firm hand around Jon’s waist to keep him from escaping. From
the collection of ice cubes, he grabs a single one and presses it against Jon’s
mouth.
“Suck,” he orders.
“What?” Jon prays for an intervention or a distraction—something that can give
him the opportunity to make a run for it without having to scream ‘Rhaegar
Targaryen is after my body.’
“I want to see you suck on it like it’s your mother’s breasts. I never got to
see her breast feeding. It’s the hallmark of a father’s beginning.” Rhaegar’s
face resembles a kicked puppy and Jon’s jaw drops. He wonders how it is
possible for a man to look like the victim when he’s acting like a rapist.
“No!” Jon rejects. “Fuck no!”
Rhaegar shakes his head. He hates what he is about to say. “Jon, do this for me
and I’ll leave you alone for the whole night.” The deal vexes Rhaegar—he
shouldn’t have to negotiate to get his son to act like his son. Jon should want
to suck on the ice cube for him. All Rhaegar wants is for them to make up for
the lost time. Jon’s resistance proves that his dreams, those nights of
cuddling together when it gets cold, or feeding him in his lap, are farther
than distant stars in another galaxy. Rhaegar is a decent enough man to
overlook the brainwashing he must have endured from his uncle. If Jon didn’t
have such frigid father figure, he would have been on his knees, enacting all
sorts of fatherly-son bonding activities with him. Ned Stark has made Jon
believe that Rhaegar’s behavior is inappropriate.
Jon contemplates his options. If he stays out long enough, Robb will come out
to find him. He remembers his mother’s story about Brandon’s arrest and decides
that he cannot afford a similar altercation for his uncle or for Robb. With
great reluctance, he reaches out for the ice cube in Rhaegar’s hand.
Rhaegar pulls it away. He waves his finger back and forth. “Ah, ah, ah. I get
to hold it.”
Jon scowls. He widens his mouth and lets Rhaegar push the cube between his
lips. The object chills his lips; it does not move in, and neither does
Rhaegar. He gives Jon pointed look and mouths at him to ‘suck.’ Jon scowls but
does what he is told to do.
Rhaegar moans when he sees Jon’s lips—Lyanna’s perfect plump lips wrap around
his ice cube, and he nearly comes in his pants when Jon starts to suck.
“Wait!”
For a second, Jon is relieved. He assumes Rhaegar sees the absurdity of his
request and has rescinded his offer. To his disgust, Rhaegar takes out his
phone. “I have to record this. It’s not every day a father gets to watch his
son suck on an ice cube.”
“There’s a reason for—!” Jon is unable to finish his complaint before the ice
cube is shoved back into his mouth. 
“Yeah, now suck it. Be a good boy for me.” Rhaegar mutters.
Jon looks up at him through his long lashes, and instead of a death glare,
Rhaegar sees the loving gaze of his former mistress. Rhaegar comes close enough
to push the ice cube further in, and it causes his half-hard cock to press
against Jon’s thigh. The feeling of his father’s erection makes him choke.
“Sorry, did I do that? I’ll be gentler next time,” whispers Rhaegar.
Jon sucks harder to hurry the process along. He swipes his tongue against the
ice cube to add heat. The ice cube melts until it is no more than a frozen
droplet and Rhaegar has to push it all the way in. When everything is
melted inside, Jon swallows as much as he can. Rhaegar retracts his fingers to
wipe away the mess trailing down his chin. He stops recording when Jon is about
to speak.
“Never contact me again,” Jon hisses. His voice is laced with venom and Rhaegar
can’t help but admire how much he looks like a disgruntle kitten.
“I can’t do that,” Rhaegar says with a chime horror attached. The notion of
leaving his child after such a performance almost brought him physical pain.
 “I met you while clouded with insecurities; for the last decade, I was so sure
I had reached my peak, producing songs that touched the ears but not the soul.
When I saw you that day, I knew that Lyanna had given me another muse. A son.”
Rhaegar breathes heavily into his ear. “I’m going to compose an entire symphony
for you. You’re going to feel my love in every way.”
“I felt your love in too many ways.”
Jon uses his forearm to push Rhaegar to the side; this time, his father honors
their deal and departs. He does not, however, hesitate to follow him back to
his room.
“You promised—!”
“I will respect my promise, but I want you to understand that my offer is
valid.” Rhaegar walks forward so that he can intercept Jon’s path. “Your
brother and I have booked a suite just a floor above yours. He doesn’t know
about you but he will. I would rather you two meet under circumstances of
sweetness and not scandal, wouldn’t you?”
Jon tightens his grip. “If he wants to meet me, that’s fine. The only thing I
want is for you to stop following me. I don’t want to get involved with you.” 
“I’m your father; I have a right to get involved with you.” He says the
statement so casually that Jon wonders if he is programmed to be deaf towards
reason. “But, I'm not here to bond,” he lies. “I'm here for Arya.”
Jon stops in his tracks. He grabs Rhaegar by the collar with an extraordinary
amount of strength he did not possess when he was attacked; he shoves Rhaegar
against the wall. “Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”
“You sound like your mother again.” Jon smashes his body against the wall.
Rhaegar keeps laughing. His head is pulsing. He mutters something about being
glad that Jon is so healthy and it makes Jon realize that the man is not taking
him seriously in the slightest. 
Rhaegar explains, “Aegon saw the show tonight and became rather smitten with
the female lead. Imagine my surprise when we found out she was a Stark. Of
course, that was a lie. I wasn’t surprised; I did take him to the show with the
intention of him finding Arya attractive. She looks so very much like Lyanna.
Like father, like son. I might have tried to have her for myself if we hadn’t
met. After all, who wants an imitation when he can get the real deal and their
lovechild?”
“You’re sick.” Jon walks away. He doesn’t want a tantrum to alert the guests.
Having Robb and Uncle Ned come out is one rescue he cannot afford. “Sorry to
say, but Arya isn’t stupid.” Not after Jon tells her what Rhaegar is planning. 
Rhaegar hums and the tune is the beginning of a future classic. Jon truly
brings out the best in him. “Be that as it may, I’ve heard from my sources that
she is ambitious, and judging from her dalliances with the Lannisters, she
might be open to negotiation. What’s the harm in proposing a publicity stunt to
further her career? You might not know this about your brother, but Aegon is a
rising star in the theater world. Theatre and ballet. A perfect match. She
might even grow to like him.”
“You're an asshole and Arya will eat him alive.”
Rhaegar laughs again. He grabs Jon’s ass for one final squeeze. Jon curses at
him but keeps his tone low to avoid a scene. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll
have to give you a spanking.” He lets go of Jon and walks away with a parting
message. “Next time you're naughty, expect to be bent over." 
Jon grabs a handful of ice cubes and throws it at his father. Surprise by the
attack, he turns around. Jon looks him straight in the eyes and says: "There's
only one man who can bend me over and it isn't you." 
***
When Jon comes back to their room, Robb jumps him in excitement. “You took so
long; I thought someone kidnapped you.” Before Jon can provide an excuse, his
boyfriend dragged him and a lubed-up wine bottle to the floor. They drop onto a
pile of sheets on top of a carpet.
Jon remains silent, and when Robb looks at him, he sees an expression of
bereavement. Robb cradles his face. “What happened?”
Jon stares back at his boyfriend. The man is covered with concern and Jon is
reminded of how grateful he is that his lover is not a psychopath. The young
man deserves a reward for letting him go when Jon wanted him to. There are so
many assholes in the world who deserve to have their asses kicked, and Jon is
lucky enough to receive the love of a man who can murder those assholes and
cover up the crime.  
Jon takes off his shirt. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises. “After I let you
do those dirty things to me.”
Jon is going to reward this gorgeous man. After dealing with Rhaegar, he's
never found Robb sexier. Here is someone who loves him; who let him go because
it was the right thing to do. He'll tell Robb the truth after they are
finished; his problems will only spoil the mood. If he confesses after several
rounds of love making, both will be too tired to move. That way, by the time
Robb’s dick recovers, he’ll have cooled down some.
Robb considers pushing him for answers; he doesn’t want to go to bed while Jon
is in turmoil. Yet, Jon refuses to let him be a good man. He flicks his tongue
against Robb's cock. Robb moans at the cool sensation. Jon must have sucked on
some ice. Robb should consider doing more things with those ice cubes for one
of those rounds. Jon is accommodating tonight and Robb doesn’t want to miss out
on a chance to bring out the ball gags.
***
In the suite above them, Rhaegar lies down on his king size bed and watches the
show on his laptop. Days after his confrontation with Lyanna, he made a habit
of tracking down their son’s every move. He was ecstatic to learn that the
Starks would be traveling to see their youngest daughter’s performance. After
they checked in, he paid room service to attach a camera to their cart.
The results are phenomenal. Rhaegar has never seen anyone get plowed so
beautifully. Jon was born to be on his back. He wonders if the Starks knew what
they were doing when they installed their harsh upbringing on a child whose
mother embodies sex. Jon resembles a high-ranking courtesan with how wide his
legs are spread and how eager his hole is to take cock.
The sight is almost orgasmic. Almost. While Rhaegar clearly enjoys watching his
son get fucked by his cousin—they are both highly attractive young men, after
all—it is nowhere as good as it would be watching Jon get used by
someone…closer to home.
People never fail to mention the resemblance between Rhaegar and Aegon. If his
eldest capture the attention of his youngest, the sex would be fantastic. Two
mirror images indulging in each other's bodies, screwing in the sheets and
putting on a little show for their daddy. 
As a father, it is his greatest wish to seek the best mate for his children. If
Aegon switches his attentions from Ned Stark’s daughter to Jon, Rhaegar will be
killing two birds with one stone. 
His boys have a type after all.
Chapter End Notes
     I did not want to say anything because I didn’t want my opinion to
     sway the vote but I’m really happy most people didn’t want Jon
     topping. :) I would have written it if the majority wanted me to, but
     my heart wouldn't have been in it. In my dreams, Jon's bottom
     bounces.
     And of course, I love writing creepy!Rhaegar. I haven’t decided if I
     wanted the oneshot to be dark-disturbing-creepy or black-comedy-
     creepy. But I will figure it out during my hiatus. Yes, my hiatus.
     Onto the next point:
     HIATUS ALERT
     I’ll be gone from May 14th until June 11th. Well, I’ll be gone from
     May 14th to May 27th but I’m taking an extra two weeks to plan and
     write the chapters. I’ll put out a schedule next week!
***** Chapter 50 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The large crowd at the theater gives Catelyn a brief estimate of the turnout
for opening night. Needless to say, she is impressed. She's heard from various
sources that the sponsors limited invitations, guaranteeing the most exclusive
guests while also opening the door for the guests desperate enough to pay
whatever amount to be considered a part of the "exclusive" club. The ending
result is that most of the people here came for the socialization, not the
show. The outcome will benefit Arya regardless; no one will out themselves as
uncultured swine eager for a way in rather than being the door. They will run
with the crowd. Specifically, the connoisseurs of dance whom Catelyn knows will
vouch for her daughter’s talent.
Before they enter the waiting auditorium, Catelyn encourages her children to
mingle with the other guests. “Your father and I will chat up with old
acquaintances.” From afar, she recognizes a few faces, and some of them are
even friendly.
They agree, but as soon as they walk into the room, the children are swept into
the crowd and washed to their designated shores. Sansa finds herself alone,
Bran and Rickon are settled next to the bar where they have instant access to
juice and fruit, and Robb and Jon find themselves in a discreet corner perfect
for avoiding decency. They are on each other in seconds.
The dynamic doesn’t change when the Tyrells arrive. Margaery makes an entrance,
sending coy smiles and sideway glances to anyone foolish enough to throw their
fancy. The heiress heads straight to her old friend, Sansa. The two girls
reunite with hugs and kisses, presenting a feast for the eyes as bachelors and
boyfriends, husbands and sons, stop to stare at the two beauties. Willas’s
arrival is more discreet. He does not want to ruin the mood of the honeymooners
in the corner, and so, in defeat, he limps over to the bar where there is
seating. Bran is there to greet him, and he does so like an old friend. He even
introduces him to Rickon. “Ah, the brother who tried to kill you,” Willas
teases—chuckling as Rickon burns with embarrassment. Rickon recovers and boldly
begins a conversation about unrequited love. 
It seems the Starks all carried swords in their mouths.
Tywin Lannister’s presence makes a significantly larger scene. The man comes
down from the stairs, and each step makes the heat in hell drop. There is no
sycophant strong enough to face him and no fool desperate enough to become
rich. The only one who presents a challenge is the Starks.  By the glare Tywin
endures from their patriarch, the lion has no choice but to face the wolf in
all his vengeful glory. Tywin, for the first time in many years, is eager. This
is the moment he’s been waiting for.   
“I see you’ve finally arrived,” Tywin notes. “Pity you couldn’t come to opening
night. Arya was splendid. Though, I am not surprised." 
"No?" 
"Arya and I have had many discussions about your limited support." 
Ned growls. Catelyn puts a hand on his shoulder.
"And Ned and I have talked about your involvement," Catelyn says as she
squeezes Ned's shoulder. "Arya is grateful for your sponsorship. Aren't we,
Ned?" 
There's an insult on the tip of Ned's tongue. He replaces it with: “We are
proud of our daughter’s progress. Though as parents, we value our children’s
happiness over their success. We aren’t in the business of abandonment.”
Tywin’s lips twitch. “It is not abandonment if she runs away first.”
Catelyn freezes when the rumor resurfaces. She turns to Ned, and they share a
look. When Arya left, gossip in the high societies latch onto the various
possibilities for her absence, good and mostly bad. To this day, the Starks
made sure to keep her disappearance a mystery. Tywin is not the type of man to
indulge in baseless rumors; his assertion is telling, and the story is grim.
Ned’s eyes narrow. “I suppose your sons taught you that,” he retorts, ignoring
the urge to investigate.
The bitter exchanges are interrupted for the final, breath-taking, jaw-dropping
appearances of the night. The entire room falls silent.
Jon’s skin crawls, and he finds himself breaking his kiss to catch his breath.
He tries to turn around, but Robb’s fingertips push into his back, leaving
bruises on top of his fair flesh. Robb kisses him again; this time, it is not
out of lust but protection. Jon returns the kiss in full force. He gently bites
his lip; an unspoken urge to set him free. 
"Is he there?" 
Robb nods. "Yeah." 
“I can handle this,” Jon promises.
Jon is lying, but fortunately, Robb is there to cradle him in his arms. “It’s
okay,” Robb tells him. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.” He will prove to his lover
that the trust placed in him is well deserved.  
The Targaryen company consists of the family patriarch and his heir. Jon
shivers when Rhaegar catches his gaze, and his son follows with a glare.
Rhaegar whispers something into Aegon’s ear. The young man seems upset by the
clandestine request, emphasized by his bristling, but a firm hand on his
shoulder convinces him to obey. Without another word, the Targaryens separate.
Aegon walks towards his half-brother with a grimace. Rhaegar heads towards the
trio of Starks and Lannister. He greets them with misplaced fondness.
The British equivalent of a Mexican standoff involved a group of well-dressed
men pointing out each other’s flaws and throwing their darkest secrets out like
tea in the Boston Harbor.
Ned, Tywin, and Rhaegar do not fail to disappoint.
“It’s been awhile since we’ve been in the same room,” Rhaegar greets. He grabs
a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and without taking a sip, points it
in Ned’s direction. “Last time I saw you, your brother tried to kill me. That
was what? Twenty years ago?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Ah, that’s right. Twenty-two years.” Rhaegar turns to Stark. "How's the
company?" 
"Good." 
Tywin turns towards Catelyn. "You must feel fortunate to have chosen the right
brother. That is some fine, heir-hopping work." 
Catelyn's smile does not match her glare. "I chose the brother I love, Tywin." 
"Still," Tywin hums. "To have so many options must have been a relief. I don't
understand why you stopped at second son."
"Our families do possess an impossible allure. My father thought as much of
your wife. Sometimes, I like to think she felt the same way," Rhaegar says with
a little too much pep. Tywin's eyes narrow at the insinuation. The younger man
continues to speak. “If I remember correctly, the last time I saw you was at my
father’s funeral.”
“Yes, after he killed himself.” Tywin takes a glass to match Rhaegar's
elegance. Without an ounce of shame and maybe even a little pride, he notes
that: “Men with psychosis such as his have a tendency towards self-harm. Shame
you couldn’t keep a better watch on him.”
Rhaegar’s smiles with bared teeth. “A bigger shame is that our surgeons aren’t
as skilled as we hope them to be, or else my father would still be alive. But I
suppose Jaime’s incompetency made the transition from doctor to nurse more
appropriate.  If he couldn’t save my father, at least our citizens aren’t
risking their lives in his hands…oh sorry, I meant hand.”
“Yes, well, let me give you a hand for your recent concert." 
"You saw it?" 
"No." Tywin shakes his head like the suggestion is something piteous. "But my
associates say they found the ode to your prime quite impressive. Do I sense a
retirement coming soon? Good choice, to quit while you can still run. Age
should be handled with dignity.”
“Strange how the advice we offer is hardly ever the advice we take,” Ned
mutters. Catelyn rolls her eyes as they are brought back into the rat race.
Tywin’s lips twitch. “Eddard, you should be quite happy that Arya has attracted
such an icon of the arts. This is the second time Rhaegar has been to this
performance.”
Rhaegar glares at the wily bastard. He recovers long enough to force a grin on
his face and turns to Ned. “You should be very proud, Ned. Arya is a talented
young woman.”
“Yes,” Ned grits out. He has been wrong about plenty of things in life but not
about Rhaegar Targaryen and his twisted, teenager stealing ways. “So was my
sister. I’m sure you’ve noticed their resemblance.”
“Ned…” Catelyn warns, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“They do look a lot like each other,” Rhaegar agrees. His lips twitch, and it
isn’t until he finishes his sentence does Ned realize it is in triumph. “Yet,
she pales in comparison to your nephew. Have you noticed that he’s the
splitting image of Lyanna?” Rhaegar leans in, and Ned can feel the smirk
against the air. “Especially that ass.”
Ned lunges forward, and it takes all of Catelyn’s strength to pull him back
before a bloody nose is dished out. A lady in every sense of the word, she
performs a rare act of indecency when she kisses him on the lips, bringing
forth the rise of scandalous murmurs.
When they separate, she turns to her fellow guests. “There’s a lot of bad blood
in our group,” she says sweetly, a perfect companion to her Stepford smile.
“Perhaps we should all remember who we are here for and that is Arya.”
There is a moment of contemplation that runs through Ned and Rhaegar’s mind.
They are planning their next move, but Tywin beats them all to it.
“Of course,” the Lannister agrees. “I’ve put in a great deal of support for
your daughter.”
“I bet you did,” Rhaegar mutters.
Tywin raises an eyebrow. “Care to say that out loud?”  
Rhaegar decides to hold back on that particular insinuation. A theory isn’t a
fact until one gathers the evidence to make it so. He turns to the matriarch of
the Starks. “I agree, Catelyn. We should put this matter aside for tonight. I
hate to let our pasts ruin our future together.” He looks past Ned and grins
wildly. “And we have quite a future to look forward to.”
Ned and Cat turn to the direction of Rhaegar’s conceit and Ned’s blood chills
at the sight.
***
Weeks ago, Aegon Targaryen swore he would rather be eaten alive by wolves than
make pleasantries with their company. When he came to watch the show yesterday,
he never expected the principal dancer to be as enchanting as she was. He
loathed to discover she was a Stark—but the heart wants what it wants, and when
pumping, it holds the reigns over his mind, forcing him to send two bouquets to
her dressing room to make up for the night he missed.
Following his father’s purchase of those dreadful photographs, Aegon discovered
the cause of his parents’ tension-filled marriage. Over twenty years ago, his
father had an affair with a Stark woman—the same Stark woman whose artwork
resurfaced his father’s philandering ways. When Rhaegar came home to London,
the man admitted to the affair; his father bore no shame over the accusation.
Much to Aegon's disgust, Rhaegar told his son that a man’s passion is
controlled by his loins, not his mind, and as a Targaryen, they are allowed to
indulge in both.
"We have a 'fuck you' title and 'fuck you" money. With that much precedence for
a 'fuck you,' why not deliver it to the rules we loathe?" 
"Because society requires rules. The opposite of that is anarchy."  
“Fire and blood," Rhaegar reminded. "We are not ordinary men. We are dragons.
Immortal creatures of myth and legend. We're mean to feast on something
greater. Trust me, once you dip your tongue into ambrosia, you'll be breathing
fire for a second taste.”
Aegon stared at him horrified. “No!” He denied. “No! I won't be dipping my
tongue into anyone! Ambrosia is bad for you and it’s bad for your children so
you stay at home and learn to love the ice cream your wife bought and you keep
eating that ice cream until it’s finished and if you don’t like it anymore, you
add Oreos, but you stay loyal to that ice cream because it is limited edition
and once it’s gone, it isn’t coming back!”
The lecture solved none of his father’s peculiarities. If anything, they
blossomed over the next few days. The highest point of his peculiarity was when
he dragged Aegon to a hotel room a few miles from their home and brought him to
the theater. After a brief discussion with his godfather, the two worked out
the obvious conclusion.
Rhaegar Targaryen is having an affair. 
And this one? He’s old enough to be Aegon’s brother. The Targaryen heir caught
them last night, sneaking off for one of their dirty trysts. The tramp gave his
father a pseudo blowjob with an ice cube and flashed his hard, perky nipples
underneath his robe like a harlot. The two would have started banging on the
floor if the little trollop didn’t relish in being a tease.
Aegon imagines that they are waiting for some private time to have some hot
dirty sex. The image makes Aegon’s stomach churn and cock harden at the same
time. Aegon groans. Nauseous arousal is the worse. He can’t help that his
father’s mistress is gorgeous as fuck, but fucking hells, the guy is his
father’s mistress. He probably still has Rhaegar’s cum inside him.
Aegon slaps a hand over his mouth and takes a moment to swallow his vomit.
When Aegon recovers, he greets the two Starks with reluctance dripping off his
tongue. He says his name, “Aegon Targaryen” and ends with an emphasized
“Rhaegar Targaryen’s son from his wife.” Aegon then tells them “nice to meet
you” in a way that is definitively not nice to meet them. He asks “how are you
doing?” in a manner that makes it clear he cares too much for a phrase that is
synonymous with “hello.”
The whore remains silent—the guilt of meeting his lover’s son is probably
getting to him. The young man who introduces himself as “Jon” entangles his
fingers into his cousin’s hand and shyly says “hello” back.
Aegon’s heart skips a beat.
Aegon tosses himself to the wall in a dramatic fashion. He tries to control his
emotions. Okay, so Jon is cute for a homewrecker. That’s nothing to lose his
mind over. Hell, a lot homewreckers have sweet, puppy dog eyes that make every
protective bone in Aegon’s body tremble—fuck! Aegon shakes his head. He comes
back at full strength, ignoring the odd looks the younger men give him.
“So. Robb Stark. I hear you’re Arya Stark’s brother.” Aegon makes sure to
direct all his attention to the Stark heir. Sometimes, the best punishment is
rejection. He’s going to let Jon the Whore know that he’s not letting him ruin
his night.
“Yeah,” Robb answers him, a little hesitant to interact after watching the
older boy deal with his internal crisis. “That’s why we’re here to watch the
show.”
“That’s a great reason. Family.” Aegon stresses with a flick of his tongue.
Aegon raises an eyebrow when he sees Jon retreat under his cousin’s arm for
protection. “Family,” he repeats. Jon makes another flinch.
Ah, so little mister ‘sleeps with married men’ has a problem when Aegon
mentions family.
Aegon sneers. “Family is the most important thing in the world,” he announces.
“And I will do whatever it takes to support my family.”
Robb seems to have shoulder the offense for his cousin. He steps in at once.
Figures, the slut has a talent for wrapping men around his finger. 
“I will, too,” Robb retorts. He glares at Aegon and the Targaryen is taken back
by the force of the glower. “And I appreciate if you keep your family away from
mine. Because I’m done with this little power play you and your father have
going on with Jon.”
“Oh?” Aegon realizes what’s going immediately. “Guess the little tease is
playing the victim now.”
“Robb, please don’t—”
“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Robb steps forward until he is inches away
from Aegon's face. He is one step away from instigating a theatrical shove
which will accumulate to the traditional brawl. 
“Exactly what it sounds like.” Aegon matches his glare with a smirk. “Tell me,
has Jon told you what he gets up to at night? Specifically, last night? With my
father?”
“Jon tells me everything,” Robb hisses out. “Including the things your father
has done.” Robb scoffs. “Of course you would defend that monster. Fucking
Targaryens.”
“Hey!” Aegon shortens their distance some more. They are fortunate to be
separated from most of the crowd or else the image would be on every
socialite’s blog by now. Nothing got views like the sight of two hot, young,
virile men grinding on top of each other. “I’m not defending anybody here. I
know what my father is doing is wrong.” The infidelity is breaking his mother’s
heart and it kills Aegon to see his mother suffer. But as a Targaryen, he
remains loyal to his family’s interests—no matter how twisted his relatives
are. “But he?” Aegon points to Jon. “He should know better. Look at him; he’s
prepared to bend over for me!”
Robb grabs him by the collar and drags him further into the corner where no one
can see them.
“Robb!” Jon shouts under his breath. Low volume, heavy heat.
“Say that to my face,” Robb challenges. “Say that to my face and let’s see if
yours remains intact.”
If it were not for his breeding, Aegon would have spat in Robb’s face. Instead,
he reaches the bait and snaps it off the reel. “You’re so fucking deluded. You
think my father doesn’t share all his nasty thoughts about your precious cousin
there? ‘Jon has the sweetest ass—why don’t you cop a feel? I’m sure he won’t
mind. Look at the way he yawns—can you imagine those lips wrapped around your
cock?’ Father is throwing him at me.”
 Robb tightens his grip. Jon rubs against Robb’s body. “Please, let him go. He
can’t help the way he is. It’s all of Rhaegar’s brainwashing.”  
Aegon glares. “I’m not brainwashed.”
Jon ignores him. “Please,” he begs Robb.
After a moment of contemplation, the Stark heir tosses the Targaryen aside.
“One day, you’re going to run your mouth at the wrong place, at the wrong time,
and I’ll be there to pound your face in when you do, you sick fuck.”
“You kiss your cousin with that mouth?” Aegon mocks.
“You bet your fucking ass I do.”
Jon grabs him and walks away. Aegon follows after. The three of them expect to
part ways like like in the movies, but the trio return to their grouping by the
sway of two high-powered females with social credit and beauty unmatched by the
heavens.
***
“…Now I’ve promised my womb to Renly and Loras’s firstborn so now I have to
find a partner whose submissive enough to hold his tongue while I’m pregnant
with my Renly's gay baby.”
“You have plenty of options,” Sansa points out. “I always assumed you’d have
more men under your feet than those matching your stance.”
Margaery sighs. “I know, but none of them have the breeding I need. Anyone can
get a show pony; I need a stallion. Pity about your brother. Now that is a man
I could climb on top of.”
“Jon does that enough for both of you.”
Margaery laughs, and Sansa cracks a smile. “Sansa, you could always make me
smile.” She sighs. “I think it’s the wedding that’s making me race beyond my
biological clock. At this rate, I’m going to have to fuck Joffrey again.”
Sansa groans. “Don’t go down that dark path. He’s insane.”
“He’s manageable,” Margaery defends. “I leashed him once, and I can do it
again.” She throws Sansa a smirk. “Besides, he’s pretty to look at and the heir
to billions. I’d have two companies if I married him.”
“One more than the grave you’ll have to dig for yourself.”
Margaery smirks. “Who says it’ll be for me?” She stares at her surroundings,
watching the bugs weave through the leaves of society with disinterest. “In all
seriousness, your brother was one of the last good ones. Wonderful family.
Smart. Career oriented. Great in bed. The timing, though. It’s only the
timing.” She sighs. “The only options left are the Martells." Margaery shivers.
"Family rivalry aside, all the younger men cower under their sister’s gaze. You
know how I loathe Arianne. I can’t imagine her as my sister-in-law with her
fake Spanish accent—”
“I think she’s genuinely Spanish.”
“And her Indian-bought hair.”
“That’s her real hair.”
“Whose friend are you?”
“Yours,” Sansa promises. “But if you can’t stand Arianne, I’m wondering how you
expect to tolerate Cersei Lannister.”  
Margaery laughs. “My plan is to birth an entire football team and have them
follow her around with chimes of ‘grandmother,' thus aiding the constant
reminder that she is old and ruined.”
The heiresses cackle at the image.
“Ooh,” Margaery whistles.
“What?”
Margaery nods towards a secreted spot from the crowd. “Look who decides to turn
the England’s sexiest couple into the world’s hottest threesome.”
Sansa turns her head. She sees an unfamiliar stranger join her brother and Jon.
“Who’s that?”
“Aegon Targaryen,” Margaery whispers. “Heir to the Targaryen fortune. Lord. A
graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and the new Eddie Redmayne.”
Margaery chuckles. “Supposedly. There’s been a lot of hype about him since he
starred as Hamlet at the Donmar Warehouse. Before that, he won the Best
Newcomer Award for his role in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Sansa shakes her head in amusement. "I see you’ve found your next prey.”  
Margaery giggles. “Not this time. Apparently, he has his sights set on another
maiden and I don’t care to compete with a woman of that caliber.”
“Oh come one,” Sansa teases. “Who's better than you?”
Margaery smirks. She watches as Aegon is led away to the corner by the eldest
Stark. She licks her lips in appreciation of Robb’s roughness. Oh, how she
misses the way he bruised her thighs and twisted his tongue inside her.
Perhaps, she isn't wrong when she made that joke about threesomes and
debauchery.  A girl can dream, can’t she?
Her breathing becomes heavy. “Let’s just say this is his second time watching
this production and no one buys two bouquets of roses because he appreciates
the art.”
Sansa’s eyes widen. “Arya, my Arya?” Sansa sinks her head into Margaery
shoulder and shakes with laughter.  “He’s so pretty!” Sansa chokes out. “He’s
the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen!”
“Don’t you just want to see him lick a popsicle?” Margaery asks. “He reminds me
of your cousin.”
Sansa closes her eyes to imagine the scene. “Fuck, he does,” Sansa moans. “Oh,
Arya might like him. She's never been interested in a guy that soft."
“That’ll make the whip cream taste even better.”
The girl bursts into giggles again. When their behavior starts to draw
attention, Margaery reminds her of their public presence. She drags her towards
the direction of missing men. “Come, your brother and cousin should be finished
interrogating him by now. It’s our turn. Let’s see if he can handle being with
a Stark.”
The two saunter over with cheer that visibly contrasts the three boys. Margaery
shares a look with Sansa, indicating an investigation is in order but that
neither should let it be known of their suspicions. They are ladies, after all.
“Hi boys.” Margaery kisses Robb on the cheek which he half-heartedly returns
and introduces herself to Jon. “I’m Margaery Tyrell. You must be Robb’s new
sweetheart. Jon, isn’t it?”
"My soulmate," Robb corrects. 
Jon flushes and glances over at Robb. Then, he nods his head with a bashful
smile. “Yes, that’s me.” 
“What?”
Aegon makes odd, cat-like hissing noises that clearly indicates his
unhappiness. He is equally upset inwardly as his outward appearance conveys.
This slut is not only sleeping with his father, but he were dating his cousin
like some faux Targaryen and said cousin allows it? No wonder he’s so accepting
of adultery!
Before he can soil his reputation with Sansa, Margaery smoothly intervenes.
“Aegon, it’s so nice to see you again. How you’ve been since New Year’s?”
Aegon pauses from his internal outrage to remember her. The memory arrives
easily; a woman with the amount of prestige and beauty as Margaery Tyrell comes
as quickly as it came to the tabloids. “Yes,” he grits out. “You look lovely.”
“Well, this is Sansa. She is a dear friend of mine and the eldest daughter of
the Stark family.” Margaery grins. “That makes her the older sister of Arya
Stark. They are very close.”
Aegon’s eyes twinkle with interest. “Hello, Sansa. I look forward to making
your acquaintance.” But family comes first. He returns to glaring Jon. “I can’t
believe you’re dating him. Targaryen cock isn’t enough for you?”
Sansa’s jaw drops. Even Margaery is taken back by the accusation.
“You wish it was,” Robb growls out. This little hate-fuck Aegon is trying to
start with Jon is reaching his boiling point, and crowd or not, he is going to
break some bones and kick some asses if the man keeps talking. “I gave you a
warning. Take it and walk away.”
“My pleasure.”
Sansa stares in horror at the three of them. “What is going on here?”
“Nothing,” Aegon spits out as he marches to the bar. “If I’m lucky, your
behavior will be a preview of what to expect from Arya and then I will never
have to deal with your family again. Not unless Jon continues his fancy for
fucking.”
***
There is not a Tully or a Stark in the world whose vision falls below 20/20.
Good eyesight is one of the various genes their family has been blessed with,
resulting in two of the youngest Starks obtaining a rare, 20/10 vision—define
by their ability to see up to twenty feet what an average person can see at ten
feet from an eye chart.
The ability is preferable in situations like parties, where children are
typically shoved to the side while scandals run amok. Fortunately, Rickon and
Bran miss none of it, and they bear no qualms about sharing their findings with
their fellow wayward companions.
“It’s like they are having a pissing contest. I bet if we wait a bit, they’ll
take out their penises and start measuring them.”
Bran stares at his little brother with a furrowed brow. “How did you learn
these words?”
"School." 
"Well, stop it." 
“No pursuit of knowledge is unworthy,” Willas quips. “Is Jon unzipping his
pants anytime soon?”
Rickon squints. “Nope, pants are on.”
“Damn.”
Bran sighs. “You need to get over him.”
Willas chuckles lowly. “Are you going to lecture me on doing better?”
Bran shakes his head. “No, but finding a partner isn’t about finding someone
better. It’s about finding someone right. Being single doesn’t mean you’re
unlovable, just that you’re available for the person you’re meant to be with.”
Willas looks down at the teenager with a smile. “That’s pretty good advice.
Where did you get that from?”
Bran winces.
“Ah. Robb.”
“I think it’s universal advice.”
Rickon shrugs. “Hey, you might as well listen to him. He did win your man so he
knows what he’s doing.”
Bran groans at the bluntness. “If I could stand, I’d hit you.” The paraplegic
turns to Willas. “You’re amazing, Willas. You’ll find someone and they’ll be
perfect for you. You’ll be able to talk with them about your family, you'll go
horse-riding together, and cuddle in the grass with dew wetting your skin…”
“That’s some bullshit right there.”
“Rickon!” Bran gasps. “Don’t use that language.”
“It’s the only word to describe the advice you’re giving to him.” Rickon hops
on the chair because he can and Bran can’t. “Listen, Robb was able to get Jon
because he forced him to like him. They did dirty stuff as soon as they met and
then kidnapped him. Two weeks and they were already living together.”
“And then they broke up.”
“And they later got back together.”
“After Robb gave Jon the space he needed to decide who he loved.”
“After he got him hooked on some loving.” Rickon rolls his eyes. “You lost Jon.
But you’ll find someone else and you can’t keep making the same mistakes. So
none of that sissy stuff.”
“What do you know, Rickon?” Bran snaps, touchy that his goodwill is being
thrown away for garbage out of the Stalker’s Manifesto. “You’re not seeing
anybody. Shireen is two steps away from a restraining order.”
“Hey!” Rickon pouts. “Lyanna copped a feel with Shireen Baratheon within two
days of meeting her. She didn’t get that far by backing down. She was
aggressive.”
“Lyanna Mormont is Shireen’s first female friend. You’re the neighbor’s creepy
kid who spies on her through her window.” Bran shakes his head and turns to
Willas. “You have to give it time. Let the right person find you.”
“Willas,” Rickon says, oddly serious. “Love is like modern art. You could have
done it, but you didn’t and you spend your whole life hating those who could.
So if you see someone you like, take them. Don’t listen to anybody. Just take
them. They are there. Take them.”
“You sound like a rapist.”
 “Shut up, Bran.”
Willas laughs for the longest time. When he finishes, he looks down at his
unfinished drink. He becomes suddenly aware that he doesn't like red wine; he
prefers rosé. He orders red because Oberyn used to have it when they were
together, and he found it wasteful to order more than one bottle. Over time, he
developed a taste for it.
“You’re right.”
“Who?” They say simultaneously.
“Both of you,” Willas tells them. “But I think the right person has already
found me and is waiting for me to open the door.” He ruffles both their
heads—he would have hugged them but a man in his thirties, hugging two underage
boys tonight means front page exposure as a pedophile tomorrow. “Can you tell
my sister I was sick? I have to do something.” He hesitates. “Can any of you
lie?”  
“I can.” “He can.”
Willas winks at Rickon. “Make it good. She’s sharp as a knife, so you need to
be convincing.”
“Of course,” Rickon tells the bartender to get some dirty glasses. “We need to
sneak him out without drawing attention."
The bartender nods. “We get this all the time. Wine glasses or shots?”
“Glasses.”
Bartender gathers four, filthy, red-stained glasses. “Cab or personal driver?”
“Driver—”
“No!” Rickon waves his finger in disapproval. “If the driver sees that you
aren't drunk, he’ll tell on you.”
The bartender nods. “He’s right. No witnesses.”
Bran raises an eyebrow. “Won’t it be weirder for him not to use a driver? Seems
suspicious.”
Willas stares at the three males in front of him. “Why are you so good at these
plans?”
“Experience,” Rickon says. “I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble.”
Willas sighs. “I can pretend to be drunk. I’m just going to my hotel.”
“I can mix you a drink that’ll make you reek of alcohol.” The young man is
already shaking up a cocktail. He hands it to Willas.
Willas hesitates before downing it in one gulp. He barely feels anything.
“No alcohol. It just smells like it. I give it to teenagers who give me fake
IDs. And alcoholics.”
“Nice.” Rickon approves.
With their plan set in motion, Willas stumbles outside on the down low. Rickon
and Bran wish him the best. “Take them,” Rickon whispers dramatically. “And
make them yours.”
Willas smiles warily. Fucking Starks, he muses.  
***
Before the show begins, Rickon delivers the message to Margaery. Bran keeps
silent. While the girl is clever, she is unaware of their previous conversation
and therefore cannot come up with a reason for Willas to leave that doesn’t
relate to alcohol poisoning. With no viable theory, she decides to believe
them. “For now,” she tells them ominously. Bran sweats up a storm, and before
he can look down, Rickon smacks his face right up.
“What’s the worst that can happen if we’re lying?” Rickon tests out.
“My brother is forced to live his life as a sister-wife to his polyamorous ex-
boyfriend and isolates himself from our entire family out of fear of
disapproval due to our conflicting beliefs and our general rivalry with the
Martells.”
Bran nearly faints.
Rickon has no shame. “Well, how on earth can talking to us lead to that? I'm
eleven.”
Margaery purses her lips. “You’re right. That is hard to believe.” Naively, she
assumes there is no way that two young boys can convince her brother to return
to the arms of the wicked Martells and therefore the worse situation is not a
possible outcome.
One of the attendants announces that the show is about to start. They are all
ushered to their seats. To the Starks’ disgust, they find out that they are
sharing a side to side balcony with the Targaryens and that they will have to
split up due to their size constraints.
“How about you sit next to me, Jon?” Rhaegar suggests. He pats the seat next to
him. “Come to daddy.”
“Over my dead body,” says Robb, Ned, and Cat simultaneously. They stare at each
and form a protective shield around the snow wolf. Ned pushes Jon into his
son’s arms.
“Don’t let any Targaryens near him,” he growls at him. “If he starts to get
handsy, whisk him away and mark your scent.”
“I’ll cum inside him until it’s spilling out of his mouth.”
Ned nods in approval. “Good.” 
“Wait, what?”
Robb takes him to the box adjacent to Rhaegar. The Targaryen grimaces but as
his son leaves mentions that he loves the view. “And I’m not talking about the
show.”
Jon shivers and Aegon mimics his discomfort. He refuses to sit next to his
father after that conversation. While he looks for another place to sit, the
girls speak up.
“Why don’t you sit beside us?” Sansa suggests. “I have a seat right here.”
Aegon searches around for a better option; Jon is in the other box and his
father is humming his sex song. He takes the plunge and sits beside the
beautiful red-head. Not wanting to start a fight with the only proper member of
the household, he attempts to apologize.
“Listen, I want you to know that my behavior earlier—.”
“You know,” Sansa interrupts. “I heard a rumor.”
Margaery giggles.
“That you’ve developed a fondness for my sister and you might like to meet
her.” 
Aegon gulps. The thought is tempting as sunlight in England. “I would,” he
admits.
“Good,” Sansa smiles sweetly. “Now, given what I just witnessed, I feel less
inclined to make that happen. But I am merciful." 
"So merciful," Margaery choruses. 
"And the only one here willing to forget what happened. So I could set up a
meeting." 
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Let’s stop talking about you.” Sansa’s smile never wavers. “If you are
interested in Arya, then let me offer you some advice. The way to her heart is
not through Jon’s ass-kicking. Jon,” She says as she turns to face him. “Is not
only her favorite cousin, he’s her favorite sibling. He's always been a brother
to us and a pillar of support for Arya."
The lights dim. Sansa returns her attention to the stage.
“Think about that,” Sansa warns.
Aegon clenches his fist. If Sansa believes that, he, Aegon Targaryen is going
to give Jon Snow a free pass for being related to one of the most spectacular
women in the world, then he is...not entirely wrong. Arya comes out on stage in
her drab dress and lithe, ballerina figure and fuck, Aegon is a Targaryen, and
they do stupid shit for love.
Sansa smirks when she sees Aegon’s attention drain from the world and
completely pours onto her younger sister.  
***
Arya’s summary does not do the storyline justice. The first scene introduces
the Girl, the virginal daughter of a lord, who is trapped in her castle while
the people of her country partake in a festival celebrating fertility. She is
shielded from the indecencies until she witnesses The Man making love to one of
her servants through her window. She tries to mimic his dancing in her bedroom
unaware that The Man is watching her. He gets closer and closer, until he is
outside her room, watching her every move. When The Girl turns around, she
finds herself stun that they are face to face.
Hesitantly, she lets him into her room. The Man who teaches her to dance
outside of her frigid customs.
The audience watches with tight thighs and held breaths as The Man lays next to
The Girl and onto the bed without touching her. The Girl is reluctant but
allows him to undress her. The moves are sensual and slow. The Girl copies her
teacher’s performance throughout the dance, following his every move but always
a second off. The timing represents her inexperience. When they are done, their
lips are barely touching each other but it looks like they came.
The dance moves on to the next morning, where The Girl is taken to the streets
to celebrate the second day of the festival. She loses her teacher in the crowd
and finds refuge in a brothel with several other young women. Robb recognizes
some of the girls as a Mormont and a Manderly and maybe a few other socialites.
They teach The Girl a few tricks and compared to earlier, the music is
uplifting and fun; the moves are informal. At the end of it, she performs a
fast-moving pique turn into The Man’s arms who finds her and lifts her out of
the house.
They dance in an elevation of skill. The Girl finds herself catching more
attention from different men. She performs a few short dances with the “whores”
and the “men,” one after the other. As the production continues, Girl dances
away from The Man. When he catches her alone, their movement accumulates to a
fight consisting of rough moves that resemble in harsh, metaphoric sex. There’s
mimicry of slapping and tussling; the music is filled with sharp pangs and loud
bases. In the end, The Girl cuts off all ties with The Man. The Man departs
after the declaration.
The Girl is alone on the stage. Catelyn grasps Ned’s hand as they watch Arya’s
solo. The Girl is at her pinnacle, not only is she supposed to display
fearlessness and confidence; the solo is supposed to convey a young woman who
appreciates the wonders of her body. The dance is bold, sensual, but also
enjoyable to herself and therefore the audience. Everything from her fouettes
to her piques are filled with life. There is passion when she turns and
eagerness whenever she does a split or kick. At the end of the solo, Arya
prepares for her final move. The Girl jumps several feet in the air in one
count where her arms spread open as she spins to the ground and lands on the
second count. As soon as her feet hit the ground, the audience gets to their
feet for a standing ovation.
Arya is breathing harder than she has in her entire life.
Intermission arrives, and Arya's eyes are wet as she leaves the stage. 
***
Before intermission ends, Jaqen congratulates her on her successful solo. Arya
wipes off the imaginary dust of her new costume. “You don’t have to praise me
each time I don’t make a mistake. It’ll get tiring after a while.”
Jaqen chuckles. “A Girl is confident. Good. A Girl was nervous earlier.”
Arya pauses. She takes a deep breath. “You have a good eye.”
“Oh?”
Arya nods. The last act opens, and the dancers come together to perform the
festival scene. The choreography is beautiful. Syrio was never one to neglect
his dancers, even if they aren't principal members.
“My entire family is here tonight. I was worried that if I messed up, even just
a little bit, they would never let me join the Faceless Men. I wanted their
blessing; I thought ‘if I do well enough, they’ll have no choice but to support
me.”
“A Girl should dance for herself and not let a Girl’s family decide her fate.”
“I used to think like that.” Arya smiles to herself. “I still do. I’ll join
with or without their approval, but I won’t be happy about it.” She stares at
her parents through the curtains. “I don’t want to lose my home again.”
When Arya turns to Jaqen, she is jolted forward. Their lips meet in a tender
but deep kiss.
“You will always have a home, and that is the stage. I will welcome you.” 
***
The final scene ends with Jaqen and Arya’s final dance. The two of them are
performing solo pieces in the beginning, several dozen feet apart but The Man
and the Girl are staring at each other the entire time. They come closer and
closer to each other until the dancing becomes a partnership. While their
movements begin as slow, the music speeds up so that their competition becomes
more wild and uncontrollable. Each move is matched by another more powerful
gesture. There are more floor and aerial movements. Soon, they become so fast
that barely anyone can catch up with them.
The climatic move, Arya runs into to Jaqen’s arms. He throws her up in the air
and captures by the waist. Arya performs a solid vertical split while Jaqen
lifts her up without a falter. Jaqen removes his hand, much to the trepidation
of Arya’s family while Arya adjusts her form. Jaqen perform several steps while
Arya moves in midair. The sight is beautiful and earns another round of
applause. Soon, their movements grow slower until they are barely moving. 
The Man brings her down to the floor beside him. They stare into each other’s
eyes as the life drifts out of them and they become immobile and die in each
other’s arms.
The curtain falls and second standing ovation is needed to convey the
audience’s approval. Moments later, every curtain opens to reveal the dancers.
Arya receives numerous bouquets and the sight of her cheering parents. She
smiles wider than she has in her entire life.
Chapter End Notes
     This story has reached 100K hits. Yay! I am officially the seventh
     most read story on this fandom within this site!
     Either way, I hope you enjoy the dialogue between the characters. It
     was really fun to write Aegon in because he’s this spoiled brat but
     at the same time, he’s talented and a momma’s boy and stupidly loyal
     to his father. Lito from Sense8 was my inspiration. :)
     Uh, just so you know, Willas has not left London. He is simply making
     a very important phone call. I didn’t bring him here to make him
     disappear.
     So, with that in mind. My hiatus schedule is right here
     Cross your fingers that I can finish Crown the Wolf before Sunday so
     I don’t have to worry about it on my flight.
***** Chapter 51 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
While the audience applauds her daughter, Catelyn latches onto her husband’s
arm and drags him into the deepest crevices of the women’s bathroom. Her
movements are swift and methodical; done before anyone can comment on their
flight. She maneuvers her way to the facilities on the third floor and
unbuckles Ned’s belt during her stride. Her panties are stuffed into her
husband’s pocket and her hair is wild; a hair band is wrapped around her wrist
and her lipstick is bouncing in her purse for instant post-coital clean-up.
Jon and Robb wait exactly five minutes before following suit. Stalls in the
men’s bathroom are golden snitches in a field of bludgers but no one wants to
fight over a dicking spot in an area intended for shit and piss.
Robb leads; Tully's don't negotiate when their balls are on the line. He pulls
his curly-haired cousin into an empty, handicapped stall—the holy grail of
bathroom love-making—and is over him like iguanas on a sun deck. Jon is
responsive but his lips feel more like vacuums than kisses and his hands are
struggling to find their place. Tension covers his entire frame like macaroni
and no matter how hard Robb tries to fondle Jon, the older boy’s backside
remains unmoving. Finally, the Stark heir lets go.
“Okay, okay, let’s just pause for a moment.”
“What’s the matter?” Jon sounds genuinely confused. Robb hates it when Jon's
confused. That means Jon and Robb are going to have to work through the problem
rather than have Jon provide the answers.
“It’s just…” Robb sighs. “You’re not into it.”
Jon is taken back. He tries to smile but the expression falls short on his
lips. “Are you kidding me? After what we just watched? Of course, I am.”
“No, you’re not.” Robb is an expert on arousal. Ever since he learned that
women could fake their orgasms, he has been a dedicated pupil to the
intricacies of pleasure. His tongue can fold origami out of cherry stems; his
fingers are legendary for their ability to curl and scissor at the same time.
“You’re too stressed.”
“I am not.” Jon pouts. When he sees the serious look in his lover’s eyes, his
resolve falters.
“I can’t sleep with someone who’s not interested in me.” There is nothing that
got his cock softer than a reluctant participant. Turning his partner into a
spluttering mess of drool and cum is part of the appeal of sex. Without it, sex
is reduced to two bodies humping.
“I thought you liked that type of roleplay.”
“Yes,” Robb breathes out. “But it’s hot because I know you’re pretending.” He
tenderly strokes Jon’s cheek. “I love hearing you beg me to stop while your ass
is pushing against my cock. It’s even better watching you grind against the
sheets because I’ve tied you up for being such an ungrateful tease.” Robb
growls the last part out. Ever the opportunist, he licks Jon’s ear. There’s no
reaction from him, not even a shiver. Robb groans and sinks his head into the
curve of Jon’s neck. “Talk to me.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Jon insists. He can tell Robb’s erection is deflating
faster than a balloon at needlepoint so he acts. “Just pretend this is another
game. Here, let me start.” Jon reaches down to undo Robb’s pants.
Robb grabs his hands before they can even touch the zipper.
 “Robb—”
“I don’t need you to get me off.” Robb leans forward to give Jon a deep,
comforting kiss that borders the realm of sex without crossing over completely.
When they part, the Stark lands a chaste peck on his cheek. “I need you to tell
me what’s wrong. If you’re with me, I want you with me.”
Jon hesitates; his tongue is dipped inside the drools of denial and they flood
his mouth with lies. Within his head, the nagging screech of ‘Rhaegar, Rhaegar,
Rhaegar’ grows louder. When he recognizes that sex is no longer a viable
lifeboat, he sighs in frustration.
“It’s Rhaegar.”
 “I figured.”
Jon runs his hand through his hair. “He’s planning something. Something…I don’t
know, off. One minute he’s hitting on me and trying to get me to suck on his
ice cube—”
“What?”
“—and the next, he’s talking about Arya and Aegon like we’re in the medieval
century and he’s going to unite the kingdoms with their marriage.”
“Jon—”
“Which is fine; Arya can handle herself but it’s not just Arya. It’s not just
me either. It’s my mother, too. I can’t read him and it’s killing me. I can
read anyone.”
“Anyone,” Robb agrees. In Jon's defense, if Rhaegar’s behavior was given a
linguistic equivalent, it’d be gibberish.
“But I can’t read him.” Jon lets out a groan of frustration. “He says he wants
to be my father but then he courts me like a lover and treats me like a whore.”
Jon hears Robb growl. “At this rate, I don’t think he’s going to be satisfied
until my mother is on her knees, playing the prodigal wife while I’m sacrificed
on the mountain like a slave boy, legs spread for babymaking.”  
“I think you have the stories mixed up.”
“Robb,” Jon warns.
Robb laughs, relieved that Jon’s spirits have returned.
Jon drops his hand in defeat. “This is going nowhere.”
Robb captures Jon’s hand and runs his thumb over Jon’s knuckles. The gesture is
soothing; Jon’s heartbeat eases to the tempo of a cricket’s chirp.
“Don’t worry,” Robb assures confidently. “We will get through this together. We
just need to come up with a plan to put Rhaegar in his place.” The confidence
he emits is astounding; even he’s empowered by his own declaration. “We can’t
let this go on. It’s hurting you and that’s hurting me.” Worse, it’s crippling
his ability to make love to his boyfriend. Somewhere in his body, his libido is
readying its war armor. “You’re a Stark, Jon Snow. There’s nothing about you
that makes you a Targaryen. He has no claim on you and I want him to understand
that it’s pointless to try to lay one.” He cradles Jon’s ring finger and pulls
him close before Jon notices Robb's fixation on the digit.
Jon sighs, but there’s a thoughtful look on his place. Finally, he chuckles.
“You’re going to keep me away from my big, bad daddy?” He teases.
Robb pulls Jon into a kiss. When Robb lets go, the younger man has a
determined, steadfast look on his face. “I’m the only one you can call
‘daddy.'”  
Butterflies flutter in his stomach. Jon tiptoes to give his cousin a sweet,
chaste kiss on his lower lip and drags it forward. Robb responds by hooking
Jon’s thighs around his waist and pushing him against the bathroom stall.
Back into the mood, Robb utilizes a part of his brain to strategize an end for
Lord Rhaegar Targaryen and his demented son. Meanwhile, he works on leaving
love marks on Jon’s skin. It’s not the message he hopes to convey, but it is a
start. He looks forward to Rhaegar’s green-eyed glare. The suggestion works him
into a frenzy, trying to get his rocks off in the smallest amount of time
possible. Gods know they have to get back soon, having wasted so much time
talking. They can’t afford to neglect Arya, either.
***
Half an hour after the show, Arya is about to finish up for the night. She’s
delivered another stunning performance, confirming that the raving reviews from
yesterday were not a fluke but a premonition. She walks out of the dressing
room to get her family. Much to her displeasure, a familiar presence blocks
her.
“Mr. Lannister,” she says with a nice, albeit fake smile. It's hard to come
back from her visibly disgruntled appearance but she's always been able to
clean up nicely. Had they been alone, she would not have bothered with the
pleasantries. Unfortunately, Tywin is standing beside a portly, middle-aged
woman with bottled blonde hair and an expression made to hammer nails. There’s
a tightness in her jaw that screams Lannister. 
“Arya, this Genna Lannister, my sister. Genna, this is Arya Stark. The girl I
was telling you about.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Genna replies. She leaves her brother’s side and gives Arya a once
over, circling the teenager like a hyena. Arya stands perfectly still and
fittingly poise. After Genna is finished, she faces her brother. “She’ll do.”
Arya raises an eyebrow.
“Genna is my public relations manager. Before that, she managed her own firm.
One of her old clients is an executive for Tiffany’s so I’ve asked her to set
up an appointment with a representative." Tywin pursed his lips. "She insisted
on meeting you first.”
“I have a reputation to maintain,” Genna tells her. “I can’t have the Lannister
name sullied for the purpose of returning favors. Good thing, you are quite
tolerable.”  
Arya’s is too happy to pay mind to the insult. “You work fast,” she teases.
Tywin offers her the closest thing to a formal shrug she has ever seen.
Glancing back and forth through the hallway, he tells her that, “The deal will
be finalized on Monday. I suggest you foster some distance between you and the
Martell boy.”
“No problem.” Arya, unlike Tywin, shrugs like a louse-lorn college student. “I
have no intentions of seeing that relationship go further.” She turns to Genna.
“Thank you for the opportunity.” It is clear she is talking to Tywin.
Tywin ushers his sister to leave. He stays behind to talk. “A Lannister always
pays his debts,” he reminds her. “I will look forward to seeing how you prosper
in the future.”
“We all do,” says an upcoming voice. Arya looks behind Tywin’s shoulder and
winces. Her parents are sauntering in with her sister and her friend, the
Margaery girl. Her mother has a fresh coat of lipstick on and her hair is
pulled back—indicating at some point, she was engaged in activities that caused
the fuchsia to smudge and her hair to mimic the wind. 
“Mum,” Arya grits out, hoping to keep the conversation to a minimum until they
are far, far away from the sinister Lannister presence. “I thought I was going
to meet you outside.”
“We were, but you were taking so long, I thought we should check up on you.”
Catelyn glances back at Tywin and Arya. “What’s going on here?”
Before Arya can say anything, Tywin answers for her. “I just finished
introducing Arya to my sister."
"Oh?"
"She’s his public relations manager," Arya explains. "Mr. Lannister is
recommending me for a sponsorship.”
“How lovely," Catelyn notes dryly. "So she did your campaign, too?”
“Yes.”
“Well then she must be good,” Ned mutters. The jibe hits everyone, and before
it can escalate, Sansa tests out her mediation skills by asking what
sponsorship Arya is being considered for.
“Tiffany’s and Co.,” Arya announces.
“Oh, you must be so excited!” Margaery weighs in, her positive attitude drew
the attention to the Stark’s middle child like a magnet.
There’s a moment that passes where Tywin, Catelyn, and Ned communicate through
micro-expressions and pheromone diffusion—the way beasts do in the wild. After
some silent consideration, Tywin makes a calculative decision to retreat.
“Since this has become a family matter, I will make my departure. Arya,” he
addresses.
Arya looks up.
“Genna will contact you by Sunday. Unfortunately, she has forgotten her
business card so you will have to contact me if you have any questions.” Tywin
smirks. "I look forward to your call." 
Arya nods her understanding. As soon as he leaves, Margaery and Sansa are quick
to coo over her successes. “You must be so excited!” Sansa cheers.
Margaery turns to Ned and Catelyn with a demure smile. “You two must be
absolutely thrilled. Arya is truly on her way to becoming a star.”
Catelyn and Ned show off their own, albeit shaky, smiles.
“Yes, we are so proud of her,” Catelyn agrees.
“Extremely proud,” Ned says.
“Couldn’t be prouder.”
Arya rolls her eyes. She double-checks her bag for all essentials and does a
double-take when she realizes she’s forgotten her phone. “Hey, why don’t you
guys go ahead?” Arya suggests. “I left my phone in my dressing room.” 
“We can wait,” Ned offers.
Arya shakes her head. “I can’t remember where I put it and it’ll take forever
to look through. It’s fine. We’re not having dinner until tomorrow anyways.”
Ned remains reluctant, but eventually, the grumbling of his daughter’s stomach
wins through. Sansa turns red as her hair and runs to the beat of Margaery’s
laughter. Catelyn sighs.
“Jon and Robb are staying behind to talk to you about something,” Catelyn tells
her. “I’ll text them that you’re in the dressing room.”
“Thanks.”
When Arya returns, the place is understandably a mess. It’s a miracle that they
know where all the costumes are at all. Syrio will have a fit if anything is
lost. The Stark girl maneuvers through the clothes, shuffling through the tutus
and fallen accessories. She tosses a necklace of pearls into an open box before
they break someone’s leg. When she spots her phone—on her vanity of all
things—she walks towards it.
Arya’s head is down when she hears the door opening. There’s no greeting. No
acknowledgment of any kind. The footsteps are slow but heavy, like a tiger
prowling through the branches. Arya is a natural at spatial awareness so when
her assailant comes within two feet of her, she grabs her chair and launches it
at him.
“What the fuck!”
Arya doesn’t stop there, nor does she wait for her attacker to gain ground. Her
father once told her to never let the enemy rest until he’s passed out and
bleeding. She grabs an umbrella prop and whacks the guy once.
“Stop it!”
“Oh shut up.” She whacks him again. Arya is brutal—she’s spent her entire life
roughhousing with brothers in a no-holdbacks culture instituted by her father
when their mother was not looking.
“No—ow!” The stranger raises up his hands in defeat. “My name is Aegon
Targaryen!”
“I don’t care.” Arya hits him again. “You could be the queen and I’d still
smack you for entering a girl’s dressing room like a pervert!”
“I wasn’t planning on doing anything—hey!” The next strike draws blood. She
watches with pride as it trickles down his temple. “Will you just listen to
me?”
“If you’re still conscious, you can prove your innocence. If you’re dead,
you’ve proven your guilt.”
“What is with that logic?”
Arya raises up the umbrella.
“Wait!” He shouts. “Wait! I’m here to see you!”
Arya stops mid-swing. “What?”
“I’m a fan—I-I sent the roses. I wanted to meet you in person but I didn’t want
your family to know because I’m positive they don’t like Targaryens and then I
saw you coming into the dressing room—are you really not going to put that
down?”
Arya is clutching onto the umbrella in the air—ready to strike at any given
word. “Nope.”
“By the gods, you’re brutal.” To Arya’s amusement, he does not sound offended.
If anything, he is almost reverent, or at least, definitively impressed.
After a few seconds of consideration, Arya lowers her weapon.
I am growing soft, Arya muses. It’s to be expected, of course. She’s always
been a sucker for pretty boys and this boy was as pretty as they come. She
squints at him for a little longer to determine if there is a family
resemblance between him and Jon. There’s a nice softness to his cheeks and a
fairness of flesh that could be interpreted as hereditary but that wasn’t
substantial enough to warrant her sympathies.  
“Get up,” Arya demands. “And turn around.”
Aegon hesitates to obey, but then he glances over at the weapon still lodge in
Arya’s hand and does as she commands.
Arya tilts her head. True, there’s a curve to his behind but nothing on the
level of Jon’s luscious bottom. She walks forward and grabs his hair.
Aegon jumps. “What are you—?”
“Ah, there it is.”
There’s that perfect, white nape; Jon’s secretive little spot that makes men
and women swoon. It’s gorgeous. She admires it at first before reaching out and
stroking it. Aegon shivers. The Targaryen is no stranger to sex but there’s
something about Arya that throws him off. She’s not flirting with him, she’s
petting him. Like he’s a cat.
Or prey.
All of a sudden, Arya stops. “Turn around,” she orders.
Aegon obeys instantly this time. It’s the first time he’s looked at her up
close and she’s ever bit as perfect as he imagined. “Hi,” he tells, a little
breathless but that may have been because of the concussion.
“Hi,” Arya replies, every bit as composed as she was on stage.
Aegon actually gets more nervous because of her calmness. He’s used to being
the one leading girls on and twirling them around his finger. This time, he is
the ribbon being wrapped. He takes a step forward. Arya lifts up the umbrella
as a warning. Aegon tries his best not to look like a child when he shuffles
through his pocket for his phone. His fingers are fidgeting all over the place.
He must look like such loser. “Listen, I know this is forward of me and I’m
sorry, really sorry for coming here, I just think you were wonderful and I was
wondering if I could get your phone—”
“Stay away from her!”
The door slams open, revealing Jon and Robb with fistsa blazingg and eyes on
fire. Arya is powerless to stop her older brother from tackling Aegon Targaryen
to floor. Contrary to Robb’s posh appearance, the man is fit. He isn’t the
captain of his rugby team for nothing. The powerhouse knocks the Targaryen heir
to the ground and swings a punch that leaves his head lolling to the floor.
There’s a crack and a struggle and Arya knows the Targaryen is doomed. If he
can’t fight back with her, he’s a dead man against Robb.  
Jon runs up to her, worried sick and starts cradling her cheeks and making
soppy cooing noise. Arya finds it absolutely adorable. Until—she hears a groan
from the floor, indicating the life slipping out of Aegon’s unconscious body.
Robb gets up and checks on her wellbeing. “Are you alright? How far did he get
with you?”
“We’ll get him locked up if he even laid a finger on you, I swear.” Jon sounds
so determined.
"I'm good." 
"Are you sure? You know whatever happens, it is not your fault. You are not
weak. You are perfect and wonderful and he's the one that is wrong." 
The whole situation is terribly endearing. Arya hates to ruin it, but she’s a
Stark and there is some goodness left in her.
“I’m fine,” she assures them. “I actually more concerned for the pretty boy
here." Arya whistles dramatically. "He's going to be really disappointed when
he hears I can’t make it to our date since I’ll be attending your trial.”
Jon and Robb take a minute to process her words. They look down at the body and
see phone fallen at his side.  
“Fuck,” Jon whispers.
“Oh yeah,” Arya agrees. “Fuck indeed.” Fortunately, for all of them, she's been
through this before, though the circumstances weren’t half as violent and
involved an all girl’s trip to Paris where she and a few of her mates got so
pissed that they knocked Waif out with a wine bottle. The Stark girl heads to
the costume section and pulls out an aged rum that Lady Crane keeps lying
about.
They watch in horror as she pours the bottle over the Targaryen’s face.
“What are you doing?” Robb asks.
“Making him smell drunk. We won’t have to explain to the cabbie if they think
he’s sloshed.”  
Arya walks over to one of the costume trunks and pulls out a pair of
sunglasses. She puts them on Aegon before taking a step back and frowning. “No,
he stills looks too much like a Targaryen.”
Arya gets up and fiddles through the costume makeup. The place is truly a mess.
This time, Jon speaks up. “What are you doing?”
Arya grabs up a bottle of red and blue dye. She sniffs the red one and gags.
Immediately throwing that container in the trash, she scents out the blue and
lets out a grimace of acceptance. “I’m keeping us out of trouble. I can’t
afford a scandal right now and knocking out the heir to the Targaryen
fortune—that’s a scandal if there is one.”
Jon winces at her reasoning.
Arya starts mixing the blue with some water. “Get him in the chair.”
The boys lifted him up. While she runs the blue into his silver locks, she
gives them slightly more details than they needed to know. Arya doesn’t want to
incriminate them, but she can’t afford mistakes based on miscommunication. “If
we can get him back to his hotel without getting caught, we’re in the clear. We
just need to make sure we’re not accountable. Being seen with a Targaryen is
risky enough.”
“Hence the blue dye,” Robb notes approvingly.
Arya nods. “The theatre has a back door so no one can see. It’s almost empty,
anyways. All we have to do is find out where his hotel is and his room.”
“He’s staying at our hotel,” Jon tells her. “I don’t know the room but I can
find out.”  He winces. “Rhaegar probably has me listed as a guest.”
Robb growls. “That sick freak.”
Arya agrees but focuses on the larger issue at hand. “If he remembers anything
from tonight, we’ll just say we never saw him. It’s our word against his and no
one would trust a Targaryen over a Stark. We’ll be fine.”
“Wait.”
Arya and Robb turn to Jon. The oldest of the three grimaces. “There’s still
Rhaegar. He might be in the hotel room. We can’t sneak him in if he’s there.”
The new information throws off Arya’s thinking. She takes a moment to
reconsider her options but Robb beats her to it.
“We can kill him.”
“No!”
“Wait, let’s not knock him down just yet.”
“Arya!” Jon shouts.
“What?” Arya looks back in exasperation. “There might be more to the plan than
he’s letting on. We won’t hear it if we don’t giveRobb a chance to explain.”
“No, I’m saying we just kill him,” Robb confirms. “We can make it look like a
robbery gone wrong.”
“No, we will not.”
“I think he means, we will not unless we can’t come up with a better idea.”
Arya winks at her older brother. He winks back.
“Arya, Robb,” Jon warns. “We are not killing Rhaegar Targaryen.”
Robb disagrees. “Nothing sends a ‘he’s mine’ message better than murder.”
"And he is a creep." Arya was reluctant to let the potential murder of Willas
Tyrell slide, but this is Rhaegar Targaryen. If what she's heard about him is
true, and it is because the information came from Jon himself, maybe a little
stabbing action is necessary to put him in his place. 
Hell. 
“I said ‘no’!” Jon groans. He thinks for a moment before sighing. “Maybe if I
just talk to him. Ask him out for dinner so he gets out of the room.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with that man,” Robb hisses.
“Well, then, what do you want us to do? We need to get him out of the room!” He
shouts back, equally annoyed.
“He might not even be in the room!”
“We need to have a backup plan. You always tell me that!”
“Yeah! For like computer systems and essays!” Robb defends. “Not plans
involving you being alone with your incestuous father!”
Their screaming shakes the room and provides an adequate alarm for Aegon's
forceful slumber. Arya watches the limp body regain motion. She glances over to
the bickering love birds and slowly takes the umbrella back into her hands.
Quiet as a cat and slow as a sloth, she raises it up. Just as Aegon is about to
open his eyes, she whacks him on top of his head. 
The crack heard when he hits the floor is loud enough to invoke silence.
When Arya is done with wiping off the blood on her umbrella, she sees both her
brother and cousin looking back at her. She smiles, girlishly as Sansa taught
her, which falters when Jon shakes his head and says “Don’t.”
Arya sighs. She’s never been good at lying.
“New plan,” Jon grits out, unable to let these psychopaths act on their own
accord. “I will contact Rhaegar and ask him to join me in our room.”
“Absolutely n—!”
“You,” he growls at Robb, teeth clenching against each other. “Will be with me.
We will talk to him under the pretense of a negotiation. Can you handle that?”
 
Robb stiffens. He crosses his arms and tries his best not to pout. “Fine.”
Jon turns to Arya. “Arya, can you carry him to the room?”
Arya nods.
“Are you sure?”
Arya rolls her eyes. “He’s like what? A buck fifty? I’ve lifted ballerinas
heavier than him.”
With the plan settled, Jon tells Robb to call a cab using a spoofing app he
invented for stalking his lover’s exes. The two boys carry Aegon’s limp body to
the car, while Arya does her stretches. She’s prepared to lift the dragon boy
back to his room but she needs to conserve her strength first.
When they get into taxi, Jon and Robb are setting the parameters of the
conversation. Arya secretly hides her smile from the two boys. They may be in
big trouble, but Arya loves the rush; the danger. She couldn’t get this high in
Yorkshire.
***
Peace never follows the good nor does it abandon the wicked. While Ramsay is
pretending not to enjoy Theon’s post-coital snuggle underneath his arm—and is
fully prepared to kick the boy out of his bed once he's awake—he receives an
oddly timed phone call from one of his boys.
“What?” Ramsay growls out.
The caller sounds as nervous as he should be. Ramsay relishes in his shivers.
“Ramsay, boss, sorry for waking you but, here's thing, and it's really big so I
know you won't get too angry, but I was walking around town and…”
“Get to it.”
There’s a gulp; a pause. When Ramsay gives a command, he expects it to be
followed through without hesitance. The bastard tightens his grip around his
cell.
“What. Is. It.”
“There’s been another murder,” the voice whimpers. “And it’s not one of ours.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     Hello everyone! Meow meow! ヾ(=`ω´=)ノ”
     I'm very happy to be back, writing again. I should be posting a new
     schedule out soon but for now, here is the latest update of Runs in
     the Family. I hope you all enjoy it! I've been very lazy but I hope I
     can update in a timely manner. No later than 11:59 PM (HST).
     Please, leave your comments and suggestions. After London Arc ends,
     I'll be focusing on the Serial Killer Arc. Do you guys have any
     theories as to what's going on? I've been leaving clues all over the
     place but I'm curious to see what's everyone thinking. Some people
     have actually picked up on some clues which was awesome!
***** Chapter 52 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Rhaegar receives Jon’s phone call while sipping on his French 75 and listening
to a recording of his newest composition. The intro is orgasmic, with his agent
commenting that the violins were “so pornographic that he wished he had a penis
to masturbate with.” High praise indeed. Rhaegar expects the song to be
finished by tomorrow morning, but as soon as he hears that he’s received a
phone call from Room 948, he estimates a later deadline.
“Jon?” He asks, trying not to let on he’s unzipping his pants.
“Hi, Rhaegar.” For some reason, Jon sounds more seductive when he’s reluctant.
“It’s Jon.”
“Oh, I would recognize my baby boy’s voice anywhere. Tell me, what can I do for
you?”
There is a pause. “I was thinking about what you said.”
“If that’s the case, I don’t understand why I’m still ‘Rhaegar.’ It’s ‘daddy’
for you.”
“Anyways,” Jon speaks, returning to business. “I was hoping we could discuss
what a relationship between us would entail.” Jon is as serious as ever,
Rhaegar muses unhappily. The composer has his work cut out for him, draining
this adorable child of his uncle’s negative influence. He should feel free to
dance in the wheat fields naked and go skinny dipping in lakes. Baby boys
should not be so contained, and Jon is his baby.
Rhaegar repeats this sentiment to Jon, which causes him to respond in a
deadpanned manner that:
“It’s astounding how many of the liberties you imagine for me involve nudity.”
“Can you blame me? You are gorgeous,” he purrs out. “What are you wearing?”
“Rhaegar,” he sighs. 
“Daddy,” Rhaegar corrects. He sighs, unable to deny the frustration of his
advances being refused.
“Rhaegar,” Jon repeats without hesitation. “I am wearing the same thing I wore
at the play. White shirt. Black slacks.”
“What about your underwear? Are you a boxers or briefs boy? Maybe even a pair
of lacy panties for special occasions?”
“I am not wearing panties, Rheagar, nor am I a 'boy' anything. I am a man.”
"I see. No underwear at all. Very scandalous. You're definitely my son."
Rhaegar hears his son groan, probably in pleasure. Rhaegar purses his lips.
That Robb boy has got to go; he’s obviously a negative influence on his son.
“Rhaegar.” Jon seems obsessed with using his name. It is as if using it could
distance the love they are building. Perhaps he’s taking cues from his mother,
hoping formalities will be enough to separate them; playing it safe because
he's too afraid of being ignited by the passions of his loins. What does it
matter if he’s ‘married’ or a ‘Targaryen’ anyways? All that matters is love.
“Listen, I am willing to talk. Would you be interested in coming to my room,
tonight?”
“Yes!” He says, a little too eagerly. He clenches his fist at his lack of
restraint. He cannot help it. One thought of those perfect Stark buns and he’s
toppling over in pre-orgasmic bliss. He wonders if Lyanna taught her son on how
to pull at his heartstrings. He doesn’t put it past her, that goddamn, vicious
tease. 
God, he loves that woman.
“You can come over now. I’ll make some tea. Do you have a preference?”
“Besides you?”
Without missing a beat, Jon replies, “I’m not on the menu.”
Oh, his son is definitely trying to seduce him with his blatant aversion. He
wonders if the boy is attempting to get a new toy out of him—makes sense that
his child would use his wily ways to achieve a goal or get some goodies. He has
the makings of a whore and Rhaegar craves the power. Sometimes, a father is
like a John; they provide funds in exchange for varying levels of affection.
Other times, they are the pimps who help guide their children on the right
path. 
When Jon ends the phone call, he sends a text to Robb that the coast is clear
and turns around to see his cousins dragging the unconscious boy out of the
cabbie. Nothing about this scene is appropriate. Thankfully, the cabbie has
been in the business for over a decade and has seen worse. He takes Robb’s
generous tip with a nod of the head and goes about his business.
Right before they enter, Robb hands the Targaryen over to Arya, who throws him
over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Robb grabs his lighter and throws
it into a nearby trashcan, watching the garbage ignite into flames. The fire
draws the attention of the doorman and several pedestrians, giving the Starks
an opportunity to sneak themselves into the hotel. This late at night, people
are either in bed or the clubs. Arya heads to the elevators while Robb goes
upstairs.
Jon hears the knock on his door, signifying Rhaegar’s arrival. Jon curses his
promptness. He must have left as soon as they spoke. Robb is not back yet, but
he can’t afford to keep Rhaegar waiting.
Against his better judgment, Jon opens the door to Rhaegar’s beaming smile. The
Targaryen does not expect to be invited in but instead lunges into a hug.
Rhaegar is not subtle; his tentacles find their way to Jon’s ass and squeezes
them like stress balls. 
“I see you’re doing well,” Rhaegar sighs. “I could balance a book off this
butt.” 
Jon makes a quick prayer to the gods above. He’s not sure how long he can ward
off Rhaegar’s advances. “I made some tea for us. Let’s sit down.”
“Hmm-hmm.”
Jon smiles tightly. He offers a not-so-gentle knee to the groin, which doesn’t
so much as incapacitate his father as it surprises him.
“Rough,” he praises with a wink. “Like your mother.”
Are his balls made of silver? Jon wonders. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Rhaegar does as he is told. He crosses his legs and smothers Jon with his sex
eyes. Jon feels violated in more ways than one.  
“I’m so happy you’ve agreed to further our relationship. There are so many
things I can teach you; things that only a father can teach his son.”
“Like what?” As soon as Jon asked, he winced.
“Pleasures of the flesh your mind cannot fathom,” Rhaegar purrs. “I’d show you
all the places you’ve never thought about touching, perform acts that would
make a whore cringe. Trust me, Jon, we will explore this relationship like no
father and son has ever before.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Jon replies. He places the tray on the table. “So
I think we should set up some boundaries before we begin our…resolution.”
“Of course,” Rhaegar agrees. “How about for every bad, bad thing you do, I get
to spank you?”
Jon nearly drops his teacup. He considers taking a sip before placing it back
on the table. He decides that hot objects in his hand are more likely to end up
on Rhaegar’s face than his stomach.
“I mean, boundaries in the sense of, well, appropriate times to meet each other
in the daytime and where we can set up appointments to chat, like, crowded
places. Little things that can help us move forward without feeling
threatened.”
“I’m not threatened by the passion we have for each other.”
“That makes one of us.”
Rhaegar furrows his brow. “Do you have a problem with my oral affection?”
Jon tries to smile but cannot, not around this mad man. “I just think there
should be restrictions on the things we can and cannot say to each other. For
example, I would be more comfortable if ‘oral affection’ was off limits.”
Rhaegar purses his lips. “That doesn’t seem entirely fair, that Stark boy gets
to give you oral affection.”
“He’s my boyfriend; he’s allowed to give me as much oral affection as he
wants.”
“You tell him, Jon!”
Robb slams the door open, sweat dripping off his body like he’s had a run-in
with the rain. He must have used the stairs in his zeal. 
Rhaegar’s eyes narrow down on the Stark. “Oh…you’ve brought him,” he spits out.
“He’s a precaution,” Jon explains immediately, glaring at his boyfriend while
he did so. “I figure we could use a neutral party to help us along.”  
“His father hates me.”
“All for a good reason,” Robb declares as he frantically grabs some water from
the sink and downs it like a starving man. He walks over to the couch and
places his arm on Jon’s shoulder. 
Rhaegar sighs. “You could be so much better, Jon. Starks are fine men if you
need someone to lift you up on a counter and fuck your brains out but there’s
no refinement in them. A son of mine deserves better. A son of mine deserves,
well, another son of mine. I make beautiful babies.”
Rhaegar drinks his tea, not bothering to comprehend the disgusted looks of his
hosts. He does notice the way Jon frantically stabs his phone screen and sends
a message, but he figures that’s a problem for a rainy day. His baby boy looks
so pretty when he’s worried.
***
Arya finds Aegon’s hotel key in his wallet and uses it to sneak into his
bedroom. She is respectful of his motionless body but not so respectful that
when she hears the stirring of his consciousness that she does nothing. Ever
the fighter, Arya avoids the flight like the plague. She grabs a horsewhip from
her bag—another prop from the show and one that Jon encourage her to ‘borrow’
to prevent Arya’s less sensitive nature seeping through if Aegon woke up.
Another hit from the umbrella and his silver-haired half-brother (now an ocean
themed beauty) will have brain damage for life.
“What the hell…?” She hears him grumble.
Arya walks towards him menacingly, whip in hand, and slowly prepares to strike.
As soon as she raises the weapon in the air, Aegon catches sight of her
assault. He scrambles off the mattress and tumbles to the floor as soon as Arya
hits the comforter.
“Damn it,” she mutters.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Arya taps the whip on her hand. She raises an eyebrow. “You have a remarkably
strong skull. Not many people can withstand a tackle from Robb and a couple
bludgeons from me. You should be very proud.”
“What are you talking about?” Aegon glances at his bedsheets and his ruffled
clothing. “Were you trying to rape me?” 
Damn, his Targaryen beauty. 
“No!” Arya scoffs. “I was just trying to put you to sleep. Now, we can do this
the hard way or the easy way.”
Aegon grabs a chair.
Arya sighs. “The hard way it is.” She slams her whip where he stood, only to be
blocked by the chair. Aegon smirks, thinking he gain the upper hand when Arya
continues to get her hits thwarted. Aegon, despite his lean frame, is fitter
than the average man. He takes his craft seriously, and that means perfecting
his body to reach a masculine ideal. 
Arya, however, has had over ten years of physically grueling training under an
insane instructor and fifteen other crazy girls. She kicks the chair all the
way against the wall. Aegon watches in horror as it breaks—legs and splinters
everywhere, leaving him defenseless. His mind is a little woozy from the
earlier beatings, but he has the reflexes to dodge the next attack on his form.
Aegon jumps on the bed, jumps off, and dashes outside the room.
"You can run but you can't hide." 
When Arya follows him, she sees he’s grabbed a lamp. 
“I don’t want to hit a girl,” he warns.
Arya chuckles,. “You know, Jon once told me that if a guy ever says that, he
deserves to get his ass kicked.” Her whip hits the lamp, and it shatters.
Aegon stares at the pieces in his hand. Arya uses his distraction to strike his
forearm.
“Ow!”
She moves forward to his leg, and the sound of leather hitting flesh is like
aural crack.
“Fuck!”
Aegon whimpers when she strikes his dainty little waist.
“You make the prettiest noises,” Arya muses. “You know; it would be faster to
get you to pass out by hitting your face. But after leaving that bump on the
back of your head, I  couldn’t bear it. I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”
Arya’s next move manages to get Aegon on the floor. There’s still some fight in
him, and Arya cannot help but be entertained. She does love a challenge.
Arya raises up her arm for the final move, but Aegon places up his hands in
defeat. “Wait!” he begs her. “Just, wait. Can't we talk about this?" 
Arya shakes head. "We really can't." 
"Just tell me, why are you doing this? What do you want? Money? Revenge? Did I
wrong you somehow?”
Aegon doubts he could ever do Arya Stark any damage. The girl is a
goddess—albeit a goddess of a war and strife, but definitely a deity he can
worship. 
Arya shakes her head. “It’s nothing personal,” Arya informs. “It’s just that
your family has become rather troublesome. Your father is interfering with the
people I love and therefore, he's interfering with me. Can't be helped." 
His family? Aegon thinks. Suddenly, the memories of being attacked by two grown
men return to him. Righteous anger fills him, and as he is about to stand up to
confront, the whip snaps against Arya’s hand. He returns to the ground.
“Is this about Jon?” Three-quarters of fear and an eighth of anger and an
eighth of stress can mimic reason.
“Isn’t everything?” Arya considers lying. Then, she shrugs, deciding that even
if she tells the truth, Aegon will probably not remember a thing after she’s
done with him. She will have him begging for mercy. “Your father has been
overstepping his boundaries, and it seems that the apple…” Arya traces her whip
from his belly button to his chin. Despite their arrangement, Aegon is
unbearably turned on. “…does not fall far from the tree. From what I've heard,
you've been very rude to Jon.”
The Targaryen glares at her, hoping his rage will distract her from his
erection. “Jon is destroying my family.” 
Arya hits his shoulder this time; though the slap from the whip is considerably
more gentle than the other hits. It is a warning shot, and Aegon loves it. “Jon
didn’t ask for your father’s wayward advances. I get that you’re upset. He is
the product of infidelity. But that’s no reason to take it out on him.”
“He’s a whore—.”
Arya’s next strike is far rougher than the earlier one. There’s no love in this
hit. “Call him a whore again. I dare you.”
Aegon spits out his bloodied saliva. “Whore.”
Arya has never made a threat she couldn’t follow through. For the first time
tonight, Arya hits his face. He hears her sigh when she’s done and almost moans
when she bends down to cradle him. “I really didn’t want to do that. Your face
didn’t deserve it,” she murmurs.
Up close, Aegon notices that while Arya isn’t as beautiful as her older sister,
she does have an eye-catching appeal that transcends beyond her dancing. He
can't look away.
“Let me go,” Aegon grits out. “If you leave now, I won’t call the cops on you.
I won't do that to another artist.” Aegon pauses. “You have my word.”
“Honorable,” Arya muses. “Rare for a Targaryen.”
“You're kind of deceitful for a Stark.”
Arya smiles at his accusation. “I suppose it’s the Tully side. We will do
anything for family. You wouldn’t understand.”
Aegon glares at her. While it was true that his childhood was chilled from the
start, beginning with his parent’s indifference to one another, their daily
passive-aggressive battles, and a boarding school that meant he saw them once a
year at most—it doesn’t mean he loves them any less.
“Your cousin’s entire presence dishonors my mother,” he snaps.
Arya rolls her eyes. “It’s not his fault he’s a bastard. He didn’t ask to be
your brother.” 
“But he does ask for my father’s cock!”
“…what?”
Aegon stops his yelling to process her words. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What did you say?” Arya retorts. She stares at him incredulously. “Jon is
dating my brother.”
“I know!” Aegon shouts. Sweat starts to drip from his pores. “But he’s…he’s
um…isn’t he also…fuckingmyfather?” Aegon asks, the last three words spoken in
an inordinately high pitch. Shame washes over him as the comment begins to lose
all authenticity.
"Your father?" 
Aegon meekly nods his head. 
"Rhaegar Targaryen?"
"Listen, I think I've been seriously misinformed..." 
"The answer is no." Suddenly, she gives him a look bordering on pity and
disgust. "Listen, I get that you are Targaryens and it's cool, as long as you
guys consent and whatnot, but can you try to keep this 'keep it in the family',
I don't know 'in the family?' Because Jon may be related to you and yeah, he's
dating my brother, but still, it's a little weird how you guys keep pushing
this 'blood purity' thing. Jon doesn't even have a uterus for whatever freaky
shit you guys have planned." 
“No!” Aegon stands up in disgust. “No! No! Cousins are one thing but that is
just—no! I am so much better than that." 
"That has yet to be seen." Arya leaves him alone. She goes back to the bedroom
to grab her bag. "Listen, I have to go. This is...this is fucked up. Too fucked
up for me. You said you're going to keep your mouth shut? Cool. I believe you.
Will probably kill you if you don't, but hey, it's my word against yours." 
Aegon gains the strength to follow her to the hallway. When she walks too fast,
he grabs her. Arya does not like that, so she drops kick to the floor.  
While he is groveling, he reaches out to her. "Wait!" He shouts, loud enough to
draw the attention of other guests. Arya groans and stops in her tracks. “What
did you say about Jon?”
“He’s dating my brother?" 
“No, I mean, before that about him being…”
Arya raises an eyebrow, but all it does is draw attention to her glower. “What?
A bastard?”
“No! I mean before that…”
“Your brother?”
“Yes!”
“Yes? That’s the reason you hate him, right? Other than the fact that you
thought he was sleeping your father? You hated your incestuous brother.”
“No!” Aegon shouts at her. “I just thought he was my father’s mistress. What do
you mean he’s my brother?”
“His mother was your father’s mistress.”
“I got that from the brother part!” 
“Then why do you ask?” Arya rolls her eyes.
As the information transfers to his brain, the wires connect to one another,
making more sense of Jon’s interactions with him and Robb’s defensive behavior.
Greater than any impact is the horror of his father’s perversion and how, last
night, he listened to the man masturbate over his brother’s sex videos. 
“I’m going to be sick,” Aegon mutters, leaning on the couch; the same couch
with more stability than his life.
Arya rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s life. Listen, I have to go. Jon is stuck in
a hotel room with your father, and I’m not sure how long he can handle him. So
we cool?” The clock says 11:00 and she has to get to bed. Tomorrow is the
finale, and she can't afford less than her A-game.
Arya’s announcement grabs Aegon’s attention like a hooker’s ass. “Did you say
my father was with Jon?”
“Yeah?” Arya is almost blown away by the flash of blue that brushes past her
and leaves the suite. She sighs. Robb can protect Jon, she assures herself.
Just in case, she sends them a warning message, hoping it gets there in time.
When she hears the sound of broken down doors, shattered glasses, and screaming
from beneath, she makes the conscience-driven decision to see through this plan
and all its consequences.
Fuck my life, she thinks, to be born a Stark of all things.
***
At some point in their conversation, Jon is lifted up and placed on Robb’s lap,
being hand-fed tiramisu from behind while having pomegranates pushed in his
mouth from the front. He accepts the food gracefully, but he’s still unnerved
by his father and lover’s competition of pampering. Instead of dwelling on it,
he reaches backward to swallow a piece of coffee flavored cake, letting Robb
brush against his lips and skim his fingers across his temples as if he is
worshipping his flesh. The pomegranate seeds stain Rhaegar’s fingers and
probably Jon’s lips, and he idly contemplates sucking the fingers in to clean
them before his eyes snapped open, and he scrambles out of his seat.
“What is this?”
“What’s the matter, Jon?” Robb asks, genuinely concern about the dramatic
reaction.
“You two just hustle me onto the couch and started feeding me things!”
“I wanted to show you want a good provider I was,” Rhaegar notes as he licks
his fingers seductively. “A daddy should be able to give all sorts of things to
his son.”
“And I wanted you to relax because some people make shit dads and just stress
out their children even more,” Robb says sweetly.
Jon groans. “What is wrong with you two?”
Rhaegar gets up from the couch, but Robb beats him to it. He cradles Jon’s
cheek and pulls him into a kiss, relishing in the growl he heard from Rhaegar
Targaryen. When they part, he kisses him again for good measure. And then
again. And he doesn’t stop until his tongue is licking every single part of his
mouth. Rhaegar crushes a handful of pomegranate seeds. 
Robb smirks as he turns around. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Rhaegar snaps. He stands up. “But I am a little affronted that you
think such a blatant display of showboating is enough to mark your territory.
It’s such a childish, beta move of you.”
Robb glares at the Targaryen. “Careful, old man. The alpha of the pack always
gets overthrown by the young, more virile male.”
“This is not National Geographic,” Jon mutters.
“I have more virility in my finger than you do in your entire body.” Rhaegar
marches over to Jon and swoops him away. Before he can try anything, Robb
pushes him off. He points at him aggressively.
“Don’t fucking touch him again.”
“He’s my son. I can do whatever I want.”
“No,” Robb shoves him again. Jon tries to intercede but is quickly sent to the
background. “He doesn’t have to do anything you want. You’re nothing more than
a creep who's using him for his sick, jerkoff fantasies. Jon is mine.”
“I am a part of him that you can’t get rid of. He’s my flesh and blood. Without
a father, he’ll always be missing something; an empty hole he can’t ever
fulfill." 
“Well, I’ve seen all his holes, and I have to say: he’s been filled.”
It’s the end of their conversation that night; neither of the young men realize
that Rhaegar is still clutching onto his bowl of pomegranates. When he smacks
the ceramic against Robb’s temple, Jon is too shocked to react until he hears
the thud on the ground. By then, it is too late.
Rhaegar lunges on top of Jon and tackles him to the ground. Though Jon
struggles, he is powerless when Rhaegar grabs a piece of cloth from his pocket
and forces against his mouth. Jon kicks, punches, and grabs anything and
everything he can but the fumes of the chloroform prove too powerful.
“I’m so sorry for this, love.” Rhaegar kisses him on his cheek as Jon’s body is
drained of his fight. “I wanted to be more gentle with you but you've left me
no choice.”
Jon’s eyes flutter close just as a shadowy figure comes up behind him tosses
him to the other side of the room.
“I will kill you!” Robb growls, raging pulsing through his veins, making him
look twice his size. Rhaegar sighs at the interruption. He tries to get up, but
Robb is already on him, straddling his hips so that he can have easy access to
his face. Robb is ruthless, punching him one after the other. Never one to give
up without a fight, Rhaegar manages to escape by jabbing his fist into Robb’s
opening. The distraction is enough to get away, but the younger male is
stronger and built to withstand force. He shakes off the aftershock. Rhaegar
groans. Stark men, he groans, just a bunch of oxen. Rhaegar grabs the teapot on
the table and slams it against Robb’s cheek.  
The water is lukewarm and but some of the liquid gets into his eye. Rhaegar
tackles him against the wall. He uses the chloroform he dropped and tries to
gag the younger male. Robb’s elbow jabs his back and Rhaegar groans.
Robb grabs his hair and slams him against the door. Rhaegar realizes then that
he’s not strong enough to beat the boy in a fair fight but he can use his
tricks. As Robb throws him back on the ground, Rhaegar finds a broken tea shard
and stabs the younger man’s foot. Robb howls but keeps on kicking. Rhaegar is
about to do it again when the door springs open and the knob bangs against his
head.
Rhaegar is down for the count.
“Father, I am here to stop you from raping my little brother!” Aegon announces
as he marches into the room. He does not get further than a foot in when his
path is obstructed by the unconscious body of his father. He turns to his right
and sees Robb nursing his head wound and turns to his left to see Jon trying to
get off the floor.
Arya gasps. She rushes over to him. “Jon, are you alright?”
Jon rubs his eyes to ward off the dizziness. “What happened?”
“Rhaegar tried to kidnap you,” Robb growls. He pulls off the ceramic shard and
bends down. Right before he can slit his challenger’s throat, Jon stops him.
“What the fuck, Robb? Put that down!”
Robb makes an animalistic noise. “He tried to take you away from me.”
“Put the sharp object down.”
The sad part is that Robb is seriously contemplating disobeying him. After a
few moments of heavy thought, Robb sighs and drops the ceramic onto the floor.
Jon struggles to get to his feet. He stumbles into Robb’s arms and caresses his
face. “I’m so proud of you for protecting me,” he soothes.
Robb turns red with pride. “I was so scared of losing you.”
Jon nods. “Me, too. I freaked out when I saw all that blood…until I realized it
was just pomegranates.”
Robb’s stare burns into Jon’s soul. “Pomegranates are the fruit of forbidden
love.”
Jon leans in to lick the juice off his face. “It reminds me of blood. Like you
just killed my father because he wouldn’t give you my hand in marriage.”
“You know I would have killed him for you,” Robb promises.
Rhaegar lets out a little groan. Aegon echoes that groan with his
embarrassment.
“I can’t be watching this.”
Arya agrees.  “Guys, can you do this some other time…?”
“I can’t imagine my life without you,” Robb whispers, not bothering to listen
to their small-minded ways. He pulls Jon into a passionate kiss that makes even
Arya uncomfortable and turns Aegon into a spluttering mess. He grabs Arya’s arm
and starts shaking her for answers.
“I’ve never been a big brother before. What does this mean? Do I do something?
Protect his virtue?”
Jon pulls away from the kiss first. He latches onto Robb’s collar and rips the
fabric apart. “Robb, I need you to fuck me. Hard. Like every thrust inside me
is another slap to Rhaegar's face.”
Arya coughs and turns to Aegon. “I think his virtue has been gone for a while.”
More clothing is torn off. Both of them jump when shreds of black fabric are
thrown in their direction. Robb throws his lover down to the ground—right next
to Rhaegar’s cataleptic body and a foot away from Arya and Aegon.
“I am going to fuck you like you are the king’s wife and I’m his enemy
combatant, cuckolding him on his marriage bed.”
“Gods yes, that’s so hot," Jon moans. "You get pregnant and then let him raise
your child as heir." 
“What kind of fantasy is that?” Arya asks. Much to her displeasure, no one
acknowledges her disbelief. They are too busy undressing and getting their
rocks off. Aegon is trembling in horror. Arya feels for him. His younger
brother is having sex in front of him and his father is half-dead on the
ground. She does the only thing she can do.
She leaves.
“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, needing the firm hand of a strong woman.
Arya sighs, because she has one baby Targaryen in her life and she doesn’t need
another. Nonetheless, her conscience wins out and she is kneeling on the floor
again, cradling Aegon’s beautiful, long fingers. He is truly a feast for the
eyes.
“Aegon, I want you to listen to my directions very carefully because I’m only
going to say this one.”
Aegon nods, happy to be told what to do.
“Grab your father and get the fuck out of this room.”   
Chapter End Notes
     This was a very dialogue-heavy chapter which always worries me. I
     hope you guys liked it! I haven't decided on what's going to happen
     after this but Rhaegar is not entirely finished and neither is Aegon.
     I'll probably refocus my attention to Theon and Ramsay because they
     are one of my favorite couples to write about. I love their
     dysfunction.
     Anyways, I am super excited about the new Game of Thrones trailer and
     am so excited about getting this chapter out on time. I will also be
     posting the Willas/Jon oneshot on the 3rd of July so for all the
     Willas/Jon fans, there's finally a happy ending for them!
***** Chapter 53 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Aegon can cook; he’s a great cook, actually, the best in the family. Rhaegar
assumes it’s on account of him being a prissy child, bursting into tears if his
breast milk was so much as a drop below room temperature. To remedy his
retentiveness, the family gave him cooking lessons, hoping that the difficulty
would make him respect their chef’s authority. The plan failed, but while Aegon
remained as finicky as ever, he did develop a new skill set and adjusted their
family’s palette to match his own. The memory of Aegon chopping carrots into
stars and making pate out of geese organs brings out a hum of nostalgia from
his lips.
After getting out of the bed, Rhaegar walks off his headache by wandering into
the living room. The tune carries on his lip. To his surprise, the kitchen
isn’t bustling with spices or sizzling with meats; all is silent except for the
pigeons nesting on the ledge, Rhaegar immediately wonders if something is
wrong. He doesn’t remember what happened after Jon escaped his clutches, but he
is sporting a few new bruises, a sore nose, and a head injury that may require
a doctor’s appointment.
Rhaegar doesn’t fret. Lost memories are one thing but ever the optimist; he
chooses to focus on the positives. His safe return guarantees another chance at
Jon’s bottom and that’s something to look forward to, not a failure to look
back upon.
The door opens, and Rhaegar sees Aegon entering with a bag of takeaway and a
cup holder full of coffee. “I got breakfast,” his son mutters. “Eggs benedict
and a fruit plate with yogurt. Figured your head could use something light.”
He sets the meal down on the table. Rhaegar helps put the food on plates. His
son is uncharacteristically quiet, which doesn’t displease him as it makes him
curious.
“Here’s your coffee,” Aegon mutters.
“Thanks,” Rhaegar replies smoothly. Despite his injuries, Rhaegar is pleased by
the tranquility in the air. There’s peace in silence, and it allows him to
appreciate the intricacies of nature. Before today, he’s never been aware of
how the birds purr like kittens when they’re huddled together or how London’s
traffic and pedestrian chatter harmonize to create an upbeat, urban song.
“You bastard!” Aegon yells, throwing his drink at his father’s face. Those
glorious months of handling Lyanna’s tantrums has given him superb reflexes;
dodging a boiling cup of coffee is no different than dodging a vase or a polo
stick.
With his serenity ruin, he tries to confront his son on the matter, only to
have his son throw a knife at him. Fortunately, the plastic utensil bounces off
his forehead. Unfortunately, he doubts that the knife Aegon grabs from the
cabinets will do the same.
“Aegon, what has come over you?”
Aegon points the knife at him. Rhaegar takes a step back but maintains his
composure. This isn’t the first time someone has pointed a knife at him in his
life; hell, this isn’t the first time someone pointed a knife at him this year.
He lives in London, after all.
“You,” Aegon grits out. “Are a pervert.”
Rhaegar sighs. The boy spat the word out like a naughty accusation. “Aegon, I
don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“Jon is my brother, and you were trying to kidnap him!”
“Okay, you might know something.”
Aegon charges at him. Rhaegar gets out of the way and grabs his son from behind
before he falls and stabs himself. Aegon bristles like a wet cat. “Get off me!”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You cheated on mum!” Aegon struggles further. When he realizes that his grip
on the knife is holding him back, he drops it. Rhaegar is relieved until Aegon
starts to use his arms properly and elbows him in the ribs. Staggering away,
Aegon grips his plastic fork and faces him with a mouth filled with disgusting
accusations. “You tried to rape my brother!”
Rhaegar rolls his eyes. “I tried to facilitate a meeting between you two. After
your behavior last night, it would have been a miracle to get him in the same
room as you.” He shakes his head. “You are such a child, sometimes.”
Aegon splutters out his outrage. “I only acted that way because I thought he
was your mistress!”
“I wish,” Rhaegar mutters as he maneuvers a plan to get out of this situation.
“Aegon, I only found out about Jon a few weeks ago. I thought it’d be good for
my two boys to get to know each other.”
“Really?” Aegon’s lips tremble. There's still doubt on his face, but his
resolve weakens. Rhaegar’s prince has never been one to ignore a happy ending.
His son hates drama outside the stage. His heir is a sop for stories; he slaves
over the end game, the happy ending. To him, life doesn’t have meaning unless
goodness prevails. Aegon wants to believe Rhaegar didn’t mean anything when he
brought them here, and he needs a justification for his half-brother getting
choked with chloroform.
“Yes,” Rhaegar answers.
Aegon crosses his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks suspiciously.
“I wanted to keep the matter quiet,” Rhaegar says to him. “I was afraid you’d
tell Rhaenys, and she’d tell your mother. You know how stress affects her.”
Aegon glares furiously. “She’d be a lot less stress if you didn’t have sex with
teenagers!”
Rhaegar doesn’t have an ounce of shame on his face when he says, “That was a
long time ago. Lyanna’s no longer a teenager. Neither is Jon for that
matter—though he has his baby fat in all the right places…”
“Stop that!” Aegon shouts.
“Stop what?”
“Stop—stop talking about Jon like that. Stop talking about his ass or how
pretty he is…it’s, it’s like you want to do things to him. Ba—dirty things.”
Aegon is blushing like a virgin. The redness is more significant on his skin
than anyone else—a side effect of the Targaryen paleness. “He’s your son.”
“Nothing wrong with being close,” Rhaegar counters. “Besides, I didn’t want him
for me, per say. I wanted him for you. Of course, I expected you to share once
you’ve had him, but I wouldn’t greedy about it.”
Aegon drops his fork in horror. “What?” Aegon hisses. The red on his cheeks
spread and turns to an unusual shade of blue. “What the hell are you talking
about?”
Rhaegar shakes his head, more than a little disappointed by his son’s lack of
imagination. “Haven’t you imagine it?"
"No! Of course not! That would be wrong!"
Rhaegar 'tsk' at him." Don’t answer that if you won’t answer truthfully. It’s
not like you were raised together." A sly smile crawls onto his lips. It
sickens Aegon because he can imagine exactly what his father's thinking. "And
Jon is just so god damn pretty.” The smile on Rhaegar’s face grows into
something monstrous. He keeps on talking, much to Aegon’s horror. “No one would
blame you for wanting a ride. Not with those gorgeous, cocksucker lips, they
won’t. If it weren’t for his boyfriend, he’d be swallowing your load without
question.” Rhaegar shakes his head. “Shame about the monogamy thing. I heard
Jon has a great hole." His sources had stories and Rhaegar has always enjoyed a
good song. "Two months ago, you could have had him on his back without so much
as a wink.”
By the time Rhaegar finishes talking, Aegon is nauseated and sporting an
erection as hard as his headache. The composer walks forward, cradles his son’s
face in his hands, and promises him no judgments, just the pure, unadulterated
bliss of his brother’s hole.
“You are a stunning young man—with a little brotherly persuasion, you could
have Jon all over you. Can you imagine him sucking your cock? Hmm?”
Aegon is red in the face. “No! I can’t!” He hesitates. “Can I?”
Rhaegar shakes his head. “Yes, you can. You can have anything you want,
including Jon. Remember, no one knows he’s your brother. No one has to find
out. All you have to do is take him.”
“No, it’s wrong,” Aegon says; but his resolve is weak, and Rhaegar’s gentle,
fatherly sway threatens to change his sails.
“Once you come in his mouth, nothing will ever feel wrong again,” Rhaegar
promises.
Fantasies of his gorgeous brother gush inside his brain, all accompanied by
Arya’s sinuous body. He imagines the younger girl walking in on them with her
trademark whip, purring about what bad, bad boys they’ve been and how he needs
to be punished.
As those dreams become more explicit, Rhaegar leans in for the kill. Just as he
is about to give his son a warm embrace of acceptance, the Targaryen heir jolts
out of the way, does a rolling somersault to his phone and dashes to his room.
At the doorway, he shouts:
“I’m telling mum!”
Rhaegar’s annoyance does nothing to mask his amusement. He takes off his
metaphorical gloves and tells his son, quite bluntly, “Aegon, if I were afraid
of your mother, I wouldn’t have cheated on her in the first place.” He takes a
step forward. “Now come into my arms. Join me, Aegon.”
Aegon gasps indignation. He spins his heel and enters his room. Just as he’s
about to shut the door, he swears never to be an accomplice to Rhaegar's evil
plans. “I will protect my little brother from the likes of you!”
“Rather dramatic,” Rhaegar notes. He crosses his arm and smirks. “And how do
you plan to stop me?”
There is a pause; a moment of truth flashes before them and leaves Rhaegar
feeling victorious. His chances are shot, when Aegon sends him a fierce glare
and makes a declaration that runs Rhaegar’s blood cold.
“I’m calling Aunt Dany!”
The door slams shut.
Rhaegar is almost too late to react. He spends the rest of his morning trying
to pry the phone out of his son’s hands.
***
In an attempt to forget last night’s fiasco, Jon joins his cousins on a
shopping trip for the so-called ‘wedding of the century.’ While Sansa and Aunt
Cat are tackling the London experience with their battle-worn black cards; the
men are getting their suits done. Jon sighs as Ned leaves the room to get the
younger boys in their tuxes. He agreed to be Robb’s plus one when they were
dating, thought against it when they broke up, did not think about it but
subconsciously rejoined the guest list when they got back together, got off the
list when he decided that there was no way in hell he was attending his
potentially insane aunt’s wedding and thus, seeing Rhaegar Targaryen again, and
then got suckered into it when Sansa mentions that Robb may have fucked
Daenerys Targaryen.
And goddamn it, Jon doesn’t care how badly he wants to maim Rhaegar Targaryen.
He cannot let his boyfriend go to his ex’s wedding alone. His dedication to his
lover is enough to make him not kill Robb for forcing him to attend this
horrible event.
“You don’t have to go,” Robb reassures.
“If you show up empty-handed, the press will crucify you, that’s humiliation
you and the company don't need.”
“I don’t care about that. I care about your safety. Hell, we don’t even have to
attend.”
Jon sighs. “Robb, you cannot not go. You’re a Stark, and she’s your ex. You may
have dated for a brief moment in time, but it’s important you don’t let her
think she’s won.” Jon has gotten a full-blown lecture from Sansa on the matter.
Hours ago, when he considered turning down the invitation, Sansa made it quite
clear that it wasn’t a possibility.
“Daenerys has so graciously offered him an invitation to her wedding,” she
explained to him, having cornered him in the lobby after he made the aghast
suggestion. “The same Daenerys Targaryen who turned down his proposal because
she was not ‘ready’ is getting married before him."
“That was ages ago. They were teenagers. No one’s going to believe they were
serious.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa hissed. “She is now engaged to a hot Polynesian who
looks like a god.” Jon inwardly agreed; he’d seen and masturbated to enough
pictures of Khal Drogo to justify that claim. “Meanwhile, Robb is still not
married. That means, it wasn’t that she wasn’t ready, she just didn’t want him.
People with money talk. Robb already has a reputation, but it’s harmless
because his pros outweigh his cons. Imagine what happens when that reputation
turns into something of scorn. No matter how you think about, if he goes alone,
she’s won.”
Jon shudders to think about it.
Back to the present, the irritation lingers, and not even Robb’s puppy eyes can
get rid of it.
“Why did you have to sleep with every girl in England?” Jon mutters.
“Sorry? Did you say something?”
Jon shakes his head. “Nothing.” He looks at the door. “Why don’t you check on
Rickon and Bran? I’m going to ask the sales associate a few questions.”
Robb nods dejectedly. When he tries to get a kiss, Jon gives him a half-hearted
peck on the lips before dismissing him. The whole incident is chilly at best.
Robb walks into a separate dressing room where Rickon finished putting on his
tux; he’s wearing suspenders, and a bowtie and Robb cannot help himself. He
jumps on his little brother and pulls him into a tight hug.
“You look like a little James Bond!” Robb coos. When Rickon struggles to get
out, Robb holds him closer. He plants a sloppy kiss on the ginger’s head, much
to the younger boy’s disgust. Their father watches them with a small smile.
Internally, his chest puffs up with pride for having inseminated his wife with
such adorable children. Until the day he died, that will remain his greatest
achievement.
Rickon, suspicious of Robb's presence, asks what's his problem. "Are you and
Jon fighting again?"
Robb tenses up with Rickon still in his arms. Shields raise, and security goes
on high alert as he defensively asks, "No, why would you say that?"
Rickon shrugs. The youngest Stark glances over Ned. When the man is busy
getting measurements, Rickon takes the opportunity to asks if Jon is upset
because he slept with Daenerys. "You know, Jon's aunt."
Robb startles. "How did you know?"
Rickon shrugs. "I know things," he says, right before commenting that Jon will
probably get over this strife, so his brother shouldn't worry. "If you think
about it, it's no big deal. Daenerys is only, like, the second aunt you've
slept with. Remember Roslin? So in actuality, this is nothing. No one knows
they're related and even if they did, they'd just assume incest is your thing."
Robb chokes.
“Robb,” Ned calls out. “Have you tried on your suit, yet?”
Robb jolts up and looks down nervously. “No, sir, I haven’t.”
Ned sighs and Robb falters even more.
Robb's expression tugs at Ned's heart, but the Stark patriarch does not have
the courage to ask him what is wrong. The man tries to assess the situation the
best as he can but finds himself getting less accurate as the years go by.
While Robb will always be his little boy, adulthood has changed him. Ned can no
longer lift his son up on his shoulders and the word ‘daddy’ has been reserved
for strife-filled occasions. Guilt and fear accompany him as he begins to fret
on whether or not he has pushed his son away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let
Robb attend Edinburgh; he should have advocated more strongly for a university
with a commute. Catelyn insisted, after three cartons of ice cream and an
entire bottle of scotch, that it was for the best that Robb left them. "If you
love someone, you have to let them go," she had said as she burst into tears.
The next day, Ned announced his approval, clenching his fist the entire time as
their father-son memories flashed before his eyes. Thank god, he didn’t send
Robb to boarding school.
Robb, on the other hand, grabs a shovel and digs a hole of despair. It’s bad
enough that Jon is upset, but his father is in a mood as well. The sales
associate hands him his suit, and he puts it on, not meeting his father’s eyes.
Robb wonders, not for the first time, if it was a wise decision to attend a
school so far away from home. He did so to prove he was independent, yet finds
himself regretted it more often than not. Sometimes, it seems like all that
decision did was drag them further apart. What was worse was hearing his father
welcome his choice with open arms, even saying he was proud of Robb for leaving
the nest. If he knew it was going to make his father that happy to leave, he
would’ve opted for boarding school.
When Robb finishes getting dressed, Ned excuses Rickon. He orders the boy to
help out his older brother. “Bran is taking too long; make sure he is alright.”
Rickon obeys, sending Robb a sorry look. When they are finally alone, Ned walks
up to Robb. The eldest Stark child holds his breath. He lets go of it when Ned
reaches out to fix his collar.
“We’ll need to get you an appropriate tie,” Ned mutters. His voice is gruff and
critical.
Robb nods solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
Ned winces at the ‘sir’ comment. The action emphasizes the sternness on his
face, which in turn, causes Robb to tense. Ned considers a topic of
conversation and opts for the safest choice.
“How’s Jon doing?”
Ned jumps when Robb’s lower lip begins to tremble. He looks ready to cry.
"We're alright."
Ned knows he's lying. Instead of leaving the matter, he demands a truthful
answer in the kindest method he can muster.
"Don't lie to me."
“He’s angry at me,” Robb whines. His eyes get blurry as the weight of Jon’s
frustration and his father’s disappointment add on his shoulders. This is
another reason he avoids being alone with his father. It is bad enough he has
to face his father’s disapproval, it’s the worse when he starts to blubber like
a child when the pressure pushes on him.
Meanwhile, Ned has to bite his tongue to stop from fussing over his boy. In his
head, Catelyn nags at him not to go overboard. Ned admits that he tends to go
too far with his consolation; usually, Catelyn is there to be the voice of
reason. One time, when Catelyn was visiting her sister, Ned bought Robb a horse
to get him to stop crying. Without her presence to subdue him, he starts out
small to avoid going overboard.
“That’s not okay.”
Unable to control his emotions, tears start to fall from Robb’s eyes. His
father’s words said it all: he is a failure. No matter how beautiful the day,
the sunlight shining on his mistakes is bright and blinding. He couldn’t
protect Jon last night, and now he is putting the man he loves into another
precarious situation. He is letting the Targaryens win. His father has every
right to be disappointed.
“I just want to give up…” Robb mumbles. “Everything is going wrong.”
Ned panics, but his face is rock solid. He tells himself that a little touching
won’t hurt. Physical contact is essential for comfort.
Ned swallows some self-control and makes two, solid taps Robb’s shoulder. “You
will figure it out.” He moves upwards to pet his head. Though Robb’s hair isn’t
as pronounced as Jon’s curls, there’s a wave and redness to them reminiscent of
his breathtaking mother. He entices Ned to come closer. “You’re my boy, after
all,” he reassures, hoping that’s not enough to be ‘civil’ again. His son is
precious when he’s sad. As soon as he thinks it, guilt washes over Ned. He’s a
horrible father to wish misery on his son. The empty nest is inevitable. Ned,
the adult, ends their conversation with a heartfelt “I love you” knowing that
the declaration is the limit of affection two British males can display. The
words sounded frigid and forced, not because they are, but because Ned’s
frequency with declarations of love is sporadic at best.
Robb tears die down. Ned is grateful. As he makes a move to step away, Robb
sniffles. “Thank you, daddy.”
And Ned loses it.
He pulls his son into a chokehold hug and considers never letting him go. To
his surprise, Robb doesn’t struggle like the others. Rickon bit him the last
time he held on too long. Instead, Robb sinks into large arms of fatherly love
and snuggles into his embrace. Ned’s face is unreadable, but inside, he is a
skipping schoolgirl. Ned wonders if kidnapping his children and locking them in
Winterfell is still an option. Catelyn dismissed it ages ago, but once
menopause hits her, she’ll finally see the light.
“I’ve failed him, and now he doesn’t love me as much. We’re growing apart.
Again.”
Ned shakes his head. “You’re overreacting,” he tells him, hoping his calm will
settle Robb’s nerves. To others, he might sound cold, but inside, he is dancing
with joy. It’s almost as if Robb’s a teenager again; running to his arms for
the chance to cry about his latest love. Ned hasn’t been this excited since his
precious pebble jumped into his bed weeks ago, accusing him and his wife of
being sex fiends. His son and he are bonding again—finally.
“Have you tried having sex with him?” Ned asks.
“We didn’t have time this morning.”
“There’s always time for sex,” Ned advises.
“Isn’t that a distraction from a deeper issue?”
“No. Sex is physical love.”
Robb takes a moment to think. He brightens up. “Oh."
Ned nods. “Where is he right now?”
“Asking some questions about his suit.”
“Where is he, really?”
Robb pauses. “He is avoiding me.”
“That’s right.”
“How do I get him to stop?”
Ned pats down his son’s suit. He walks to the side and gets a tie. He puts the
tie over his son’s neck. “Wear this. Go outside. Get him to tie it. Kiss him.
Make him yours.”
Robb’s eyes sparkle like they’ve found the meaning of life. “Will that work?”
“Yes.” Catelyn once told him that she could never resist him in a suit. “Jon
won’t be able to resist you in a suit,” Ned promises. “If his anger continues
to blind him, get into a tux.”
Robb blushes at the suggestion. “Daddy…” he says softly, making Ned’s heart
leap. His son is too perfect. “I’m not sure I want him to see me in a tux now.
I want to wait.”
“It’s a useful trump card,” Ned pushes. Robb might think it’s a bit dramatic,
but neither of them can assuage Jon’s anger level. It’s always good to have a
backup plan.
“But what if it’s bad luck?”
Ned raises an eyebrow. “Why would it be bad…” Oh. Suddenly, Robb’s puppy eyes
become sharp and wolf-like. Ned disentangles himself from his son. He takes a
step backward and tries to clean up his mess. He tells Robb to leave—but not
leave. “You should go get Jon. Before his…anger begins to get out of hand.”
“Dadd…?”
“Go,” Ned almost shouts, rather hysterically. At least to his ears. From an
outside perspective, it sounds like he has a bad cough. Robb’s concern has him
take a step forward. Ned takes another step back. He can’t bear to look at his
son. He looks too grown up. Too much like a man. “Jon is waiting for you,” he
murmurs, hoping it’ll be a decent distraction to Ned’s internal crisis.
The mention of his fleeting forgiveness motivates Robb to step outside. He
thanks his father for his wisdom. Ned is stone cold. He reminds himself that
this is another false alarm. He's survived Robb’s engagements before, and all
of them fell through because Robb was not ready. Is not ready. He is still a
child. Children cannot be husbands; they can only be babies who still need
their fathers for guidance. Because marriage is the start of the finish; it is
the beginning of the end; it is death and bills and taxes—Robb is not ready.
Ned has half a mind to charge outside and tell them. He stops short an inch of
the door when he hears a crash.
The sounds of ripped fabric echo through the door, scratching at Ned’s skin.
Then, he hears laughter; horrible, treacherous, giddy laughter. Suddenly, doors
are slamming, a sale’s associate horrified gasps: ‘you can’t do that in there!’
The sound of flying paper and bribery sings through the air. Money is stuffed
in someone’s panties. The sales associate is silent with greed. Ned’s heart
lurches in his chest. Robb moans. He declares his love for Jon. Jon, his
sister’s son, a child he’s always thought of as his own, moans in ecstasy. Sex,
but not any kind of sex; it’s toe-curling, lights-blinding sex. Cufflinks spill
onto the floor. Hard metal against the cushy carpet. It is the sound of early
morning adulthood. Horror passes through him as the news finally sinks in:
Robb is a man.
“Father?”
Oh, and the word stings like a hundred killer bees. No more melodious cries of
‘daddy’ or little Freudian requests in which they ask if he’d marry them. None
of his friends have children as loving as his are. Were. When Bran calls out
for him again, Ned grasps his heart in a metaphoric manner. His father trained
him to keep his dramatics internal. While a storm rages inside his heart, his
face is flawless. On the outside, he only makes a noise of attention. Ned turns
to his son and the sight of him makes him sweat.
Bran is gorgeous.
His middle child wears his tux like a boy on the cusp of manhood, and this
time, Ned's shudder is visible. Bran is the last one of his babies with
Rickon’s innocence long been lost to HBO and adult teeth.
Ned shakes his head. He cannot afford to lose Bran as well.
Without warning, he swoops Bran off his wheelchair and lifts him several feet
into the air. His legs are dangling like a corpse on a crucifix. He stutters
“What are you doing?” to his father, but his father ignores him.
“Never grow up,” Ned commands. When he says it, the order sounds as plausible
as eating dinner or brushing his teeth. “Your mother and I will take care of
you. Stay innocent. Stay pure.”
“Too late for that,” Rickon scoffs.
Ned ignores the comment. He hears it, clear as day, and perhaps on another
occasion, he might have questioned the validity of that statement. For now, he
chooses ignorance like he never has before. This is not the time to be a strong
man; he no longer has the will for it.
“Do you understand?”
After a few more attempts to break free, Bran submits.
Ned asks again. "Do you understand?"
“Yes!” Bran squeaks out.
Ned sighs in relief. He returns Bran to his wheelchair. He gives Bran and
Rickon a once over and voices his approval. “Those are appropriate. Please take
them off, and we will head out to lunch.”
The two dash off to safety. The boys are in such a hurry, neither of them
remembers to take Bran’s phone with them.
When Summer’s bright expression fills up Bran’s phone screen to reveal a new
text, Ned wants to resist. He has never violated his children’s privacy before
and to be honest; the thought never crossed his mind. Unfortunately, the
delirium of an empty nest can play tricks on one’s morality. Ned is a better
man than this but today, he’s desperate. Logic is panic’s prey and it is
feasting like a beast. Ned presses in Bran’s passcode. He knows all his
children’s passwords by heart, everything from their emails to their shopping
accounts, just in case of an emergency.
The message came from Shireen Baratheon, Stannis’s daughter, and it is innocent
enough. She is expressing her delight over Bran’s comic creation and demands a
second volume. Their conversation is innocent and exactly the type of thing a
boy like Bran needs.
Then, he sees another, unknown name on Bran’s screen.
Ned knows all of his children’s friends, but this 'Jo' has never been
mentioned. Ned's finger lingers over his text box, and for a second, Ned
convinces himself to step away. He is unreasonable, he tells himself. Bran
cannot stay a child forever and snooping through his messages will only drive
them further apart.
And then another voice comes through like an avalanche, and this time, it is
Rickard’s booming disregard for his children’s sovereignty. He shouts his
praises for efficiency and declares Ned’s inability to protect his son from the
horrors as adulthood as weakness. Gods be damn, Ned lets him win.
Ned presses the text box.
He scrolls up the messages.
He drops the phone.
When Rickon and Bran come outside, dressed in their casual wears, Jon and Robb
inform them that their father has already left. “He says he was feeling sick."
Bran and Rickon shrug when they heard about his illness.
“It explains his weirdness,” Rickon notes.
Bran agrees. He suggests they bring him back some soup.
They paid for their suits while Ned returns to his hotel. The Stark head spends
the entire time staring at the ceiling. After sundown hits, the Stark patriarch
opens his eyes and looks around; he notices that all his children are gone. The
truth hurts, and the sharp pain is significant enough that he wants to find the
source of his misery. He realizes that he only has one person to blame.
His wife.
***
Hours before Ned is stabbed in the back by the twigs of his empty nest, Catelyn
faces her dilemma in the shape of a red-haired siren. Her daughter has
abandoned her with several thousand dollars of merchandise on the ever-bustling
streets of London, and as more people eye her Chanel purse and St. John's
dress, she realizes that she left her knife at home.
Catelyn groans as she searches through the crowds. The car won’t arrive for at
least half an hour, and it is getting dark. Finally, she discovers her daughter
on the edge of the street talking to an older man. Her eyes narrow when she
notices just how much older the man is.
Catelyn’s first instinct is to charge towards her daughter and rescue her from
this pervert. She stops in her tracks when her daughter sends the man off with
a hug and a promise for lunch the next time she’s in town. The real kicker is
when he tells her to invite Sandor along.
To Catelyn’s fortune, she can blend in with the crowds despite the fortune
hanging on her wrists. She listens like a rat in the sewer as they continue to
chat.
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Sansa smiles brightly. “You’ll be the first person
we call when we move.”
The man whistles in appreciation. “Moving in together already? Aren’t you a
speedy little bird?”
Sansa blushes. “When you're ready, you're ready.”
The man can’t help laugh. “When I met Sandor, he was a mess. Drank himself to
death every night, protecting trust fund babies and slamming deadbeats into
walls for a mere buck.” The man grins. “And somehow, he manages to get the
prettiest girl in England all to himself. Gods, he needs to tell me his
secret.”
Sansa gives him another hug. “Bye Ray. Don’t be a stranger.”
“Never,” he swears. He leans in and tells Sansa a secret that Catelyn almost
misses. “But take my advice. Guys like him don’t think they deserve girls like
you. And hells, they’re probably right about that. So make him work for it
every now and then.”
Sansa giggles. “I will. He certainly deserves it, after how hard he made me
work for him.”
Ray bursts out laughing. “The second he finally makes an honest woman out of
you, give me a call.” He throws her a wink. “Can’t keep letting you two living
in sin.”
Sansa sinks her face in her hands to cover up her embarrassment. The advice
would have been sweet if Catelyn wasn’t immersed with the man in question.
She’s not stupid. Sandor isn’t an uncommon name in these parts, but it is a
name worthy of note. There are a few people who this Ray character can be
referring to, and Catelyn doesn’t like any of the options.
Sansa turns around, and instead of retracing her steps back to where she left
her mother, the woman appears in front of her like a hellspawn she-devil.
“Mum?” Sansa’s eyes jump out of their sockets. Horror fills her as she turns
around to see Ray’s dwindling figure. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough,” Catelyn answers, her lips stretch to a thin. She asks the damning
question. “Who is Sandor?”
“Mother—”
“Because the only Sandor I know who can match that description is Sandor
Clegane. The brother of a serial murderer and rapist, and the former bodyguard
of the Lannisters. The same one who has a reputation for doing whatever the
Lannisters ask him.” Catelyn latches onto her arm. "Please tell me it is not
the same Sandor."
Sansa doesn’t even have the dignity to deny it nor does she have the decency to
look ashamed. Instead, she stares straight into Catelyn’s eyes and says,
“Sandor doesn’t work for them anymore if that’s your primary concern.”
Catelyn’s eyes narrow. “You know damn well it isn’t.”
While she waits for a response, Sansa does something she’s never done before,
at least, not while she isn’t screaming and crying her way back to her room.
Catelyn’s resolve falters as her little girl, her dear Sansa is gone and Sansa
Stark, every bit of the woman she’s always wanted to be, stands up to her
mother by not standing up for herself.
Sansa straightens her bags and walks past Catelyn without another word. On
instinct, Catelyn follows. This time, she is the child, the one toddling after
the heels of a calmer, more restrained woman. Losing her composure, she yells
at her daughter in the middle of the open street to stop. The noise causes some
attention but in the end, this is London, and the focus is lost as soon as it
comes.
“I’m not talking about this,” Sansa declares. “It is none of your business who
I date.”
“I am your mother! How dare you say it’s none of my business?”
Sansa turns around; she is no less calm than before. “I am seventeen,” Sansa
reminds her. “I can date who I want. We’ve been together for a while now, and I
love him.”
Three years ago, she said the same thing about Joffrey. Catelyn is about to
point that out when Sansa beats her to it.
“This isn’t like Joffrey," Sansa defends. "I'm not so infatuated with the
prince that I can't see the monster lurking underneath. This is me finally
realizing that fairy tales don’t exist. I fell in love with a man who is every
bit as horrible as you believe he is and it doesn’t matter.”
“Sansa!” Catelyn shouts. She sees people staring again and drags her daughter
to a corner where they can talk more privately. “Sansa, he’s done things.
He’s—”
“Killed people?” Sansa finishes. To Catelyn’s shock, there’s not so much as an
inflection in her voice. “Torture them? I know, mother, and I don’t care.”
“What are you saying?” Catelyn wonders where her daughter has gone. “This isn’t
like you,” she begs. “You are better than this, Sansa.”
“No, I am not.” Relief accompanies the acceptance in Sansa's voice.
Disappointment and distress do not even touch her tongue. It’s as if the
concession of evil has relieved her of her sins rather than offer her penance.
“I don’t care what he’s done in the past or what he could do in future,” Sansa
confesses. “I don’t care because I’m selfish. I’ve always been selfish. Ever
since I was a little girl, I’ve always needed to have my way, and I was willing
to say or do anything to get it.” Sansa sighs. She laughs to herself. “Do you
know that Rickon and I are the only two of your children who don’t have tells
when we lie?”
Catelyn opens her mouth to defend her daughter’s character; Sansa refuses to
hear it.
“Mother, I don’t care what kind of person Sandor is as long as he is good to
me.” Sansa is amazed by how good it feels to finally say it; to be able to
declare her love out in the open, without the fear of consequence or judgment.
“Sandor is good to me. He makes me feel like the sun wakes up to see me smile.”
Sansa has never felt so powerful. “He never asks for anything from me; it
doesn't matter that I can't give him as much devotion as he gives me. If I
leave him, he’ll self-destruct, but he won’t stop me. For him, my happiness is
the only thing worth caring about.”
“Even if what you're saying is true,” Catelyn reasons. "A pedestal is no place
to put your partner."
“But a hospital is?” Sansa asks her.
Catelyn is taken back. “Sansa…”
“Joffrey hit me.”
Catelyn turns as white as death. “What?”
“All those bruises I got in school? Those track injuries? That was all him.”
Sansa brings on the tears. They come naturally, but the volume is higher than
normal. She’s an excellent actress. The two redheads miss their car as Sansa
regales the terror she endured as Joffrey’s punching bag.
By the time she is done, Catelyn is sobbing. She just cries in the middle of
the street. Sansa holds back her guilt and reminds herself of the truth: this
needed to be done.
When Arya confronted Sansa about Joffrey, she lied about why she’s kept the
abuse hidden for so long. While a small part of it was to save her parents from
the guilt, the other carried a sinister tinge: Joffrey Baratheon is her trump
card. Sansa never expected to keep her relationship with Sandor a secret
forever. When all was revealed, there needed to be a scapegoat to their rage.
Under normal circumstance, no respectable, loving parents would permit Sansa’s
relationship with Sandor to go on any further. She would have to choose between
them and the love of her life.
Unless—a worse alternative presented itself. The thought of using her abuse to
her advantage would sicken some, but it only empowered her further. The last
time Joffrey struck her, Sansa decided that it was the last time anyone would
lay a hand on her destiny.
Sansa gets down on her knees and hugs her mother through the pain. “Sandor
helped me survive. He was my hero.”
Catelyn gasps. “Your relationship has been going on for that long?”
“No,” Sansa lies again. “He protected me. He was trying to convince me to leave
Joffrey. For the longest time, I didn’t listen.” Sansa used to fuck Sandor on
Joffrey’s bed. She stayed with Joffrey an extra month just for that pleasure.
Joffrey would have given a left ball to get inside her pussy, but Sandor could
get her on her knees with a single word. The best days were when Joffrey traded
disbarring comments about his hound. When that happened, Sansa let Sandor come
inside her mouth. She would kiss Joffrey an hour later, laughing as he licked
his lips and called her a slut for being so eager. When Joffrey found out about
them—fucking on his couch after she called him over for ‘a night he would never
forget’—all their plans set into motion. Sandor gave him the beating of his
life. The drugs, the car crash—everything was so perfect it got her higher than
any drug.
Now, the plan was coming to an end.
“Does he make you happy?”
Sansa hopes her triumph doesn’t show on her face.
“He does,” Sansa tells her; one of the first truthful things she’s says so far.
“And I want you to meet him. Mother, I know you’ve envisioned a different life
for me, but he’s the one. So please, I need you to understand that I’ve found
someone who loves me and would die before they would ever hurt me.”
Catelyn can no longer say no. The last sentence clinched Sansa's victory. With
a heavy heart buried underneath defeat, Catelyn hugs her daughter back and
offers her support.
Sansa smiles. With her parents in her back pocket, all she has to do is take
care of one last loose end, and Sansa and Sandor can have their happy ending.
She lied when she said she didn’t believe in fairy tales.
***
When she returns home, Catelyn sees Ned lying on the couch, practically
catatonic. There’s a bowl of soup on the table and whiskey bottle he must have
ordered from room service. She doesn’t bother to ask him ‘what’s wrong’ and
instead reminds him that they have a dinner to get to.
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are,” Catelyn says tiredly. She wants to stay calm, but she’s already
lost so much of her cool that there’s nothing but lukewarm rage inside her.
“It’s Arya’s last night. We have to take her out to dinner.”
“If we go, we’ll only love her more, and it’ll hurt when she abandons us
again.”
“Stop like acting like a child,” Catelyn snaps. “You have no right.”
Ned glares at his wife. “I’m acting this way because of you.” He stands up in a
threatening manner and corners her. Catelyn holds her ground and matches the
ferocity in his glower with one of her own. “Look at what your genetics have
done to our children!”
“Me? What have I done but champion your children in their affairs, hmm?” Ned
closes in on her and Catelyn responds by shoving him away. “It’s your fault our
daughter still believes in true love!” Even after what she experienced at the
hands of her first boyfriend, Sansa still hasn’t faltered and neither has Robb
after all his heart breaks. If anything, Sansa is more determined than ever to
be with that dreadful man and Robb is already ringing the wedding bells.
Catelyn cannot blame them. “You had to be such a wonderful fucking husband that
our kids had to find partners who followed your example. You set such a high
standard that when they found people who love and respect them, they couldn’t
let them go! They could have been our children a little while longer if they
had continued to date horrible men. But no! You made them too smart by giving
them something to look forward!”
“I did that?” Ned grabs onto his wife’s hair and pulls her close. Their lips
are inches away. “They wouldn’t have been able to attract anyone’s attention if
you weren’t so damn beautiful!” He can feel her breath on his face and he’s
never heard anything so arousing.
Catelyn gasps when Ned tears off the top of her designer dress and snaps off
her bra by pulling the front, leaving the mounds to bounce.
“Look at these perfect breasts,” Ned growls. His hands return to her face and
though his grip is firm, it isn’t even close to bruising. “This gorgeous face,
that delicious cunt of yours—if our children didn’t have a mother who was a
goddess in human form, none of them would have inherited your sexual prowess!
If a night with them is even half as good as a moment in your arms, then their
partners were doomed,” Ned declares. “This is your fault!”
“Oh, like I’m the only one to blame for that?” Catelyn asks angrily. She
returns the favor by ripping his shirt open. Chaos ensues; the buttons go
flying everywhere; Catelyn runs her hands down his muscular chest and moans.
“You’re over forty years old and you have abs that can grate cheese. Look at
these muscles!” Catelyn squeezes his arms and shudders in pleasure. “They’re as
big as grapefruits. You don’t have an ounce of fat on you and I still have my
love handles from the five children you put in me!”
“Those love handles are beautiful and you know this better than anyone!”
“Only because you tell me how gorgeous I am every day!"
Ned slams their lips together. His teeth clash against hers but his expert
tongue manages to get them back into a steady motion. Meanwhile, Catelyn’s
hands latch onto his zipper. Ned pulls away and glares. “This, this is what I’m
talking about! Twenty years and you’ve made it impossible for me to look at
another woman. Everything about you is blinding that no one else compares.”
“There you go again!” Catelyn hisses out. Her emotions get out of hand and she
throws Ned onto the couch. There, she climbs onto his lap and pulls out his
cock in anger. “Always so faithful and kind and forgiving. Every wife in our
community has been cheated on but you won’t even glance at another woman. I
could burn down our house and you’d still think I was a dream to behold.”
Ned’s hands slip underneath her dress. He shoves his fingers deep inside her
cunt. She screams.
The Stark grabs her throat. “Make that noise again,” he orders, low and
threatening. “I want to hear that intoxicating voice say my name.”
“Ned!” Catelyn shouts while wrapping her arms around Ned so tightly; they could
have choked him. Her cunt opens up for Ned’s cock as he pushes into her, deeper
and deeper until every single inch is inside her. The pleasure is too good for
words, so Catelyn moans out her approval.
“Cat,” he groans. “You’re so goddamn tight; I swear you’re trying to choke my
dick off.”
Catelyn moans louder. He is gloriously wrecked and Cat bubbles in pride when
she realizes that she’s the one who makes him look like that. Ned flexes his
hips upwards and Cat throws her head back in pleasure. It feels deliriously
good to be fucked full.
“Ned.” Catelyn’s eyes slip closed. “If you don’t move…I swear I’m going to
scratch your back open, you horrible, horrible tease.”
Ned licks his lips. He can practically taste Catelyn’s pleasure on his tongue
while she tightens around his cock. They kiss and it isn’t nearly enough to
sate him. He grunts out a noise of pleasure when she rolls her hips to get him
churning inside her. She repeats it and Ned swears, she’s trying to ruin him.
He grips her body and tells her to calm down. “You’re too impatient.”
Catelyn smiles for the first time that night. She spreads her leg further apart
and sneaks a hand downwards to guide his cock. Catelyn shudders when he manages
to thrust right against her clit and the vibrations pulse against his cock.
“That’s good, Ned. You’re too good at this,” Catelyn gasps out. Her cunt opens
up to accommodate him. She rides him more vigorously, pussy clenching like a
vice. Ned loses himself to the pleasure of being used as an object. While his
wife wraps her arms around his neck, he sinks his head into her breasts and
sucks. Catelyn’s nipples are the most sensitive things about her. While he
sucks, licks, and nibbles on the nubs, Catelyn rides harder. Near the end of
it, Catelyn’s is overwhelmed with a deliciously familiar warmth; her body
lights up with pleasure and bliss and starts grinding like she never has
before. She comes with a loud, vocal cry that shakes the entire room. Her clit
is tingling but Ned fucks through it to achieve his orgasm.
“You’re such a selfless prick, always making sure I come first,” Catelyn
mutters.
Ned groans. He snaps his hips forward through her post-orgasmic haze until he’s
shoved against her G-spot again. Catelyn feels another wave of wetness come
through. She gasps. She should be too old to go the second round when the first
hasn't even finished yet, but as soon as Ned’s warmth floods her cunt, she's
already craving more.
Catelyn’s body sinks against her husband’s body. Her muscles are sore and
singing but her pussy clenches whenever another spurt makes it inside her. She
feels so good.
“We have to get ready for dinner,” Catelyn mutters. She sounds more sure than
sorry—mostly because she's accepted they’ll be late.
Ned kisses her shoulder. “They’ll wait,” he tells her, not a doubt in his mind.
“I’m going to fuck you again until you’re limping to the car.”
Catelyn thrills in pleasure as she is the one pushed down on the couch.
“Promise?” She asks sweetly. Their lovemaking becomes so intense that she
doesn’t remember what they were fighting about until they are seated at the
dinner table.
***
That night, Arya announces that she’s leaving school to go pro. The decision
must have been pending for some time, as she doesn’t even flinch when Ned
begins to, half-heartedly, interrogates her ascent to adulthood. She answers
the question easily, announcing that her mentor, an actress by the name of Lady
Crane, has offered her old apartment at a fair price, she’s secured a two-year
contract with the Faceless Men, and this morning, had a successful video
meeting with a representative from Tiffany’s. She turns sixteen in a few months
and by then, is legally allowed to file for emancipation if they attempt to
stop her.
After being worn down by their four other children, the two of them let the
matter go on without much of the fuss. Everyone is surprised when they move
onto dessert without another protest.
“That’s it?” Arya asks.
Ned shrugs as he eats his flan. “You're a headstrong woman. You know what's
best for yourself. If this is what you want, we will support you.”
The Stark parents continue their meal in relative peace, humming a song in
their heads to block out their own parent’s voices.
***
The next day, when the Starks are on the train back to Yorkshire, Arya makes
the impulsive decision to confront them about their unusual behavior. The two
of them look at each other. Without any verbal cues or spoken confirmation,
they continue with the truth.
“Arya, we want you to know that while we love you and have a vested interest in
your life, we’ve also decided that you know yourself best and can handle
whatever life’s thrown at you.”
Arya squirms in her seat. “Alright…”
“That’s why, with our vote of confidence, we want you to always keep in mind
one thing when the time comes for you to enter a relationship,” Catelyn tells
her.
Arya raises an eyebrow. “What is that?”
Ned leans forward and with a guttered, tortured whisper, he says: “Don’t tell
us anything.”
Arya stares.
“We don’t need to know,” Catelyn explains. “It’s your own business.”
“Unless it involves grandchildren, we want to remain in the dark.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’ve had an abortion or slept with, I don’t know, Tywin
Lannister or that dancing instructor of yours," Catelyn points out without an
ounce of shame. Arya turns to her father and sees that he’s agreeing. “It’s
alright, but it won’t be alright if you tell us. Do you understand,
sweetheart?”
Arya inches closer to the walkway. “I guess…”
“There’s nothing shameful about secrecy,” Ned agrees. “You should keep secrets.
If you don’t, we want you to, what’s that word, Catelyn? What you’re so good
at?”
“Lying,” Catelyn helps out. She’s smiling when she says it.
“Right, we want you to lie.”
“Lie.”
“Lie like a sex offender,” Ned adds.
In the end, the two finish their discussion by demanding Arya not tell them a
single thing.
The youngest Stark girl leaves their vicinity afterward and walks over to her
favorite cousin and future brother. Jon raises an eyebrow. By his side, Robb is
resting on his shoulder.
“What’s up?” He asks.
Arya is at a loss for words. When she finally comes up with them, she stares at
Jon with absolute wonder as she paraphrases what happened.
“Jon, I think I’m finally on the same page as my parents.”
Chapter End Notes
     Jesus Christ, this chapter came so late. I’m sorry. I just started a
     new job so I’m didn’t realize how bad my time management was going to
     be. Here’s hoping I work it out soon.
     If you go back to chapter 2, you’ll notice that Daenerys was counted
     as one of Robb’s ex-girlfriends. I didn’t edit that; the original
     chapter did have this fact from the start.
     So I really like writing Robb and Ned together. I remember, when
     reading the books, wondering why Ned never sent Robb away to be
     fostered (as him and Brandon were). Ned is fiercely protective of his
     children. I forgot which chapter, but in the first book, there’s a
     scene where he talks to Catelyn and the first thing he asks (or one
     of the first things) is where the children are. Catelyn thinks to
     herself that Ned always asks that, implying that he’s the one who
     wants to keep them close to home. So yeah, I translated that to
     boarding school because in England, it’s typical for rich parents to
     send their kids to Eton or Harrow (the former’s tuition is 80K a
     year). It’s strange for someone as rich as Ned not to send his son
     there and instead, chose a school close to home. Hence, this scene
     was created.
***** Chapter 54 *****
Chapter Notes
     A lot of kissing and rough, unlubricated sex. Needless to say, it's
     Ramsay/Theon centric. It's also a very short chapter.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Are you nervous?”
Howland fixes the tie around his son’s neck. Despite the obstacles on their
road, smiles. Jojen looks dashing in his suit. He’s worn it two times before,
both on academic accounts, and Howland can’t stop grinning when he sees him in
it. Nothing bad happens when he wears the suit. The tie is a thing from his
school days, old and lackluster green, but Ned bought it for him after some
kids were having fun tossing around the “poor kid" and ruining his uniform.
Howland considers the accessory a treasure. The nostalgia might even spark a
decent conversation. One worthy of private conversations set in a bathroom
stall. 
“No,” Jojen answers to the previous question. For a second, Howland feared he
read his thoughts. 
“You should be.”
“But I’m not.” 
Howland shakes his head.  “You twat,” he murmurs. Howland finishes the tie and
strokes his only son’s cheek lovingly. “You look so handsome. No wonder Bran
couldn’t resist.”
Meera pops her head inside. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing," they answer at the same time. Meera sighs and walks downstairs.
Jojen chuckles. He takes his father’s hand and kisses his palm. “It’ll be
alright,” he promises. “Bran told me that his parents were in a good mood when
they came back.”
“The sun alone isn’t enough to make the flowers bloom.”
“Good thing I picked that flower.”
Howland rolls his eyes. 
They walk down the stairs to see Meera obsessing over their phone. She narrows
her eyes at them, and it is the least insulting micro-expression to occur.
Howland understands she's suspicious, but that does not stop him from frowning
at her furrowed brow and pursed lips. Howland wants to scold her for ruining
her good looks. Something motherly to replace the one she lost in the oven.
“Are you two ready yet?” She asks; she’s been irritable since the day started.
“I don’t want to be late.”
“We will be fine,” Jojen reassures for the umpteenth time. “This is supposed to
be a pleasant lunch where we can get along and patch our differences. I
apologize to Bran. Bran accepts my apology. We build a friendship that slowly
turns into something more. A classic rom-com for all ages.”
“Except, if one of them figures out you went behind their backs, this romance
becomes a horror film.”
Jojen smiles. “Good thing I like a little blood in my movies.”
***
The cookies are almost ready when the last of the red washes off Theon’s hands.
It’s not the first time he’s made strawberry shortbread, but he hates how the
jam stains his fingers. Theon hopes Ramsay appreciates the gesture. He doesn’t
bake often, and he says sorry even less. In the end, he’ll blame it on the
drugs and the sex and Ramsay for driving him insane.Theon is madder than
mercury poisoning, and he cannot help but suck the shambles. His mind is
impaired with blurs of blood, white powder, and sticky semen spilled on golden
skin. Since Ramsay picked him up, the two of them reached heights of hedonism
Theon didn’t even know existed.
And Theon loves it.
Ramsay is the bad boy every good kid secretly wants to fuck. Theon has never
been good, and as an adolescent surrounded by posh schoolboys who’ve never even
seen a girl, he might’ve even thought he was bad; smoking cigarettes and
skipping class like some baby thug. Ramsay is on a whole other level.
First, it’s the drugs. Ramsay works out daily, but he takes a cocktail of
narcotics like he has a terminal illness. Aside from their cocaine binges,
Ramsay keeps a jar filled with Quaaludes, Adderall, Xanax, Vicodin—basically,
any prescription drug Theon can name, it’s in the jar. The container never
empties, and Ramsay pops tablets like mints. He shares with Theon—stuffs the
pills down his throat with his tongue or sometimes hand feeds him when he wants
to be gentle—and Theon isn’t ever sober to complain. In the back of his head,
he can hear Robb lecturing him on his behavior. The voice is hard to ignore,
but as soon as Ramsay comes home with a “special” substance, be it a syringe of
morphine or a stamp of ecstasy, he finds that Robb is suddenly silent.
Then, there’s the sex. So much mind-blowing sex. Ramsay is an obscene fucker.
Theon may be high when he thinks this, but sex with Ramsay is better than doing
drugs. Ramsay makes him forget about everything, and not just Robb or the
Starks, but everything. Theon gets bent over a table, and it’s like medicine.
He ignores his sister’s scathing remarks when Ramsay is calling him his slut
and all of his uncle’s touches feel feather light when Ramsay digs his fingers
so far into Theon’s ass cheeks that he leaves indentures.  All he can think
about is Ramsay and his cock; it’s infuriating and incredible at the same time.
Like falling off a cliff and then realizing you can fly.
The timer ‘dings’ and Theon’s temporary gains enough sobriety to stumble to the
oven, grab his tray, and limp to the counter to prepare the confections. It's
weird, not being surrounded by dogs clamoring at his chest for a taste. They
are being checked out by a breeder since going on a hunt yesterday. He takes a
clumsy bite of the puppy shaped cookies, and when the crumbs spill on his bare
chest, he doesn’t mind. The treats taste good. It’s a miracle he didn’t mix up
the sugar with the salt.
His success is forgotten when he hears the doorknob turn. Theon ignores his
limp to jump Ramsay when he enters. Theon’s kisses are sloppy and disgusting,
his hands are down the older boy’s pants, and when he grinds his cock against
Ramsay’s semi, it’s little more than an act of pussy wagging.
“Shit,” Ramsay mutters. “You really are a dog.” Ramsay doesn’t hesitate to
grope his ass as he lifts Theon’s legs around his hips. His backup singers are
whistling in the back as Ramsay carries him to the dining room table. “A
fucking bitch in heat.”
Theon whines. His mind is still hazy even as Ramsay throws him on the couch.
The impact hurt. Theon responds by grabbing onto his tie and undoing it. Ramsay
looks so fucking hot in a suit. In between the undressing him, Theon sneaks in
another kiss.
“I baked cookies,” Theon gasps out. He doesn’t need to undress. Ramsay keeps
him naked except for his boxers and a dog collar when he’s at home. Since he’s
moved in, Ramsay hasn’t let him out of the house.
“Why the fuck would you pull some girly shit like that?”
Theon whimpers as Ramsay pulls him up by the hair.
“Wanna say sorry,” Theon tells him. They kiss again, and Theon wonders what
Ramsay has planned for today. They’re in a kissing mood. He hopes there’s some
‘E’ involved. Kissing always feels better under ecstasy. “Shouldn’t have gone
mental yesterday.”
Up until yesterday, Theon was convinced that Ramsay was faithful, if for no
other reason than convenience. There was no point in looking for other lays
when a hot piece of ass like Theon was waiting at home. Their cohabitation was
peaceful. Ramsay went to work, he came home, did a shit ton of drugs and had a
shit ton of sex with Theon without ever getting boring. He might have stopped
by a pub for a drink or bought something from a 24-hour sex shop, but their
routine remained blissfully straightforward and sinful. They haven’t talked
about what they are, but Theon assumes that was because it was evident. Theon
is a pet to be pampered and discipline, and Ramsay doesn’t take care of things
unless they’re special. He destroys, he mutilates, rapes and reaps; but he
doesn’t care and that makes Theon different. He’s special; Theon is better than
the disposable holes Ramsay used to pick up.  
Which may have been his justification for absolutely losing it yesterday.
Last night, Ramsay got a phone call and stormed out of their flat. He was
furious. Theon was fine with his midnight interruption; he didn’t mind waking
up in the middle of the night if it meant having Ramsay’s dick up his ass
again. Sometimes, he brought presents.  
He was not fine with the little slut Ramsay brought back with him.
Ramsay was his medicine; his cock to use and just plain his. He was no longer
giving up what was his to any other whore who thought she was cute enough to
compete with him.  
Theon was done sharing.
Without warning, Theon grabbed the girl and slammed her head against the table.
He continued to do so until her body limped under the abuse. Ramsay allowed the
whole altercation to happen until her nose started spewing out blood onto the
marble. Then, he grabbed Theon aside only to be bombarded with a fist to his
nose.
Theon’s eyes widened at what he had done.
“You fucking bitch!” Ramsay shouted as he cradled his bleeding nostrils.
Theon made a run for it. He headed towards the bedroom. As Ramsay’s boys got
ready to stop him, the bastard ordered them to stand back. Theon was his to
hold and his to punish. He told them to do what they wanted to the girl. “Make
sure I don’t see her again.”
The girl was too damaged to scream as they dragged her into the other room.
Theon was in the bathroom. Ramsay pounded on the door, shouting death threats
and violent promises, making it clear to Theon that whatever concerns he had
about letting Ramsay in were nothing compared to how wrecked he was going to be
if Ramsay had to break in.
“I’m going to have you neutered, you fucking bitch,” Ramsay hissed.
The door remained lock. Ramsay tossed his entire body against the bathroom
door. Each tackle weakened the wooden hinges until he finally broke the door
down. When he landed inside, Theon was clutching onto his straight razor.
Ramsay glared. “Put it down,” he growled.
Theon had the nerve to pout. “No.”
Ramsay punched the wall. “I am not playing around!”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought that whore here!”  
Ramsay marched forward. He no longer cared that Theon was holding a blade
against him. He grabbed the blade from his hand and pulled it away from him,
slicing through his palm in the process. The sight of blood had Theon shaking.
He tried to pull away but eventually released the razor after Ramsay made it
clear he was not letting go. To escape, he dashed past Ramsay only to be held
down on the ground, kicking and thrashing about like a netted fish.
 “You’re an asshole!” Theon screamed. He yelled so loud Ramsay’s ears hurt. “A
sadistic piece of shit! Lying twat! I hate you! You fucking bastard!”
Ramsay clenched his fist. Anyone else would have gotten beaten until they were
in a hole in the ground. He ignored his rising anger to spread Theon’s legs.
“Shut up,” Ramsay gritted out as he pushed the head of his cock into Theon.
“Who was she?” Theon hissed out. He closed his eyes to hold back his tears.
“Were you planning to fuck her?”
“Well, I didn’t bring her back to play checkers.”
Theon responded by scratching his face. Ramsay rammed in, hoping to bring some
sense into Theon. The Greyjoy screamed like a broken metal disc, yelling more
tactless insults as Ramsay kept on thrusting. Ramsay was more than a bastard
while he was inside him, he was scum, shit, a raging cunt—which ironically,
Ramsay was about to use against Theon.
Eventually, Ramsay heard his anger die down to sobs.
“Why can’t it ever be me?” Theon cried as he tightened his arms around Ramsay’s
neck. “S’not fair,” he murmured. “Don’t wanna share anymore.”
Ramsay rolled his eyes. He got up from his on the floor and pulled Theon up
with him. “You’re such a little bitch, crying over some ugly whore.” He grabbed
the back of Theon’s head and kissed him so hard, his lips swelled. Theon’s eyes
were hazy when they parted. “You’re not my boyfriend. I don’t need permission
to bring other sluts around.”
Theon shook his head in disagreement. “No,” he countered. “You’re not allowed
to bring other girls here.” He paused. “Or boys. And you can’t stick your dick
in them anywhere else. Those are my conditions.”
Ramsay scoffed. “You think you have the right to conditions?” His grip on
Theon’s hair tightened. Theon groaned. To Ramsay’s surprise, Theon remained
resilient; he tightened around Ramsay cock.
“Fucking hells!”
“No boys. No girls. Just me.”
“What makes you think you’re so special?” Ramsay muttered.
Theon unraveled his arms and used one hand to slip two fingers alongside his
cock.
“Shit,” Ramsay swore. Theon stroked his shaft from the inside of his hole.
Ramsay made short, jerky thrusts into him, forcing Theon to bounce on the cock
like a helium filled balloon. To keep himself from moaning, Ramsay kissed him
again.
***
Theon thinks about the kiss until this morning. It encourages to make right by
Ramsay, and as long as he doesn’t bring home another hussy, he gets the cookies
without the roofies. Alone except for his boy bitches; Theon is satisfied. He
skips to the kitchen to show off his cookies, and though Ramsay opens his
mouth, there’s a soft reluctance that gets overruled by his pride. He knows
Theon won’t hurt him, but he also knows that Theon can be unpredictable when he
is in a mood.  
In the middle of his chewing, he kisses Theon until the younger man is swooning
and says nothing when Theon frets about forgetting his coffee. It’s an American
habit he picked up in the states, but Ramsay prefers the rich blackness of a
fresh brew over the sogginess of leaves.
After Theon puts a pot on, he offers to fix Ramsay a bath.
“What’s with your obsession with baths?”
Theon loves baths. He spends more time in the tub than he does on the couch and
it ranks second only to the bed. Ramsay has been forced to indulge him for the
sake of avoiding the whining, screeching noise that comes out whenever Theon
doesn’t get his way. He’s trained dogs before. He knows that a few treats keep
them grateful—never mind that he doesn’t have to join Theon or even stay until
his skin is wrinkly and they’ve overstayed their welcome by at least ten
degrees.
While Theon prepares the hot water, Ramsay scans the bathroom. Theon must have
scrubbed the walls clean; the image of his dog on his hands and knees is a
pleasant sight.
The thing that captures his attention is his straight razor from yesterday.
Ramsay favors cut-throats to modern razors; maybe he’s a traditionalist, but he
likes the idea of holding a weapon for something as minuscule as hygiene. He
picks up the tool and notices that it’s been cleaned.
When Theon turns around to invite him in, he tenses when he sees the blade in
hand.
Ramsay smirks.
This will be fun.
“Theon.”
Theon jumps accordingly. “Yes?” he yips, sweet as a pup.
“I need a shave. My father was bitching about me coming to him unkempt.” Ramsay
shakes his head as he grips the handle. “I tried to tell him it wasn’t my
fault. One of my bitches was acting up.”
Theon flushes with embarrassment.
Ramsay hands the blade over to Theon and tosses him the shaving cream. Despite
his shaking, Theon catches it. His releases a huge dollop of cream onto his
hand and slathers it over Ramsay’s chin. Theon angles the blade to Ramsay’s
skin. He’s utilized a straight razor before; Ned Stark used one and taught both
his son and Theon how to handle them. Still, Ramsay doesn’t know that, and
after last night, it’s a risk.
Ramsay can’t wait to see what happens.
Theon is surprisingly steady when he makes the first cut; he slides the razor
through like he’s slicing butter and even pauses to brush his thumb against the
smooth skin. Ramsay is handsome with or without his facial hair. Personally,
Theon prefers him without it. It’s a weird admittance. He used to think he
liked the rugged look; Robb prefers a shadow over not, but since he’s met
Ramsay, the thought never crosses his mind. Things become difficult as Ramsay
gets more handsy. By then, Theon has made his second cut and began to relish in
the attention  
“I’ll bend you over the balcony if there’s so much as a prick out of place,”
Ramsay threatens.
Theon whimpers and keeps moving forward. He hears the water growing softer,
indicating a potential overflow. He tries his best to hurry up. Just as he is
getting started on the other side, Ramsay opens his mouth.
“The girl was found dead this morning.”
Theon stops mid-cut. After a moment’s hesitation, he returns to the task. “The
girl from last night?”
Ramsay raises an eyebrow. “No, the girl I keep in the spare bedroom in case you
bore me. Yes, the girl from last night.”
Theon shrugs. “What about that stupid twat?” He asks, trying to sound
nonchalant while jealousy seethed out of his mouth.
Ramsay’s lips twitch. “She was eaten alive by dogs. The Bloodhound Killer
strikes again.” He hums. “The real one this time.”
Theon is on the last strip. He pretends not to notice the darkening mood or how
Ramsay’s fingers twitch like he’s aching for a blade of his own. He’s seen
Ramsay with a knife before, and it’s impressive—in a frightening way.
“There’s more than one?” Theon asks.
Ramsay tenses and it is a miracle Theon catches the quirk in time for him not
to slice through his skin.
“It seems the Bloodhound Killer has a copycat. Someone is trying to follow the
fame of a truly talented master.” Ramsay is gloating and enraged at the same
time.
Theon powers through.  There’s a question on the tip of his tongue that goes
‘how do you know?’ That never sees the light. Instead, Theon washes the blade
in the sink. “Isn’t imitation the sincerest form of flattery?” He puts the
blade aside and moves over to stop the bath water from hitting the marble
tiles. “I mean, it makes sense. The Bloodhound Killer is becoming a legend. Of
course, he’d have followers.”
Ramsay frowns, and he seems to be contemplating the notion. The mood lightens
considerably when he finishes his thought, and his frown turns to a straight
grimace. “Fair enough.”
He strips off the rest of his suit. Theon doesn’t hesitate to undress him.
“How do you feel about the girl’s death?”
Ramsay waits for an answer, and the answers comes out more fluently than Theon
thought it would.
“Just goes to show that karma is a bitch,” Theon notes. “You can’t expect to
intrude on someone’s territory and not expect the alpha to hunt them down.”
Ramsay doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he takes off the last of his clothes
and gets into the bath. The water is still hot. Theon follows, dipping his
entire head into the water before resurfacing like a child in a pool. He
giggles as he prepares for more sex.
“After this, I want to watch a movie,” Theon suggests. “I downloaded this nasty
one from the eighties, full of gore and sex. You’d like it.”
Ramsay thinks an exhibition film and some cookies sound wonderful. He’s wise
enough to keep his mouth shut. “We’ll see. Maybe if you’re not acting like a
total cunt for the rest of the night.”
Theon pouts and leans on Ramsay’s chest. He entangles his fingers with Ramsay’s
bandaged hand. It’s a mess. He’ll have to redo them after they get out of the
bath.
***
When they leave the bath, Ramsay sees his friends knocked out with cookie
crumbs over their chests. He turns to Theon who whistles innocently. He grabs a
plate of cookies that are shaped differently than the ones fed to Ramsay’s
friends before leading Ramsay into the bedroom.
“Let’s have some fun.” He hopes the pills taste better with strawberries.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you for reading this chapter! I apologize for it being so
     short; the next chapter will be twice as long, I promise. I moved the
     Jojen/Bran lunch to that chapter because I just couldn't write it.
     It'll get more murder mystery-ish in the next chapter and I'm
     (hoping) the bring back Shireen, Rickon, and Lyanna to make up for
     this lateness.
     I'm in a rather poor mood right now. I haven't been this low in a
     while and I hadn't expected to affect my writing so significantly. I
     couldn't even reread it correctly. I just did a basic check and was
     done with it. When I have more energy, I'll go back and work on it.
     So, for those of you who read Crown the Wolf with Bronze and Blood, I
     won't be updating with an actual chapter but more of an information
     sheet. It explains how the AO universe works, the ages of the
     characters, etc. I don't want to start off next week by still writing
     that chapter and then throwing off the deadlines once again.
     Thank you for understanding! Again, I will do better next time.
***** Chapter 55 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Some complications occur when your boyfriend’s parents are the same people who
caught you stalking their son a year prior. The opportunity for a good first
impression is no longer available, so the only thing left is the recovery.
People love a redemption story. In the core of Ned and Catelyn Stark’s hearts,
they want to forgive Jojen, or more accurately, they want to believe Jojen is
not a threat. For now, as long as Jojen walks the earth, Bran is in danger, and
they will do anything to relinquish this fear. Howland hopes his son has enough
sense to falsify remorse to take advantage of this.
The Reeds walk over to the restaurant with a heavier step than usual. The
Starks appear solemn. To Howland’s surprise, the only sibling in attendance is
Sansa. Howland pouts. He hoped to see their nephew, Jon, or their eldest, Robb.
His eyes would have feasted on them both. Jon was the prettier image of Ned
when he was younger, barely on the cusp of puberty and so pliable Howland could
have put him in an oven and baked bread. Robb is both Catelyn and Ned’s son—a
beautiful mixture of his parents’ aesthetics; he has the Tully lustfulness and
Stark sensuality coupled together to form pure sex appeal. According to Jojen
and Meera, he has extended his support to Jojen’s cause, and it’s a shame not
to have him play mediator.
When it is time to make their introductions, Jojen and Bran’s meeting goes
last. Everyone holds their breath except for Jojen and Bran, who are so
entangled with their pheromones of desire and delight that neither of them read
the mood very well.
Jojen’s eyes see only Bran. He considers this meeting as role play for their
relationship and turns up the charm when he should be shoveling out the shame.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” he says, and the statement is perfect except for the
wicked smile he has on his lips. Bran blushes, the sweetest sprinkling of pink
Howland has ever seen on a boy and says the same. They shake hands. Jojen
lingers.
Meera is about to put an end to it when Jojen speaks up. Howland swears his son
is suicidal.
“You’re so pretty, I feel like I’ve done you a discourtesy by not kissing your
hand,” Jojen adds with a wink. He brings Bran’s hand upwards. “Let me rectify
my mistake.”
Bran giggles. Jojen only manages a peck when Howland kicks him in the back of
his leg and drags him to his seat at the table. “Behave,” Howland mutters. When
no one is looking, Meera smacks him upside the head. “Idiot,” she hisses.
Both families settle down but not without a fuss. Catelyn spends a good portion
glaring at Jojen during the small talk while Howland flirts with Ned without
results. Sansa and Meera focus on their phones—keeping an eye on their
respective little brothers without letting on that they’re worried. Things
reach a boiling point when Jojen talks about the universities he’s applying to
and Bran mention his potential college choices in return. Jojen licks his lips
at one choice, saying “he’d like to see Bran in the uniform” and how “easy they
are to take off.”
Catelyn stabs her knife into the table. “Excuse me?” She warns him. “I must
have misheard.”
The threat bounces off Jojen. The teen is still staring at Bran when he says,
in a nauseatingly fond manner, “Surely, you’d want a uniform that Bran can take
off by himself.” Jojen tilts his head and smiles. “For convenience, of course.”
Everyone can tell he does not mean Bran’s convenience but rather his
convenience.
Just as Meera is about to justify Jojen’s inappropriateness, Jojen brings up
the elephant in the room. “I think it’s time to stop avoiding the issue."
Everyone tenses. Meera takes Jojen’s hand in a way that displays comfort but in
actuality is a leash. Don’t do anything stupid, her death grip says. Her nails
dig into his skin, and he grins, not in spite of it, but because of it.
“Bran, when I first saw you,” Jojen begins. “I thought you were the beautiful
creature in the world. I thought the only reason such perfection could exist
was that you were this gorgeous deity who has decided to bless us all with your
presence.” Jojen winces the slightest when Meera digs deeper. “I realize I was
wrong.” The nails begin to retract. “You are the most beautiful boy in this
universe and every other. I am sure this world was created for you to walk this
earth.” Meera’s nails come back, full force.
“By the gods, I will throttle you,” Meera grumbles under her breath. If the
Starks don’t get to him first. Mrs. Stark is snarling. Meera glances over at
Bran, and she swears, she can hear his heart flutter.
“Thank you,” Bran responds, flattered despite the over-the-top sycophancy.
“But my methods for catching your attention were wrong. I hurt a lot of people
in the process of getting to know you. People I care about.” He glances over at
Sansa, and though his eyes are gentle and full of regret, the red haired beauty
knows better. “Sansa, I am sorry for what happened between us. It was never my
intention to hurt you, but I did. I used you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I
hope we can move on.”
Sansa purses her lips. Bran stares at her, eyes wide and pleading for her to
extend her acceptance. She frowns and settles for neutral ground.
“Jojen, I know you never wanted for me to get hurt.” He never planned for her
to find out. She sighs as if she is tired and not biding for time to think. “I
just can’t trust you after what happened.”
“I understand,” Jojen replies. The problem is he does not care. He turns his
attention back to Bran. “All I want is for you to believe that I have the best
intentions for Bran. I would never hurt him.”
“We will see about that,” Catelyn snaps. She drinks her water and looks away to
avoid the scolding gaze of her husband.
“Bran,” Jojen addresses. The time of truth has come—at least to the rest of the
Starks. “Do you forgive me?” He reaches out to grab Bran’s hand, but Meera
pulls him back with such force, his chair almost tips over.
“If I have to hold you back one more time—”
“I forgive you,” Bran interrupts. He’s breathless and turned on and wants
nothing more than to show Jojen exactly how much he forgives him.
Catelyn frowns. “Bran, maybe you should think about what he’s done…”
“But I forgive him,” Bran insists. He looks into Jojen’s eyes with enough
sugary affection to give a child a toothache. “I want us to get along.”
Catelyn says nothing else. She turns to her husband who is nodding solemnly.
“If that is what you think is best,” Ned agrees. "We will trust your
instincts.”
The Stark matriarch sighs and reluctantly gives her blessing to end the plague
upon their houses. “How lucky Mr. Reed is to have affection for my most
compassionate child,” she seethes.
Jojen’s lips quirk in amusement. Before he can say something stupid, Howland
claps his hand together. “How fortunate are we? To be able to settle this issue
with such diplomacy,” Howland cheers. “There’s so much to talk about now that
this silly issue is out of the way. So let’s enjoy our meal over some great
conversation,” Howland advises. “We never know when it’s going to be our last.”
His timing is spectacular as a series of waiters came out to set their plates
are set in front of them. Howland orders a scallop dish with mushrooms, kale,
and garlic butter. He is mixing the ingredients in the creamy, aromatic sauce
when he notices an item not listed on the menu.
“Oh dear.”
“Is something wrong?” Ned asks. He sets his fork down.
“It’s no big deal.” Howland calls forth a waiter. When the man comes, Howland
makes it clear he’s sorry to bother him. “I hate to be that customer but
there’s an eyeball in my food, and I would be grateful if I could get another
plate.”
***
Detectives Stark and Yoren, just Yoren, come into the restaurant with solemn
faces and tension that can break a masseuse’s hand. Benjen’s agitation
increases when he sees that the witnesses in question are members of his own
family. Ned’s eye hones in on Benjen’s obscenely large hickie and the dread the
officer feels is enough to make him forget the pride he had when he showcased
the bruise to the entire precinct. Never before has he regretted his vanity.
“What is that?” Ned hisses before Benjen can ever open his mouth.
“Ned,” Benjen tries to reason.
“Are you seeing someone? Who is he? How old is he?”
“I’m supposed to be doing the questioning,” Benjen reminds, petulant. His
brother can’t possibly think it’s still appropriate to interrogate him like
he’s a hormonal teenager, especially at a crime scene. “Tell me what ha—”
“It better not be your commander. I know you’ve been eying him like a rump
roast.”
Yoren snorts to cover up his laughter. Benjen shoots him a glare.
“Just because he’s your superior officer doesn’t mean he can take advantage of
you. He should know better. Is it him? I’ll have a talk—”
“You will not,” Benjen replies, snippy as an adolescent on the cusp of puberty.
“And no one is taking advantage of me. I’m thirty-four years old! You can’t
tell me who I can and cannot do.”
Ned snorts. “You sound like Lyanna,” he warns. It used to be the most useful
leash for Benjen’s jail-baiting habits. As an adult, the effects wavered.
Benjen rolls his eyes. “I’m a grown man, Ned. Stop being such an older brother
and let me do my job.”
“If that were the only thing you were doing, I would.”
“Oh, sod off.”
“Hate to interrupt this heartwarming moment,” Yoren chimes. “But there’s a dead
body we have to get to. I think we have more important things to worry about
than Benjen’s daddy issues.” Yoren chuckles. "Or his big brother issues."
Ned stares into Benjen’s disobedient eyes before relenting. He gathers up his
family members and begins their questioning. The sentences are simple; an
appetizer before they question the kitchen staff. They don’t know if it’s the
work of Bloodhound Killer until they retrace the path of the victim. Benjen
considers sending them home when he hears Yoren a cough. He elbows Benjen in
the shoulder and gestures toward the side.
Benjen looks in the direction Yoren is signaling towards and sees Jojen Reed.
“You might have to stay longer,” Benjen announces, careful not to alert Jojen
Reed’s attentions.
Catelyn frowns. “Why?”
“Standard procedure,” Yoren tells her; it’s the usual line he gives in this
situation. Unfortunately, Ned Stark knows the law better than most officers. He
dismisses the notion, pointing out that unless the police have reason to
believe the Starks are involved, they can leave.
“Of course we don’t believe you’re guilty of any wrongdoing,” Yoren smooths
over. He glances over at Jojen Reed, who is immersed in a conversation with
Bran. “We’re trying to be thorough.”
“And we thank you for it,” Catelyn retorts. “So we’ll finish our statements and
leave. I don’t want to expose my kids to this any longer than I have to.”
“We’ll make it quick,” Benjen promises. Once he finishes his brother and
sister-in-law’s statements, he can move forward to interrogating Jojen. He has
an extra set of generic questions prepared and begins listing them, one by one.
He is almost done— the third question in—when Bran rolls up from behind.
“Is it alright if I leave early? Jojen’s offered to give me a ride home—”
“No,” says everyone except the Reeds.
Benjen is the first to defend his protests. “We won’t take long, but it’s
essential we get every detail.”
“I can do that for them,” Howland interrupts. “It was my dish that had the
eyeball. Neither of them touched their food.”
Benjen chills at his voice. He glances over at Yoren who is both intrigued and
intimidated. Howland has that effect on people. The Reed is smiling at them
like a cat who found out that the cage containing the canaries is unlocked. He
presses his palms against Yoren and asks if he needs Jojen’s presence to carry
on with their investigation. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Howland Reed. I
found the eyeball? If I remember correctly, you said your name was Yoren?
Officer Yoren?”
Yoren gulps as Howland squeezes his biceps. “Yes.”
Howland licks his lips. “My son will have a fit if he hears me say this but
he’s quite a delicate young man. I don’t want him to be apart of this. It’s in
his best interest to send him home, don’t you agree?”
Yoren coughs. “Mr. Reed—”
“Howland,” Howland purrs.
“Howland,” Yoren repeats. “We need all of your statements,” he lies. “Jojen
needs to stay.”
“I agree,” Catelyn pops in. “It’s too soon to leave them alone together.”
Bran, who overhears the entire conversation, objects to the protective detail.
“Mum, can I talk to you for a moment?”
Catelyn frowns and follows her son to the side.
“I want to leave.”
“It’ll only be a moment, Bran, and I can take you home—”
“I want to go with Jojen.”
Catelyn tightens her fist. “Absolutely not.”
“The whole point of this meeting was for us to get along. Jojen’s said he was
sorry; let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“It’s too soon. I still don’t trust him.”
“It’s not your choice who I trust.”
The sass in his tone alarmed Catelyn. Bran takes a metaphoric step back. He
bites his lip and looks behind him where Jojen is pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Please? I want to get to know him. Understand what happened. He’s not going to
tell me anything with you guys around.”
“Bran, he might try something.” Catelyn cannot will herself to whisper her
horrible hypotheses.
Bran sighs. “Nothing will happen,” he promises as if he holds power to defend
himself. Catelyn shakes her head.
“No.”
“Mum,” Bran begs. “If he wanted to hurt me, I’m sure he could have already.
We’ve lived together all summer, and I’ve been alone in the house before. This
wouldn’t be the first time he’s had the opportunity to do something.”
“He might not have known you were home alone.”
“Which means he hasn’t been following me,” Bran points out. “Give him a chance
to prove himself.”
Catelyn hangs between a rock and a hard place. “Why don’t we let Sansa drive
you home?”
Bran stares at her wanly. “Sansa rode with us, remember? Jojen took his car to
get here.”
“Well, why can’t she join you? She doesn’t need to be here either.”
“Because she makes things awkward. I want privacy, mum."
Catelyn bites her tongue in annoyance. Her son is adamant on forgiveness and if
it weren’t for her naivety—the insipid belief that her son is still her baby
and not running off with demented juvenile delinquents—she might have noticed
something amidst about Bran’s stance. Eventually, his pleading eyes push her
off the ledge and she, like a coward, sought advice elsewhere.
“Wait here,” she orders. Catelyn walks over to her husband, who is pulling at
his little brother’s collar, demanding every sordid detail and promising
retribution for his defilement. She grabs Ned’s shoulder and drags him away,
much to Benjen's relief.
“Bran wants to leave,” she says.
Ned nods. “There’s no point to him staying.”
“He wants Jojen to take him home.”
Ned frowns. “How do you feel about that?” he asks, cautiously.
Catelyn glares. “How do you think I feel?”
“Not happy.”
Catelyn groans. She crosses her arms. “I don’t trust him alone with Bran.”
“He knows better than to try anything.”
“Does he? You heard from Sansa how manipulative he could get. He might trick
Bran into doing something he’s not comfortable with.”
“Bran can make his own decisions—however, misled they may be.” Ned awkwardly
shuffles his feet. He thinks about the picture on the phone and considers
telling Cat the truth before deciding against it. In addition to speaking with
Arya about her affairs, they made a silent vow to each other not to bring up
their knowledge unless the situation is dire and demanding of it.
Catelyn groans. “So I should let them go home? Alone?”
Ned offers a compromise. “Have Jojen drop him off at Stannis’ home. Shireen is
his friend and will house him until we get back. That way, we’ll know he’s safe
and away from Jojen. Stannis will keep us updated.”
The plan sounds plausible. Catelyn reluctantly agrees. She is about to turn
back to Bran when she decides to comment on Ned’s laissez faire parenting. “You
seem very calm about this.”
“I know our son,” Ned explains. “He is a good, loyal boy who wouldn’t let
someone else compromise his ethics.”
The statement is an odd one, but Ned’s conviction is oddly soothing. Catelyn
returns to Bran and offers her acceptance and conditions. Bran agrees to them
readily and scurries over to the Reed boy. Jojen, in response, tells his father
about his departure.
The dominos fall before the officers can list their protests. Benjen is rather
disheveled when he pulls on Ned’s shirt and asks about Jojen’s dismissal. “Who
said he could leave?”
Ned sighs. “You don’t need our children here.”
“Yes, we do!”
Ned shakes his head. “I understand you want to be thorough, but there’s no need
to bring my kids into this.”
“It’s important, Ned. I wanted to talk to Jojen. You can’t just send him off
after I told you I wanted him to stay.”
“Jojen and Bran need their peace,” Ned explains, “This is a complicated
matter.”
“This is a complicated case.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Ned will never forgive him if he finds out that Jojen Reed is a suspect in the
Bloodhound Killer case and Benjen allowed Jojen to reside in their family home
to avoid raising suspicion. Instead, he says he doesn’t like Ned overstepping
his authority. It is true, but it isn’t the truth.
Ned pats him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he says. “We’ll be
fully cooperative from this point on. Asks us whatever you like.”
Too late, Benjen thinks to himself. “I need to talk to Yoren,” he mutters.
When Ned is left by himself, Howland sneaks up from behind. Ned catches him
instantly.
“What’s the matter?” Ned asks.
Howland shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I wanted you to know how grateful I am
that you’re giving Jojen a chance.”
Ned wishes he can do something about the murder. When he voices his thoughts
out loud, Howland laughs. Howland has a nice laugh, Ned notes, it’s the kind of
laugh that always responds to Ned’s humor.
“Either way, I’m happy. I always wanted our children to get along.” Howland
smiles slyly. “Who knows? Maybe they can be even more one day?”
Ned scoffs. “I doubt it. If Bran is anything like his brothers, he’ll remain
faithful to his boyfriend. Your son won’t change that.”
Howland is taken back. “Bran is seeing someone?” Ned swears it’s the first time
in years that he’s seen his former schoolmate surprised.
Ned coughs. “I found some pictures on his phone. There were…inappropriate.” Ned
blushes and turns away.
Howland wants to laugh, but the fear freezes his larynx. “Oh? Who is he? Would
I know his father?”
“All I know is his name is Jo. It can be anybody.”
Howland chuckles; his nerves get buried underneath his snakelike tenacity. “Jo?
How do you know it’s not short for Jojen? Our children could be pulling one
over us, seeing each other behind our backs.”
Ned considers the possibility before shaking his head. “I don’t think my son
would do something so deceptive.”
“They’re teenagers,” Howland scolds. “They’re not supposed to tell us anything.
If Bran didn’t tell you about having a boyfriend, there’s a lot of things he
can be hiding.”
Ned frowns. “Do you think Jojen could have…?”
Howland shrugs. “If Jojen was secretly dating your son, I would know. Trust
me.” Howland sighs dramatically. “I’m concerned. My boy wants to move on. I
don’t need a mysterious boyfriend rising unnecessary suspicions.”
Ned sees his point. “Nothing is going to happen,” he promises.
Howland tries to look convinced by Ned’s assurance but not so convinced that he
can relax. “Have you spoken to Bran about the pictures yet?”
Ned shakes his head.
“People behave terribly under pressure. They’ll say anything to get out of a
tough situation. What’s to stop him from throwing Jojen under the bus to guard
his secret?”
“Bran would never do that,” Ned defends.
“How do you know?”
“Howland.”
Howland pretends to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. You and Cat raised good children.
You can’t blame me for worrying about my son. I know it’s his fault for getting
into this mess, but all I can think about is how one wrong move can take him
away from me. Again.”
Ned rustles Howland’s head the way he likes it. Howland almost purrs. “Don’t
worry,” Ned tells him. “As long as Jojen is a gentleman, there won’t be any
trouble from us.”
***
Jojen waits until they are at least fifteen minutes from the restaurant before
he gets Bran on his back. The backseat is hardly comfortable, but Bran is
friskier than usual. He makes the sweetest sounds—little gasps and giggles,
urging Jojen to go further while unaware that he’s bulldozing through Jojen’s
self-control. Bran has never been a good liar, but somehow, the success of
deception makes him want to misbehave even more. Bran should be counting his
blessings; instead, he’s pushing boundaries and talking about all the things he
intends to explore in their relationship. The requests are innocent, but the
way he moans them out as he licks Jojen’s tongue makes ‘going to the park’
sound like dirty talk. Jojen cannot refuse Bran, no matter what his common
sense screams, and lets Bran runs his hands against his jeans and play with his
belt buckle until he gets embarrassed by the erection pressed against his
trousers.
Suddenly, Bran is a blushing virgin again, and Jojen is a hot, spluttering
teenage boy who has experienced his first case of blue-balling. The results are
expectedly disastrous, and the pain is profound.
Bran tilts his head to the side in concern. “Are you okay?” He asks.
If Jojen had not noticed the guilt on Bran’s face, he would have thought the
younger boy was genuine about his confusion. The end results are the same:
Jojen is whipped.
“Everything is fine,” Jojen lies. He smiles, kisses Bran on the forehead and
helps him tidy up despite the overwhelming soreness in his balls. He’d give one
of them to cum, namely in Bran, and with that not being an option, he drives
forward. Bran sends Shireen a text, announcing his late arrival.
When they arrive at Shireen’s house, Jojen and Bran kiss goodbye a few feet
away from the entrance. Shireen is already waiting at the gate. She is
precocious and pure and tells Jojen she’s happy to meet him. Jojen reiterates
the notion. It’s odd; Jojen is aware Shireen has a crush on Bran, but the
jealousy does not bubble inside him. Perhaps, it’s because he senses that she
respects territory. Bran is Jojen's boyfriend, and Bran is her friend. There's
hierarchy, but she accepts her position is lower than his. He delivers Bran
into her hands and watches them grow smaller before they enter the house.
“Bran is here!” Shireen cries as soon as she is inside the house.
Jon pops his head out of the kitchen. “How did it go?”
Bran brightens up. “Great! They even let Jojen drive me home. I mean, I’m here
because they didn’t want us in the same house alone but it’s a start.”
Jon smiles. “That’s good. In a few years, you’ll be able to tell them you’re
dating. You’ll probably be married by then but baby steps.”
Bran pouts while Shireen muffles the giggles with a hand.
From the kitchen, Bran hears the pans sizzle. “I’m making beef cutlet
sandwiches for lunch. Afterward, how does some homemade ice cream sound?”
Bran perks up. “Sounds delicious.”
“The meat is almost done. You should entertain yourself until then.” Jon
returns to the kitchen without another word. Shireen shows Bran the living room
where her brothers are watching the discovery channel in rapid fascination.
Bran gets entranced by the image of a hawk swooping down to hunt some baby
penguins. He returns but not before Shireen catches him.
“You know; I’ve never met a guy who didn’t enjoy watching animals.”
Bran jumps. As his brief embarrassment fades, he asks, “What do you want to
do?”
Shireen thinks for a moment. Suddenly, her eyes lit up as if she has a million-
dollar idea. “How about you show me your newest drawings? You told me you were
starting on portraits. If they’re half as good as your comic book drawings,
they’re bound to be awe-worthy.”
Bran turns red. “Um, I don’t have them on me. I left at my house.” Bran
hesitates. “If you don’t mind waiting…”
Shireen shakes her head. “I’m not going to make you roll all the way home and
back just to do me a favor.” She claps her hands when a better idea comes to
mind. “How about I grab them?”
Bran blanches. “Uh, I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s no problem.” Despite her reservation about girls, Shireen is used to a
bludgeoning her brothers with reasons and demands to get what she wants. She
forgets for a moment that Bran is not her brother and keep badgering him until
he submits. “I was hoping to see your house one day. I’m sure it’s lovely. Oh,
but don’t worry. I won’t do anything weird. And I would never look through a
person’s room. Where are your drawings?”
“In my desk—”
“Great! I’ll get the key from Jon.”
Shireen dashes into the kitchen. Bran hears her explaining to his cousin, and
within seconds, Jon pulls the keys out of his pocket, tells her the security
codes and sends her on her way. The door slams closed. Shireen dashes off in a
whirlwind of fury.
When Shireen arrives at the Stark manor, she is intimidated by the size of the
estate. It is bigger than the Baratheon family home but lacks the grandeur. The
décor is tasteful but austere. There’s art everywhere and Shireen wonders which
ones were Bran’s selection. She doesn’t stay to ask. After hearing some of the
maid’s footsteps draw near, Shireen dashes upwards to Bran’s room. As soon as
she’s in the hallways, she forgets one crucial detail.
She has no idea which one is Bran’s room.
Without her phone, the obvious method is trial and error. Shireen knocks out
the first room for being too feminine, there are dresses and skirts everywhere,
dozens stuffed animals and dolls, and at least a hundred pair of shoes, one, in
particular, has Shireen checking out the size to see if they can fit. They
can’t. The second one is out of the question for being too structured. All the
books are aligned by subject first and alphabetical order next; her father
would love this man. The place is spotless except for the clothes on the bed.
Shireen leaves and enters the third room. She recognizes it as Jon by the newly
bought cookbook and the detective series he lent to Devan several days earlier.
The fourth place is artsy enough to be Bran’s, but as soon as she sees the
ballet slippers on the ground and the fifty pairs bursting out the closet, she
dismisses it as Arya. She sighs. Shireen surmises that the last room will
probably be the right room—as always in fiction. On the fifth room, she sees a
biography on Ted Bundy and is about to make a break for it when she notices
something peculiar.
A week prior today, Shireen lost her favorite pink jacket. Jon swears he put it
in the wash, but before it came to hang on the line, the article mysteriously
disappeared. Shireen relocated her suspicions towards her brother, but no
matter how much pressure she put on them, no one would budge.
Shireen walks over to the bed. She picks up the jacket and tightens her hold
when she realizes it is her jacket and not a lookalike. She trembles and her
trembling lasts even in her sprint back to her house. She runs into the kitchen
and screams at Jon, throwing the jacket in his face. Jon hugs her when her
emotions settle in and despite his loyalty to his family, he picks up the phone
and dials Davos’ cell phone number.
Inwardly, Jon curses Rickon’s lack of foresight. He put the jacket on his bed
of all things. Anyone could have seen it. Jon nervously fiddles with his
fingers. He does not want to think about how Stannis will react.
Chapter End Notes
     Hope you enjoyed the newest chapter!
     Now, some of you might have guessed it but from this point forward,
     the storylines are going to integrate. I don't know if I can finish
     this in 69 chapters but I'm going to damn well try. Aegon and Rhaegar
     will return, one way or another, but not until this mess is halfway
     through. I'm not done with them yet but they will be put on the
     backburner.
     Plus, Euron will be coming in soon. If I had to name this arc, it
     would be the Battle of Psychopaths.
***** Chapter 56 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stannis’s face resembled a monkey eating peppers when he found about Rickon. It
was the last thing the Starks needed that day, but the matter needed to be
addressed. Rickon fucked up. Stannis huffed and puffed about it, even going so
far as to scheme ways to get him sent to America to be tried as an
adult—fortunately, Davos was present to be the voice of reason. He shuffled his
husband to the side to speak as a whole. The good cop is a role he plays so
well. 
“I can talk Stannis out of pressing charges as long as I know Rickon is no
longer a threat to Shireen’s safety. Obviously, we’re not going to be
comfortable being your neighbors, but I don’t think it is fair for us to move
nor is it appropriate for you to leave your ancestral home.” Davos glances over
at Rickon who is glaring at the ground, petulant and not at all remorseful.
“Therapy is a non-negotiable demand, however, if you want to keep the
legalities out of it.”
"Of course," Catelyn readily agrees. With a heavy sigh, the Stark matriarch
makes the most appropriate suggestion of them all—one that should have been
made ages ago when Rickon began his biting habit.
“There’s boarding school,” Catelyn suggest. Rickon snaps his head up, looking
horrified. She watches her husband’s shoulders drop in defeat but power through
when he makes no attempt to stop her. “Ned went to Eton, but we’ve always been
a close family, so we’ve avoided sending our children out. In light of recent
circumstances, I think it might be good for Rickon to—”
“I don’t want to be sent to some stupid boarding school!”
“You don’t have a choice,” Catelyn snaps immediately. The interruption does
nothing but grate her nerves. “Not after this.”
“And boarding school is the least of your problems,” Ned follows up with a
glare.
Rickon is taken back. He slumps into the shadows with a shiver of regret. Both
of his parents sound furious. He’s never seen them that angry.
Davos nods. “Can he apply this late in the year?”
“We’ll make it work,” Ned assures him. “There are a lot of schools.”
“Fine,” Davos agrees. “Please tell us when he gets accepted. Until then, we are
not taking any option off the table." The threat is subtextual, and Catelyn is
almost impressed by the lightness of it all. "But you need to find him a
therapist, and if you're not with him, I want someone supervising him at all
times."
They nod their heads like admonished children. 
"Ned? Catelyn?”
They look at him. With a dark glower, he says: “If my daughter comes crying to
me over something your son has done, trust me, it’s not Stannis you’ll have to
worry about.”
***
Several days later, the Starks find a distinguish psychiatrist by the name of
Hannibal Lecter. Catelyn is adamant about getting a man with the finest
credentials, even if his specialty is criminal, not pediatric. “Psychologists
are people who weren’t smart enough to get into medical school," she insists. 
Doctor Hannibal Lecter has a spectacular resume. While his clientele is usually
older, he is amenable to the Stark’s plea. In the case that he is unsuited for
the task, he has given them his word to recommend a better substitute and spare
them the trouble. Catelyn sets up the appointment the following week. Because
Rickon is a child, he suggests they meet at his home rather than his office for
comfort.
“Unless he has an allergy towards dogs. My husband has a pack of them.”
“Oh no, Rickon loves dogs. In fact, would you mind if he brought his own? It is
a fearsome looking beast, but well-mannered compared to his owner.” There is
forced laughter on Mrs. Stark’s end. Hannibal respects and pities her for her
dedication to propriety. “It might make him more agreeable during your
session.”
Hannibal grants the request without issue. The dog is as well-trained as
promised and sits at Rickon’s heel while they speak. He occasionally makes
longing gazes outside, prompting Rickon to ask if he can let him have a run
with the other dogs.
"He likes being around a pack." 
“Of course,” Hannibal gets up, and Rickon follows. As soon as Hannibal opens
the door, Shaggy goes running outside. The dogs are used to new pack
members—they don’t even hesitate to invite their new companion for a run. Will
minds even less. A soft smile appears on his face as the wolfy canine comes
into his arm and licks his face.
“He seems nice,” Rickon notes when the return to the couch. “Pretty.”
“Yes, he is,” Hannibal agrees and pours him some tea. It’s one of Will’s
recipes, but the peachy flavor and heightened sweetness are popular amongst
children. “I’m a lucky man.”
“How did you fall in love?”
Hannibal’s lips quirk. “This meeting isn’t about me, Rickon.” 
Rickon shrugs and Hannibal has half a mind to inform him that a gesture is not
a response until the boy responds with, “You’re supposed to make me comfortable
to tell you things. I'd be more comfortable if you told me about yourself.”
Clever boy, Hannibal thinks. “Why don’t you tell me about the first time you
met Shireen?”
Rickon turns away. Hannibal is used to talking to body parts instead of people.
He stares straight into Rickon’s head without meeting his eyes. “Rickon, your
mother was explicit about her expectations. I don’t want to have to tell her
you're uncooperative.”
“I thought doctors weren’t supposed to talk about their patients,” Rickon
mutters.
“I am allowed to give general commentary about your overall progress, but any
revelations or confessions we have within our session are protected unless they
suggest harm to yourself or others.”
“What?”
Hannibal chuckles. “If you were to tell me that you planned on hurting someone,
I am obliged to tell your guardians, possibly the authorities. If it has
already been done, then it falls under the realm of confidentiality.”
“Wait,” Rickon rubs his temples like an adult getting a migraine. It's
strangely endearing; Hannibal wonders if it has been too long since they've had
a child in their home. “So if I told you I broke into Shireen’s house, you
can’t tell anyone, but if I reveal that I want to break into her house, that’s
not allowed?”
"No, if you plan to break into her house, I have to say something. Wanting is
not the same thing." 
Rickon purses his lips in confusion. “Wouldn’t that just encourage me to commit
the crime first and then tell you after?”
“Forgiveness is easier than permission.”
“Has that happened before?” Rickon asks. “Did you ever have a patient just
stalk someone he had a crush on and then come here and tell you afterward?”
“It’s a familiar pattern,” Hannibal agrees. “Quite recently, I signed off on a
patient who turned the object of his obsession into a lover. We continue to
talk about his course of action and how he is managing a relationship with
someone he once worshiped. I also have another patient who comes in every so
often to talk about his subversive hobbies. For him, I am an outlet. Since last
week, we’ve discussed a new lover he’s grown fond of.” Hannibal pauses for
effect. He’s gotten Rickon’s attention now, albeit reluctantly. “These sessions
are to help you. To get you to a stage of accomplishment. I am not here to
deter you from your desires but to follow the path towards them.”
Rickon frowns. “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”
“I believe you're a passionate child with peculiar interests. I want my home to
be a shelter. You can come here and speak of your ailments and actions, talk
about your urges and as long as no plans are finalized, you have my silence.”
Rickon thinks it’s too good to be true. The dogs make a ruckus outside. They
are happy, wholesome creatures. “Do you love your husband?”
“Rickon…” Hannibal warns.
“I mean, he’s different from your right? I can tell you don’t run in the same
circles.” His mother has an eye for classes. He supposes all rich people do,
himself included. “Shireen and I met at a park in our neighborhood. It’s this
big, posh park where all the rich people take their kids, so you only meet
people like you. But I can tell she was different. First, it’s her accent. She
sounds high-brow. I mean, I have it, too. But she’s a city girl. I grew up
here, so everyone knows I’m from northern Yorkshire.”
“Is that why you’re interested in her?”
Rickon shakes his head. “She has this beautiful scar. It’s weird. She’s
embarrassed by it, but she doesn’t hide it. I overheard…I was eavesdropping,”
he corrects. Hannibal nods in approval. If Rickon feels oblige to be honest
already, they're off to a good start. “Her father…stepfather says she shouldn’t
hide it because our scars make us who we are. I think it’s great. Gorgeous.
She’s dainty, too, but not weak, kind of like Sansa.”
“Sansa is your older sister?”
Rickon nods.
“Are they that similar?”
Rickon shakes his head. “No, Shireen’s more…shybut only to strangers. Sansa’s
popular and outgoing with everyone. Shireen is quiet and likes to read books,
like Bran. But she’s strong and stubborn; she argues a lot with her brothers so
she’s really bossy. So it’s kind of like being around Arya, but not. And even
though she’s one of the youngest, she’s always taking care of people. She makes
sure her fathers are not working too hard and she’ll cook if Jon isn’t working.
Things like that, you know?”
“Like your oldest brother, Robb?”
There’s a pause before nodding. Hannibal’s lips twitch. “Shireen seems to be
the accumulation of all the traits you love and admire.” Hannibal puts down his
cup of tea. “Sometimes, we fall in love with people, not for their similarities
to ourselves, but for their differences. There are things we lack and want to
have, but by having them, we lose a sense of our own person. Thus, we seek them
out in others to fill the void. They become balancing mechanism for our whole.
 It makes sense that she would attract you.”
Rickon’s chest flutters from the acceptance. Feeling bold, he adds in, “Then,
why doesn’t everybody understand that?”
“Because very few people in the world have ever felt that much intensity for a
single person, and in their longing, they mistake madness for love.”
Rickon pouts and he looks so petulant, Hannibal cannot help but be amused.
Perhaps it has been too long since there's been a child in the house.
“It isn’t fair,” Rickon tells him. “Short of forcing them, isn’t all fair in
love and war? Even a little brainwashing should be okay as long as no one gets
killed. I mean, isn’t that just seduction with an edge?”
Hannibal almost chokes on his tea. Will comes in at that moment. Rickon
brightens up. Hannibal notices that since their meeting, the youngest Stark has
taken a liking to his husband. He must appreciate a fellow dog lover.
“Sorry for interrupting,” Will mutters as he takes the pitcher and gets himself
his glass of ice tea.  
“It’s alright,” Rickon pops in before Hannibal does. “How’s Shaggy?”
Will give him a little smile and side glance. “He’s good. I almost want to ask
for your advice on grooming.”
“Start them young and keep them quiet,” Rickon replies.
The pun makes Hannibal’s lips twitch. “Would you like a light lunch while we
continue this session? I can make us some sandwiches.”
“Sure, thanks.”
Hannibal gets up. “While I’m cooking, why don’t you tell me about your got into
Shireen’s house? I’m sure that’s an interesting story. How do you like your
meat cooked?”
“Bloody rare.” 
Hannibal pauses and for a moment, he vaguely considers adoption.
***
While the doctor and the delinquent discuss the Baratheon infiltration, Shireen
makes herself comfy at the Mormont’s family home. No one blames Shireen for
wanting to get out of the house as often as possible and Lyanna is always
willing to welcome someone into her death trap. She goes through the effort of
making hot chocolate and chooses wholesome conversations that deviate away from
the Starks.
“My uncle is the commander of the homicide unit. They’re in charge of the
Bloodhound Killer,” Lyanna declares as soon as she sets down their mugs.
Shireen is going through her binders, looking at the maps of the murders while
also skimming over the forensic details. “I’m not much a detective but there’s
value in recognizing patterns.”
“You’re so detailed,” Shireen admires. “You even connected the victims to their
working posts.”
“Every prostitute in the city has a ‘spot,’” Lyanna tells her. “The hard part
is figuring out how he chooses his other victims—the ones that aren’t
prostitutes. I tried getting information from my uncle but he's more closed up
than a nun's legs."
"Lyanna!"
Lyanna ignores her. "He refuses to tell me anything.”
“Is it because you’re a girl?” Shireen asks.
Lyanna scoffs. “When you have my mom as a sister and my grandmother as a mom,
you best believe you get the sexism beaten out of you. No, he says civilians
shouldn’t mess around with police work.”
“Well, you wrote ‘the Zodiac’ and ‘Ted Bundy’ underneath potential suspects so
I don’t think he’s far off.”
“I’m trying to be a doctor, not a detective,” Lyanna snaps. “I just think we
have a right to know. He’s attacking young women. I’ve seen all the TV shows,
he’s going to elevate. But the police won’t tell the public anything because
they don’t want to rouse any copycats.”
“Maybe they’re trying to cover up the fact that they don’t know anything.”
Lyanna shakes her head.
“Uncle Joer told my mum that they have suspects.”
“Why haven’t they arrested anyone yet?”
“They haven’t narrowed them down to one. There’s too much liability if they get
it wrong.”
Shireen contemplates the situation. “They probably have their names at the
station, right?”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t we pay them a visit? Find them out for ourselves?”
Lyanna is intrigued. “Really? You’d be okay with that?”
“Sure,” Shireen shrugs. And she means it. “Nothing takes a mind off a stalker
quite like a murder.”  She doesn’t mention that it sounds like fun, but she
knows Lyanna senses her excitement. Yorkshire isn’t quite as exciting as
London, but the serial killers bring about some nostalgia.
“I’ll get my sister to drive us!” Lyanna shouts as she runs into the other
room. Shireen cleans up their belongings and tries to finish up her hot
chocolate in the allocated time. For a second, she wonders if she should call
Bran to join them. Lyanna won’t mind, but Shireen decides against doing so. She
doesn’t want to be reminded of Rickon and without a doubt, Bran will bring up
the subject in a hopeless attempt to mediate. He’s been texting ‘sorry’ all
week. Shireen doesn’t blame him for what happened, not for a second, but her
personal drama has been clouding her mind all week and she wants nothing more
than sunshine of a distraction. She won’t get that from Bran but she might get
a clear head from the mauled corpses of a serial killer. 
***
Going to Ramsay Bolton’s flat is comparable to riding a ship in a shitstorm.
Jojen doesn’t enjoy looking for trouble, but when Peter offers him double his
usual fee for a delivery and a two-gram bonus of seventy-six percent purity, he
isn’t in a position to refuse. He has dates to worry about and university fees.
 
Fortunately for Jojen, Ramsay doesn’t seem particularly volatile this
afternoon. He invites Jojen in and despite the Reed’s initial refusal,
eventually, agrees to light a blunt. The hemp aroma does nothing to deter the
wafting scent of cum. The entire place smells of sex.
“Busy morning?” Jojen asks while he lights up. He sucks in, letting the smoke
pull into his lungs. He hasn’t been able to partake in a while, preferring to
save up his funds for his boyfriend but a free hit is free. Soon, the feeling
of ocean foam covers his entire body. It feels fucking fantastic. It is a
goddamn shame Ramsay is there. 
"Yeah," Ramsay grins lazily. "I even wore my fucktoy out. He's been in bed all
day. I don't think he remembers what it's like not to be gaping all the time." 
"Sounds nice." He can't wait for the day that he gets Bran so open. 
“I heard from Peter you got yourself a little boyfriend.”
Fuck Peter, Jojen thinks. “Hmm…has he? How nice of him to share…”
“Yes, it was.” Ramsay takes another drag. “It must be hard.”
Bran’s image pops into his head. “Yeah, it is.”
Ramsay chuckles, “I meant dating a Stark. Their family is notoriously frigid. I
bet your balls are blue by now.
Jojen shrugs. “You’d be amazed.” He remembers Bran’s cheery red lips and the
way his delicate fingers pull at the hem of Jojen’s shirt, drawing him closer
before pulling the fabric off so that their bare chests are touching. “Where
did you hear this from, anyway?”
“From my father, for one. Our families have done business together for a long
time.” Ramsay drinks from his beer and offers one to Jojen. The boy politely
refuses, asking for bottled water instead. He turns down a cup when it is
suggested.
“Prissy,” Ramsay says with a sharp smile. He does have bottles on hand,
however, and doesn’t hesitate to get one of his boys to deliver. “Plus, one of
my current fucks has loads of stories to tell. You might have heard of him?
Theon Greyjoy?”
Jojen pauses with the water sloshing in his mouth. “Your newest lay is Theon
Greyjoy?” Bran has told him enough stories of his eldest brother’s pining
suitor and every single one is more miserable than the next.
“Yeah.” Ramsay finishes up his beer. One of the guys is ready with another. The
weed begins to have an effect on Jojen as his back sinks further into the
leather couch. His skin is melting into the hide. He feels giddy and talkative
and it takes more strength than he would like to use to shut up.
“He mentions something about ‘tight Stark asses’ once or twice.”
Jojen gaffes. “Yes, they are.” It’s a godly occasion whenever he gets to
squeeze Bran’s perky little behind.  
“Must be hard dating him, with them breathing down your throats. Have they
found out about you two yet?”
“Since I’m not dead, I’m going to say no.” Jojen let out a string of giggles
and is joined by Ramsay. “But we’re meeting at his house tomorrow...supervised
visits only…” He takes in another drag.
“You’re like a child molester,” Ramsay adds unhelpfully. Jojen laughs. “It
takes real shrewdness to get under their noses.”
“Well, it wasn’t easy," Jojen says, "But everyone has a weak spot.”
“Peter told me you were good at finding them.”
Jojen pretends to be calm while his pulse races. He remembers the sound of a
newly open bottle and knows his water was untampered with but that does nothing
to soften his suspicions. He chooses to be upfront about his next question.
“Why did you want me to be your delivery boy?”
“You’re not much of a delivery boy anymore, are you? You’re fucking a Stark
now; you’ve made it to the big leagues.”  
“We’re not fucking,” Jojen snaps. The word feels disgusting in his mouth
despite all the fantasies he’s had in the path. He doesn’t want Ramsay to think
about, to sully Bran’s image with his thoughts.
Ramsay doesn’t care enough to comment. “Either way, he’s yours. He became yours
because you found a way inside. Now, I need a way inside. I need you to do a
job for me.”
Jojen’s lips stretch into a thin line. “No,” he answers.
“You’ll be paid handsomely for it.”
“There’s not enough money in the world.”
Ramsay is not perturbed. “You can calm down. I don’t want you to do anything to
them, I just need you to get something from them. They won’t miss it; in fact,
it won't even be gone."
“It’s still a ‘no.’”
The smoke is beginning to lift from his eye. He makes a gesture to leave but
one of the boys block him. “I don’t think you’re in a position to refuse me,
what with your rendezvous with the Stark boy.” Ramsay gets a few pills from a
candy jar and pops them in his mouth.
Jojen frowns. “They won’t believe someone like you.”
“Yes, they will,” Ramsay retorts. He laughs. “They’ll take any reason to keep
you away. And from what I hear, your Stark can’t keep a secret.”
Damn Theon Greyjoy. “You think I don’t know about you?” Jojen responds, equally
as determined. “The stuff you and your friends get into; there’s bound to be a
paper trail no matter how careful you are. Do you want the police breathing
down your neck? Because there are some things your father cannot save you
from.”
The mention of Roose Bolton has Ramsay narrowing his eyes. Nonetheless, he
composes himself with vigor. He grins with such confidence, Jojen is taken
back. “Seems like we both have each other’s balls in a grip.” Ramsay takes a
moment to enjoy the sensation of the ecstasy or Prozac or whatever the hell he
took to escape reality. “The question is: who uses them more?”  
Jojen reluctantly admits he’s right. He offers Ramsay leeway, knowing there’s
only one way out. “What do you want from the Starks?”
“Submitting so soon?”
“Assessing my options. There’s only one way we’re getting out of this flat with
our testicles intact. Tell me, and I’ll consider whether it’s worth it or not.”
Ramsay agrees after some thought. “I want footage on a certain street camera.
There should be a code that allows me to access it from afar. You need to get
me that code.”  
Jojen furrows his brow. “Where would I get it?”
“Ned Stark should have it in his study, or you can access Robb Stark’s
computer. According to my sources—”
“Just fucking say Theon’s name, we all know it’s him—”
Ramsay glares. “Robb Stark has access to all the cameras.” Ramsay shows him a
paper with a street address and an angle. “This is the one I want. I trust you
have some knowledge of computers.”
“I don’t know how to hack a password.”
“Then wait until he’s using it and sneak in when he’s not looking. I don’t
care. I need this code.”
“Why?”
Ramsay sneers. “That’s none of your business. As long as it has nothing to do
with your Starks, you should be grateful.”
Jojen sighs. “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to do it?”
“He’s not my—” Ramsay groans. He reaches out for another pill. “He doesn’t need
to get involved with this.”
Ramsay doesn’t want to incriminate Theon; how sweet, Jojen thinks. It seems the
beast can fall in love. Jojen takes the paper. “I intend to get paid.”
Ramsay nods. “Of course.” He takes out his wallet and lays down a few bills. “A
down payment,” Ramsay says smoothly.
Jojen takes the money. “And I don’t want to hear from you again when we're
done.”
“No problem.”
Jojen stands up. He is allowed to walk to the doorway without an issue from
Ramsay’s boys and once he is safely outside of arm’s reach, he gathers the gall
to attack Ramsay’s where it hurts. “You know, Bran tells me a few things, too.
You’re not the only one with a talkative lover.”
Ramsay raises an eyebrow. He’s amused. The shock he’s going to feel makes
Jojen’s blood boil with eagerness and vengeance. “Really? Does he tell you
about his school friends and his feelings, too?”
“He tells me about Theon.” 
Ramsay laughs. “I know everything about Theon.”
“Do you know why he started living with the Starks?”
Ramsay grins. “Because his father was an asshole who kicked him out of the
house? Yeah, I know the sob story. I get it. We have daddy issues,” Ramsay
mocks. “You trying to hurt my feelings?”
Instead of being intimidated, Jojen smirks. “You don’t know about Euron
Greyjoy, do you?”
“That his brother or something? The ones who died?” Ramsay never bothered to
learn the names of two dead assholes.
Jojen shakes his head. “Euron is his uncle. The one who he was sent to live
with after his father kicked him out. He never told you, did he?" Jojen hums in
delight. "He's the man that Theon ran away from him. Bran told me he did
something to him that made it impossible to stay. He never learned what it was
but I have a few guesses. After all, there’s only so many things you can tell a
child at that age.” Ramsay clenches his fist as Jojen continues. “You must be
thinking about it; Theon was only fifteen years old when he came here. Pretty
and sweet and untouched by any other man.” He can taste the rage oozing out of
Ramsay’s skin. Jojen bets he’s imagining it now; the shadow of a monster
violating Theon in a way Ramsay valued himself privy to. Jojen turns his heel.
“I guess your fucktoy doesn’t tell you everything.”
***
Shireen and Lyanna waste no time scavenging through the records when they
arrive. Lyra spends her time there apologizing to her uncle in tears.
“She forced me!” the middle Mormont cries. “Twisted my arm and said she had to
see a dead body, one way or another!”
“She’s so dramatic,” Lyanna explains to her friend. She rolls her eyes as they
dodge another officer. “Have you found anything yet?”
“Just a few photos.”
“Let me see.” Lyanna takes the photos out of her hands and as soon as she does,
the corpses’ portraits are stolen away by a handsome, long-haired gentleman
with smothering eyes and a strong jawline. Lyanna frowns. “Are you a Stark?”
The question is less surprising than it should be. “I’m Detective Stark. These
are my photos.”
Lyanna nods approvingly. “You must be the Stark who's sleeping with my uncle.”
“Lyanna!” Her uncle shouts.
Benjen brightens up. “Yes, yes I am,” he admits proudly.
“Benjen!”
“Mum says he’s been happier since he’s gotten laid. She told me we had to thank
you if we ever met.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
They shake hands. Shireen sneaks through his documents throughout his
conversations. Her eyes widen over something Lyanna concludes must be juicy.
Detective Yoren, who Lyanna met when he broke into their home during a police
prank, thinking he was at her uncle’s house, finds them looking.
“I thought we told you that was off limits,” Yoren informs; he isn’t scolding
and seems more amused than upset. Benjen narrows his eyes at the two.
“What were you looking at?”
“Nothing,” the girls answer in unison.
“We were just curious,” Shireen tells him.
“Now we’re less curious,” Lyanna joins in. The Baratheon heir grabs her
friend’s wrist and drags her to the corridor before anyone can stop them. The
two officers are distracted when the commander calls them into his office.
“What did you find?” Lyanna asks as soon as they are alone.
Shireen turns a ghastly shade of white. “Bran!”
Lyanna gapes. “Bran Stark is suspect? I should have known that wheelchair was
just for show. What a great alibi.”
“No!” Shireen shouts. “I mean; Bran is in trouble. His boyfriend was on the
suspect sheet.”
“Are you sure?”
Shireen nods furiously. “Yeah, ‘Jojen Reed’ and some guy name Ramsay Bolton are
at the top of the list.”  
Lyanna covers Shireen’s mouth in the least inconspicuous manner she possibly
managed at a police station as two cops past them with curious glances. She
lets go. “We don’t know it for sure. It could be that other guy.”
“Either way, Bran could be in trouble. I mean, he wouldn’t be on the suspect
list for no reason, right?”
“True,” Lyanna agrees. “We have to figure out who it is."
“What?” Shireen hisses.
“Don’t you want to protect your friend?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then, we have no choice. We need to get close to Jojen Reed and eliminate him
as suspect or put him behind bars.”
Shireen lets out a moan of despair.  “Stop trying to go Sherlock Holmes on me!
You’re twelve. We’re silly little rich girls, not detectives.”
“Well, I’m not rich. You are.”
“Not the point,” Shireen groans. She takes out her phone and decides to call
instead of texting. She cannot risk Jojen reading their messages. “I need to
warn Bran.”
Lyanna grabs the phone as soon as it starts ringing. Bran picks up abnormally
fast.
“Hello?”
“Give me the phone,” Shireen orders.
“Hello, this is Lyanna Mormont.” Lyanna sounds less murderous when she’s having
a polite conversation. “I’m one of Shireen’s friends and Dacey Mormont’s
sister.”
“Oh, hello.” Bran sounds confused but hopeful. Shireen knows that’s because of
her avoidance. Her heart lurches at the thought that she drove Bran further
into the arms of a serial killer with her rejection. “How can I help you?”
“Yeah, Shireen is busy right now but she wanted me to ask you if you wanted to
hang out with your boyfriend for a…a…” Lyanna wracks her head for a viable
excuse. “For a double date.”
“What?”
“What?” Shireen hisses.
“Yes,” Lyanna agrees. “I am…her girl…friend.” Lyanna speaks more conviction as
she continues. “We are lesbians. I think about her boobs and she thinks about
my blind ambition and willingness to kill.”
Shireen stares at her horrified.
“Oh well, congratulations. I didn’t know.”
“It’s a surprise to us, too. But we figured since you are also gaying, we
should hang out as one big group of gays.”
Shireen hits her head on the wall repeatedly.
“Uh, sounds good.” Bran agrees. “But won’t it be a problem with Rickon and
all?”
“No, because I will kill Rickon if he comes near Shireen again.” Shireen gets a
chill. Lyanna sounds absolutely serious.
The two of them can here Bran gulp. “Well, do you want to have dinner at my
place?”
Shireen shakes her head. “No, we want to have a double date in a public place
where people can see us and no one can get hurt if someone turns out to be a
serial killer.” Lyanna pauses. “By the way, is your boyfriend with you right
now?”
“Uh, no, I’m alone.”
“Great.” Lyanna leans over to Shireen’s ear. “I should have asked that first.”
“You should have asked for a lot of things first.”
Lyanna returns to the conversation. “How about we go to the movies?”
“Too dark,” Shireen whispers, already apart of the plan whether she likes it or
not.
"I mean, how about we don't go to the movies?" Lyanna corrects herself. "No
occasion for conversation." 
“How about a museum date?” Bran happily suggests. “There’s an exhibit I wanted
to check out and they have brunch special. We can get to know each other.”
Shireen and Lyanna look at each other. After some reluctance, Shireen nods.
“That sounds good,” Lyanna agrees. “Get back to me on the details.” Lyanna
hangs up with Bran can ask for her number. When the call is finished, Shireen
looks furious.
“How could you say that?”
“We needed a way to vet Jojen. I found one.”
“We didn’t you let me tell him the truth?”
“And risk him not believing in you or in any word you say from that point
forward?” Lyanna sighs. “He let the guy get away with stalking; if Jojen is
guilty, he’s just going to twist your words around, saying you’re paranoid
after Rickon. Besides, we don’t know if Jojen is the murderer. That’s no reason
to ruin a perfectly good friendship.”
Shireen sighs at her reasoning. “But we’re not dating.”
“Oh relax,” Lyanna waves her off. “I’m twelve. He’s not going to expect us to
be making out on the couch. Besides, after the murderer is caught, we can tell
him it was just a ploy to lure out the killer.”
Shireen still doesn’t like the plan. Her protests are interrupted by a woman
with flowing blonde hair. She pulls the girls aside. “What are you two ladies
up to?” She asks in a ‘mommy’ tone the two have only heard in the movies.
“We’re discussing serial killers,” Lyanna admits. Shireen tenses with the
honesty. “Coming up with our own theories.”
The detective crosses her arms. “I heard you two were doing more than that?”
She raises an eyebrow. "It seems you were looking through the reports." 
Lyanna shrugs. “It’s not a crime to be fascinated with forensics. I could be
the next Sherlock Holmes,” Lyanna suggests. “I thought adults were supposed to
be encouraging education.”
The detective scoffs. “Nice try, but I have a gift.” She leans down. “I can
always tell when someone is lying.”
“We’re not lying,” Shireen lies. “In fact, we’re just about to leave.” Shireen
grabs her friend by the arm and takes her to her eldest sister. She shouts that
it is nice to meet the commander, even as she sweats bullets to the car. Lyra
is crying after her but Lyanna is as petulant as ever.
Detective Swan shakes her head. She walks towards the Commander. “Girls these
days are really something, aren’t they? Sometimes, I’m glad I only have to deal
with Henry.” That's a lie. Henry is only an angel when his hormones aren't
affecting his judgment. 
“Believe me, boys are harder,” Commander Mormont replies.
“Don’t I know it?” agrees a haunting voice from the doorway.
Everyone in the precinct turns, a hand on their weapons. Detective Benjen rises
from his seat. Without warning, he walks up to the door and throws him against
the wall. Commander Mormont is the first to shout the order.
“Calm down, Stark! He’s not worth it!”
The man laughs without a care in the world. No one can tell his larynx is
getting crushed.
“Benjen, let him go,” Yoren soothes. “His face will still be there when you’re
not in uniform, at the precinct, or surrounded by civilians. This is not the
time.”
Benjen holds him for a good number of seconds before his grip loosens. After a
few additional moments lingering on life or death, Benjen releases the man to
the ground.
“What the fuck are you doing here, kiddie fucker?” Benjen asks.
Euron Greyjoy laughs as he gets up. “Funny you should mention that.” Euron
gives his arms a stretch. “Because finding a nice piece of ass is exactly what
I’m here for.” He grins. “Now, Officer Stark, can you tell me where I can find
my slut of a nephew?”
Chapter End Notes
     I'm strangely proud of this chapter. It's like watching Game of
     Thrones has revitalized all my Game of Thrones love. I'm super behind
     on my schedule but I'm definitely will be posting a smut-filled
     chapter of Crown the Wolf sometime before Monday. I have to post an
     updated version of the schedule. :(
     I hope you enjoy this. Things have been getting so dramatic lately, I
     need to bring back the fun in funeral.
***** Chapter 57 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Euron Greyjoy strolls into the police station like a bleeding cunt, thrusting
his hips upwards as if anyone could miss his gargantuan cock making a mountain
in his jeans. The man is grinning, mad as mercury, and as poisonous, too. He
plops his ass onto the chair and shouts:
“Can a man get some service in here?”
“I’ll be happy to serve you,” Emma mutters, hand on her handcuffs and another
twitching towards her baton. She wishes she was in America again, where cops
didn’t have to be assigned lethal cases to hold guns.
“We’re all out of kiddie porn today,” Yoren pipes up. He shuffles the two
raging detectives to the side and takes control of the reigns. “I don’t think
there’s anything else on the menu for you, but you can always check out our
cells. There are a few fuckers out there that might be willing to do you a
solid.”  
Euron laughs like a grackle, and the hysteria rings through their ears. “I’m
going to have to take a rain check, but don’t think you aren’t in my thoughts,
Yoren.” He blows the officer a kiss before turning to Benjen. “So Stark, how
you’ve been? Not well, obviously. All that anger, harming an innocent civilian
like that.” He rubs his neck dramatically for emphasis. “Don’t worry.” He
winks. “I’ll keep the little police brutality a secret. We all have our days.”
Benjen is both uncaring and unamused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Euron takes note in how all the other officers shuffle away, pretending not to
have seen what happened minutes earlier. They know who Euron is, and they like
Benjen too much to hurt his career. It pays to be well loved. Euron whistles
his appreciation. “So much for Stark honor,” Euron jeers. “God, I love dirty
cops. Gets me hard as a rock.” He pats his crotch. “Sure you don’t want to take
me for a ride? I’d split you up real good.”
Benjen glares.  
Euron starts cackling again. “Oh, that’s right, you like those shriveled ol’
sausages. Probably can’t handle my fat piece of man meat inside that twat of
yours.” Euron shrugs. He strolls over to Benjen and rests his hand on the
Stark’s ass. “But if you ever change your mind…”
Benjen nearly punches him. He settles for a firm push that has the Greyjoy
almost toppling over the desk. The dark-haired detective skips any further
civility. “What the hell do you want?”
Euron bats his eyes in faux innocence. “I told you: I’m looking for my nephew.
Heard from my boys that he’s left the Starks and found a new master. A kinky
one, too. Thought I pay them a visit and size up the man whose plowing my
nephew’s cunt.” Euron licks his lips.  “Maybe  give him some tips.”
“Fucking hells,” Yoren mutters. “How are you not incarcerated?” Euron has been
in and out of English prisons since the day he turned sixteen. He sold drugs,
done drugs, been guilty of larceny, solicitation, pimping—fuck, they’ve even
booked him for loiteringbut his lawyers are scumbags soaked in sewage, and they
go through tunnels and trials to get him off—probably in an attempt to cover
their asses. He’s managed to avoid several murder charges on technicalities and
one highly memorable insanity case. The only time they came close to sending
him to prison for good was during the molestation and rape charge made by his
nephew—a case that never went to trial.
“Oh, are we still on about that?” Euron bats his eyelashes innocently. The
gesture makes the officers cringe. “Hey, I wasn’t doing anything I wasn’t asked
to.”
“Your nephew never asked you to fuck him.”
Euron gasps in mock horror. “Me? A kiddie fucker? Why I would never!” Everyone
stares at him in disbelief and anger. Suddenly, Euron bursts into laughter. “By
the God, get a fucking grip. Theon dropped the charges, didn’t he?” Euron
grins. “Kid could never make up his mind. One minute he’s walking around our
flat in a towel and the next second, he’s on his back like a little bitch,
crying rape. The boy just didn’t want to admit to his daddy that he liked dick
and was so hot for it; he had to climb onto his uncle’s hot rod.”
The description causes a nearby officer to leave the room. They hear him
regurgitating his lunch. Euron continues talking as if he doesn’t see the way
the Stark’s hands throbbing. He clicks his tongue appreciatively. “Listen, one
thing life has taught me? Never let a slut with daddy issues go to waste.”
Euron tuts at the officer’s naivety. “But hey, we all gotta let go some time,
right?” Euron skips over to a chair with wheelie feet and spins his ass around.
“Speaking of Theon, I’m a bit worried about the kid. He’s my brother’s boy,
after all. At least with the Starks, I know he’s got protection. You fuckers
are everywhere with your cameras and shit—Couldn’t get within a mile of him
without you noticing. By the time you guys stopped checking, I stopped caring.
A win-win situation for us all.”
“What changed?” Benjen asks, his eyes mimic a sniper’s scope and they are
trained for his skull.
Euron gives his lips a refreshing lick. “Can’t an uncle give a damn without
being interrogated by the police?” He reaches into his coat, causing all the
officers to grab hold of their weapons. Euron puts his hands back in the air.
He hoots with delight. “Woah now! Everyone calm down; no need to get frisky.”
Euron pulls out his cell phone and uses one hand to pull up a picture. He
delivers it to Benjen. He shows it to Yoren, who impressively keeps a firm
face.
“Confessing to murder? I was hoping you’d give me a challenge but a win’s a
win,” Benjen says evenly.
“If only I could put that tongue of yours to better use, Stark,” Euron
suggests. He swipes back his phone. “Apparently, the dead guy’s name is Damon.
He’s an associate of Ramsay Bolton. Odd chap, maybe you’ve heard of him.” Euron
rolls his neck to relinquish the tension in his muscles. He pretends not to see
the way Benjen twitches at the mention. “I mean, I have. We have friends who
run in the same circles. Never met him myself, though, heard he’s a nasty piece
of work.”
“You would know.”  
Euron chuckles. “Bet your ass I would.” He turns off his phone. “Now, I’m a guy
who appreciates silence—I don’t care about these green boys and the things they
say to get their dick wet. They’re boys!” Euron sighs dreamily. “But one day,
I’m at the pub. Celebrating a fun evening, getting my rocks off with some bitch
at the bar, oh, the stories I can tell about that ass—!”
“Get on with it,” Benjen snaps.
“And I hear from the guy next to me that they haven’t seen this Ramsay in a
while. Girl I’m with—she gets super tight. Like she was trying to choke my dick
with her pussy. I say ‘what’s up? Keep doing that shit, I like it’ but the
bitch doesn’t say anything, so I start giving it to her…”
“You fucking—”
“Hey, she liked it!” Euron defends. “So she tells me she’s scared of this
Ramsay fellow. Says he’s this major creep with a fuckload of fetishes; choking,
blood, knives—fuck, it got me kind of hot.” What doesn’t? Benjen wants to ask.
There’s a visible chub rising in Euron’s pants. “But suddenly, all the guys
around us start joining in with their horror stories. They go on and on about
how this guy is the fucking devil. What do I look like? A goddamn priest?”
“Well, you do have a habit of fucking little kids,” Benjen quips.
Euron ignores him. “Naturally, I’m getting irritated. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“I start to feel unappreciated.”
“Guess the city isn’t big enough for two psychos,” Yoren mutters.
“Exactly,” Euron agrees. “So I keep listening. But out of nowhere, one of the
guys tells me that I Ramsay’s dick is taking a break from pissing to pound this
pretty rich boy. Normally, I don’t care, but then I hear the little bitch’s
name. Any guesses?”
Benjen doesn’t have to guess. He’s seen the evidence first hand. “Who?” He asks
to maintain the act of ignorance.  
“My nephew.” Euron gives a dramatic gasp before laughing. No one can tell if
his behavior is an act or he’s genuinely insane. Either way, the homicide
officers keep on their toes and raise up their guard. “Naturally, I’m concerned
for the little shit. Just because we’re not fucking anymore doesn’t mean we’re
not family.”
Emma has had enough. She lunges at him, and it takes two of the guards in the
back to carry her away. Benjen feels bad for her. His momentary aggression has
caused all officers to be on high alert, and it takes away any opportunity for
the other cops to act.
“I can’t do anything about that,” Benjen tells him. He sits down. “Theon is a
grown adult—now. He dates who he wants to date.”
“Some guys give other guys a choice,” Yoren adds in. Benjen’s lips twitch.
Yoren’s two cents is always appreciated.  
“You’re cops, aren’t you?” Euron asks. “Don’t think of me as a career criminal
who’s slept with his nephew, but a concerned citizen. If this guy’s dangerous,
you should investigate.” He spreads his hands apart like the messiah. “And in
the meantime, you can tell me where my nephew is so that I can keep him safe.
Right in my arms.”
Benjen shares a look with Yoren. The two of them hide their smugness through
identical frowns. “We’ll take your statement into consideration. Until then, I
suggest you go home.”
Euron chuckles; probably assuming that the two will do nothing of the sort. He
saunters off with flair. Benjen is sure his vengeful mind is already working on
counterattacks against his nephew. “I’ll see you soon!” He shouts as he marches
on without looking back. They hear him singing all the way out of the building.
When the sound stops, Benjen and Yoren get to work. They have a lead to follow.
***
His father used to say “optimism is the curse of practicality.” People will
never fail to deceive or disappoint. While Ramsay avoided taking lessons from
the leech lover, he couldn’t stop the messages from sticking. The words clung
to his brain and rewrote his vision. Ramsay knew the only way to erase his
father’s words was to prove him wrong.  His impulsiveness caused Ramsay to
behave foolishly. He put his faith in Myranda and then, a stranger. No matter
how many promises Theon Greyjoy showed at their first meeting, this was an act
of unforgivable stupidity.
“Fool me twice,” Ramsay mutters in contempt.
Ramsay drinks his whiskey and considers his next course of action as the shower
turns on. For the longest time, Ramsay was sure he had Theon all figured out.
The daddy issues, the unrequited love, the desperate attempt to latch onto some
pride as his family’s name loses more value than dog shit. It wasn’t that Theon
wanted to be somebody; Theon just wanted to be somebody that wasn’t him. His
entire body was a whiteboard, and his self-loathing served as an eraser,
waiting to be utilized. Sure, there were parts of him scribbled in permanent
marker, but they were just lines—additions could be made to create a new
picture and fuck—did Ramsay want to be an artist.
So many people are under the delusion that their partners want to be
challenged. Guys use that line a lot; “I want someone to challenge me” or “make
me a better person.” If he says that, then he’s fucking someone else. Men don’t
want to be challenged; they want to win. After the novelty of the challenge
wears off, it’s all about the prize. If there is no prize, they start to
realize that the “challenge” isn’t all it's hyped up to be. They turn their
attention elsewhere. Shakespeare fucking called it with his shrews. Ramsay is a
monster, but he isn’t a hypocrite.
Ramsay doesn’t want someone to bitch about his decisions. He wants ride or die.
He wants someone whose life’s ambition was to wait at home and spread his legs
at a moment’s notice.
Myranda got close. She was exciting and fun and down for anything—until she
started to challenge him. She second-guessed his choices, even threatened to go
to the police if he didn’t respond to her calls. The last straw was her
laziness: her reluctance to blow him when he told her to, the way she saw to
Ramsay’s pleasure as if it were a chore. The two of them had a deal, and she
had broken it. She became someone Ramsay hadn’t agreed to be with.
Theon was different and that was the problem. Myranda latched onto Ramsay
because he was her first love. He ruined her. Theon had been broken before he
had met Ramsay. It made things easy, but it wasn’t right. The thought of
someone’s else fingerprints on Theon made him want to reach for his flaying
knife.
And that isn’t okay.
Fuck the gods if they think Ramsay is going to sit around and be someone’s
rebound.
Ramsay hears the shower turn off and he mirrors the action on his laptop.  He
erases his search engine of all results relating to Euron Greyjoy—call it
paranoia but Ramsay hates leaving things to chance—waits for Theon to find him
in the living room. The Grejoy is naked and wet and crawls onto the couch to
give Ramsay a kiss.
Ramsay accepts and even goes as far as to stroke Theon’s hair tenderly. There’s
a trill that escapes Theon’s throat when he does so. When they part, Ramsay
caresses Theon’s cheek.
“Let’s go out today,” Ramsay suggests.
Theon is taken back. “Why?”  
Ramsay kisses Theon again, harder this time but nothing on par to his usual
roughness. “Because I want to,” he answers. Theon’s nods. The easy submission
is excellent, but the question should have never been asked.
Ramsay doesn’t bother to call him out on his mistake. Getting angry will only
ruin his plans. Instead, he goes to his closet and throws a shirt towards
Theon. “Get dressed. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Theon hurries to get ready. He almost falls off the couch putting the shirt on
and then runs into their room to find a pair of jeans. The eagerness is almost
cute, but Ramsay doesn’t allow himself to dwell on those thoughts. He has a
plan; for weeks, he’s been training Theon like a dog. Ramsay has followed all
the rules. He's established himself as the alpha; he’s provided rewards for
positive behavior and punishments for poor actions; always one step ahead,
leading the pack; Ramsay is strong, he’s smart, and he’s fierce and to Theon,
he's a protector.
Now, it’s time for the big guns.
When Theon comes out, Ramsay pays him a compliment and gives him a small grope
of the ass before leading him out. The trick is subtle, but it does wonders.
Theon follows him like a lovesick puppy, wagging his tail and yelling at him.
They are in the car when Ramsay wipes a wet strand of hair out of Theon’s face
and compliments the way he smells. Ramsay is careful to place his kindness at
random points of their drive while throwing an insult or two when he has the
time. There’s no real bite to it—it’s just a ploy. With dogs, positive
reinforcement is simple. Good behavior equals treats. Bad behavior equals
punishments. With humans, it’s more difficult. Some bitches have the audacity
to use the tutelage against their masters. They start manipulating their owners
to get what they want. This is why so many guys end up losing the reigns on
their dogs. Ramsay knows better. He doesn’t want Theon to get ahold of a
pattern now that the proper behavior is instinctive.
The second factor is obedience without question. Theon has mastered the
'obedience' aspect, but he still has a hard time with the ‘question’ part.
Theon hesitates; there’s always a lingering thought of ‘why’ or ‘what’ instead
of ‘yes’ and ‘whatever you want, Ramsay.’ So after driving halfway to his
destination, Ramsay order Theon to get out the blindfold in his glove
department and put it on. Theon pauses—again, and has to bite his lip to keep
himself from asking questions. It’s not ideal, but it is a start. Theon lets
himself get driven to god knows where without the protection of sight. Though
it took more work than he would have liked, Theon has placed his faith in
Ramsay. 
After the fabric firmly is secured, Ramsay unzips his jeans and leads Theon’s
mouth to his cock. Theon’s nose is buried in thick, dark hair while his mouth
wraps around the cock. At least half of Ramsay’s shaft is tunneled inside
Theon’s throat, and the feeling is glorious, worthy of their hell on wheels’
exhibition. Ramsay picks up the speed on the road and tries to concentrate
while getting his balls blown. Theon is blind, but he can hear the occasion
honking and jeers from the cars who’ve managed to catch a peek. Theon’s body
gets rather bothered by the knowledge—he wonders just how people can see him
giving a blowjob.
They're staring at me, Theon blushes. They can see what a whore he is and what
a stud Ramsay is for getting his bitch to do this for him. The attention swarms
to his groin, and he’s hard as a rock. Theon works Ramsay’s cock steadily,
figuring Ramsay probably wants the moment to last until they reach their
destination. Ramsay seems to approve of the idea because he bobs Theon’s head
nicely and slowly. It doesn’t work as well as Theon would like, and Ramsay ends
up shooting in his mouth approximately five minutes before they arrive.
Ramsay pulls him off his cock before he parks. Theon reaches for his blindfold
when he does so. “Keep it on,” Ramsay orders. Theon’s fingers slip past the
knot and rest on his lap. Ramsay gets out of the car and opens the passenger
door.
They walk through woods, with one or two branches brushing against his arms,
and wet grass soaking through his soles. Theon is then lead to a closed
environment, a house or a small building. The place smells like compost and
pungent yeast. Ramsay keeps a firm hand on Theon’s back the entire time. He is
led up the stairs with caution. Though  dirt turns to wood and the temperature
drops in their newfound surroundings, Theon does not build up the courage or
sense to run away. He keeps the blindfold on and allows himself to be taken
into false security.
When they get further inside, sharp barks and little growls echo throughout the
room. They stop. Ramsay leaves his side, and it takes all of Theon’s strength
not to latch onto his arms or cling to his legs. He hears the hinges of a door
creep.
“Get inside.”  
Theon cringes. He takes a step forward, and the new room is colder than the
hall. Theon jumps when he hears a dog bark in his direction. The foul stench of
wet dog fills his nostrils. Someone opens a cage, and one of the canines comes
close enough that Theon can feel its rumble touch his skin.
“This one’s name is Kyra,” Ramsay informs. He walks over somewhere and opens
another cage. This one is in front of Theon this time. “And this bitch is Jez.
Real biter, she is.”
Theon whimpers. Ramsay releases two more, each on his left and right side. He
is surrounded. Theon’s breath hitches when Ramsay’s fingers trail against his
cheek and reach the back of his neck. He pulls off the blindfold but Theon’s
eyes remain closed. He’s scared. He can’t run because dogs are chasers—they’ll
hunt him down before he even gets outside. A part of him wonders if he’d run if
there weren’t any dogs; if it was just Ramsay by himself. By now, he's trained
to fear Ramsay, to heed his orders. Theon’s not sure he can lift a finger
against the man even if his life depends on it.
Ramsay wraps his arms around Theon’s waist, trapping him for good. “Open your
eyes,” he whispers.
After a deep breath, Theon obeys as commanded. His eyes flutter open, and
suddenly, his vision is overwhelmed with lights and the sight of yelping of
hounds, jumping about like children on Christmas. Ramsay makes an order with
his hands, and the dogs take it as permission to jump on Theon as they please.
The largest one manages to get high enough to lick Theon’s face.
“W-what is this?” Theon stutters out as another pooch decides to launch a
brigade of kisses.
“My dogs,” Ramsay explains. One tries to come up to him, but his command is
immediate. The bitch whimpers but remains seated. “I keep them here because my
flat only allows one pet. Didn’t want to choose.”  
Theon laughs, his lungs almost giving out in relief.
Ramsay pets one of his dogs on the head. Hunting has been the farthest thing
from his mind lately, so the dogs have been getting their proper meals on a
daily basis. As far as Theon is concerned, they’re just a bunch of slobbering
pooches—nothing like the beasts Ramsay trained them to be. The Bolton isn’t
disappointed, though. Their upbeat attitudes have just the right effect on
Theon.
Roose was a strict educator when Ramsay was a child, having him devour
literature as a substitute for actual nutrition. The Bolton head never cared
for the watered down tales made to accommodate the innocence of children. Of
his favorite myths and legends, Ramsay quite enjoys the Greeks and their
tenacious gods and monsters. How Hades just takes Persephone from her mother’s
breast and makes her his queen without consent, or how Cronus swallows his
children with the intent of maintaining power. There’s another story about
Pandora, and how the foolish woman unleashes the evils of the world: winged
creatures of deceit and slavering beasts of treachery. The only blessing was
when she shut the box before the worst evil escaped: hope.
“Hope is the worst of all evils, for it prolongs the suffering of man,” his
father taught him. “People who hope never do. Hope is the mother of hubris, in
which one believes themselves to be greater than a god—an unforgivable sin.”
At the moment, Theon is filled with hope; he’s the happiest Ramsay has ever
seen him. Ramsay is behaving like a prince, and this small sacrifice on
Ramsay’s part will last him years down the road. Now that Theon is aware of his
capacity for kindness, he’ll hope for more. He will cling onto the dream for as
long as Ramsay will have him and he won’t entertain thoughts of leaving—not
without remembering this day.
Ramsay directs Jez and Kyra into the backseat, and when Theon notes, rather
sadly, how the other can’t fit, Ramsay promises to take them out next time.
They go to the park nearby, and it is isolated except for an elderly couple and
a mum and pops shop on the street. Theon plays with the beasts while Ramsay
buys fish and chips and two bottles of water. The date is simple and quaint but
pleasurable for a shore-born boy who hasn’t seen the sun in days. Theon’s skin
regains its natural glow, and his hair lightens the slightest. When Theon gets
tired from all the catching, he returns to the bench beside Ramsay and rests
his head on his master’s shoulders.
“I like this,” Theon mutters.
“What?”
“Being with you,” Theon answers. “This.” He looks at Ramsay and kisses him on
the cheek. While Ramsay loathes chaste displays of affection, he has to admit
that Theon’s attempts are endearing. He pets his boy on the head and proceeds
with the final part of his plans.
“Theon, do you want to do this again?”
Theon hesitates; his forehead wrinkles in an attempt to see if this is a trap
of some sort, before losing to hope. “Yeah.”  
Ramsay smirks. He proceeds to kiss Theon until the boy is maneuvered onto his
lap. Theon is breathless when Ramsay pulls his lips down to kiss his neck. He
licks Theon’s nape. “You know, I am a very possessive man, Theon,” he says as
his teeth scrape against the throbbing vein on Theon’s throat. “I don’t like
sharing my things.”
Theon chuckles in an attempt lighten the mood. “Good thing no one wants to
steal me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Theon watches Ramsay pull out his cell phone and turn it on. On the screen were
dozens of missed messages, all from Asha and Robb. “Someone out there loves
you.”
Theon reaches to grab it but pulls back at once. Ramsay sighs in
disappointment. He opens up the screen and reveals the texts messages. “I’m
giving you a choice, Theon. I can give you whatever you want—all I ask is for
you to be mine. I want you to put me first above anyone else. To love and
devote your time to me and only me.”
“I…I—” Theon’s lower lip trembles. “I’m trying,” he breathes out.  
Ramsay’s lips land on Theon’s chest. “I know, but it is not enough. You still
question me; you still covet things that you think you need but don't because
they don't come from me! The way you reached for the phone says something.”
“I didn’t mean to!” Theon defends. “And I stopped!”
Ramsay grabs his hair and brings their faces an inch away from each other. “You
want to stay, then give everything up. Otherwise, you can leave. I’ll drive you
back to the Starks, or your sister, or hell—” Ramsay licks his lips. “I’ll
bring you back to your uncle—I’m sure his bed has gotten rather cold without
you in it.”
Theon loses his breath. “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to,” he says,
bordering petulance.
“Then prove it,” Ramsay tells him. He hands out Theon’s cell phone. “Prove who
your master is.”
"What do you want me to do?" 
"I'm want you to remove the dead weight," Ramsay grits out. He can't believe
Theon still doesn't understand. There's only two people in a relationship. "You
got hurt because they were weak." 
"No, that's not true." Theon shakes his head furiously.
"They couldn't protect you. They didn't have the balls to do what needed to be
done. I do. So they need to hear you make a choice. Me or them?" 
Theon considers running away, but he can't. He goes through his contact list
and chooses the easiest of his hard options. The phone rings several times
before a rough and low, but distinctively female voice answers. “Theon?”
Theon hesitates. 
“Go on,” Ramsay whispers. “She needs to hear you say it.”
“Theon, is that you? It's you, right? What the fuck? I’ve been trying to reach
you for ages. I—”
“Stop.” Theon chokes. 
“What?" 
“Stop calling me," Theon explains. "Stop trying to…to get in contact with me.
I’m tired of it. I’m not…I’m not a Greyjoy anymore. I’m…I’m Ramsay’s…”
“Who the fuck is Ramsay?” Asha sounds livid.
“He’s my…I belong to him now,” Theon explains. “I don’t want to hear or see
from you again. Ever. I…Just stop contacting me, Asha.”
“Are you fucking serious? You ignore me for weeks and then suddenly, you think
you have the right to demand me to leave you alone while you go on your rampage
of stupid? Fuck that!" 
“I don’t want to talk about," Theon begs. "I...I found someone who can take
care of me."
“Theon, you are grown ass man. You don't need someone to enable you.  God,
fucking hell, shit, I’m heading over there, Theon."
“No!” Theon protests. “I…I moved out of the Stark house and…just leave me
alone. This is goodbye. Forever.”
Theon hangs up before Asha can give him another round of cussing. Ramsay wipes
away the fat glob of tears.
“Very good,” he praises. “Now for the final touch.”
“Do I have to do it today?” Theon sobs. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Ramsay insists. “You have to. You can’t move on until you do.”
He makes sure to sound especially tender when he says this. “This is for me. I
can’t love you if I’m not the only person in your heart.”
Theon is so desperate to be loved. With the tears released like a dam, Theon
selects Robb’s number. He’ll be able to hear Theon’s crying, Ramsay notes with
glee. 
“Theon, is that you?” The relief in the Stark’s voice makes Ramsay rolls his
eyes. He hates the man more than ever. “Do you know how worried I’ve been?”
“I’m…I’m okay,” Theon murmurs. When Ramsay senses his weakened resolve, he acts
at once. He kisses Theon on the lips and slips his hands underneath his top.
Theon moans. 
Robb calls out his name incessantly, forcing Theon to answer.
“I have to tell you something,” Theon says when they separate. There’s an
additional breathless quality to his voice, and it gets Ramsay hard. He makes
sure to move Theon so that the younger boy is directly on top of his cock. The
response is a small roll of the hips.
“For us,” Ramsay reminds him.
Theon nods like a soldier taking his position in the front lines. “Robb, I
called to tell you…I want you to stop trying to reach me. I’m…” What is he
doing? Breaking up with Robb? Destroying an almost decade’s worth of
friendship? “I’m moving on. I don’t want us to keep seeing each other.”
“What the hell, Theon?”
Theon winces. “I found someone.”
Ramsay tugs his nipple with his lips, making his puppy shiver in pleasure.
“Keep going,” he instructs.
“And we’re going to be very happy together, but I have to follow his rules.”
Theon gasps. “And he doesn’t like me seeing other people and—” Ramsay licks the
line between his abs.
“Theon, we are best friends. Who the fuck is this guy?”
Theon bites his lip. Ramsay cups his ass and orders him to end the
conversation.
“I have to go. I knew you needed to hear it from me. Goodbye, Robb. For good.”
“Theon—!”
Theon hangs up before his former friend can get in another word. When he does,
Ramsay takes the phone and slams it against the park bench, shattering it
before throwing it into the grass. He pulls Theon to a kiss and mutters sweet
words of endearing. “Good boy,” he says. “You did beautifully.”
Theon tries to enjoy the praise, but it is drowned out by his tears.
“I have no one now,” he whimpers.
Ramsay chuckles. He strokes Theon’s cheek. “You have me,” Ramsay denies. He
kisses Theon’s forehead. “You only need me.”
Theon nods dejectedly. Ramsay lifts him up and places him on the park bench. He
stands up and motions the dogs to come forward. “I want us to have dinner
tonight—in public."
Theon's cries stifle a bit. He hasn't gone out to eat in a while. Ramsay
continues his seduction. "But first, we have to do some shopping. If you’re
going to be with a Bolton, you need to look the part.”
Theon’s ears perk up at the thought of shopping. “New clothes?”
It was a question but one of clarification, so Ramsay will overlook it. “Yes.”
Ramsay gives him another kiss. They are strangely addicting. “Something pretty
for my pretty lover.”
Oh fuck, did Theon go crazy at the word: lover. No, that’s an understatement.
He goes gaga with infatuation; he wants to put a ring on the title and screw it
to the ground. He latches onto Ramsay’s mouth like a leech and continues to
tongue him until Ramsay laughs them apart.
“Hey, calm down. Before we get to the fun stuff, we need to get all the nasty
business out of the way.”
 Theon frowns. “But I already did what you asked.”
“And you did it splendidly,” Ramsay agrees. “But now I need your secrets.”
“My secrets?”
Ramsay nods. “Everything you’re afraid to tell anyone. I need us at a clean
state.”
“Ramsay, I've told you everything about me,” Theon pleads. 
"Really?" Ramsay's grin is vicious. "Even your uncle?" 
Theon's blood runs cold at the mention of Euron. “That's...You don’t
understand. I abandon him. It's not important anymore; he's in the past. I've
moved on. I have. I swear, he means nothing. I'm not damaged, I—!”
Ramsay refuses to listen. “No, you aren't.” He tightens his grip on Theon.
“Theon, we can’t keep things from each other.” Ramsay presses his fingertips
harder into his skin. What cute, purple bruises they are. He wants to do more.
Suddenly, he has an idea, and it’s a glorious, mad, fucking fantastic idea.
“How about I tell you something about me first?”
Theon pauses. He figures someone as  mad as Ramsay would have no secrets.
Ramsay gives him his last kiss of the day. “You swore to love me completely. So
what if I told you I liked to kill people?”
***
Shortly after the phone call ends—or rather, immediately after the phone call
ends, Robb throws his phone onto the couch. He rushes to the kitchen and tells
Jon to drop everything he’s doing. “We have to save Theon. He’s gotten into
some crazy shit.”
Jon does not bother to look up. He continues stirring the soup. “Is it worse
than that time he joined a cult?”
Robb is not sure. “I don’t know, but it involves a man.”
Jon sighs. “We can’t go anywhere. We’re watching over Rickon.”
Since getting caught, Rickon’s stealth has been used to surprise members all
over the house. Therefore, it shouldn’t have scared the boys as much when
Rickon pops his head out of nowhere and tells them how willing he is to
accompany them on their mission.
“Dr. Lecter suggested I start putting more energy into helping people and Theon
is a charity case if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Rickon!” Robb scolds.
“He’s not wrong,” Jon mutters. He puts his spoon down. “We can work on finding
him tomorrow. Give Theon some time to think about his choices. Who knows? He
might come back with his tail between his thighs by then.”
"Jon, Theon can be in serious trouble!" 
"Or, he can be working on a new collection. Didn't you tell about the time he
went missing for a month to do some design work?" 
"Yes, but that time didn't involve a man." 
“Maybe Robb's right,” Rickon agrees. “He chased away Robb’s girlfriends for
over six years; he’ll probably do anything to keep this guy interested. I'd be
worried”
Robb glances over at Jon in fear. Jon remains adamant about his decision. “It’s
getting dark, and I’m not taking Rickon out this late at night. Tomorrow. Now
set the plates for dinner.”
The young men follow his instructions, one with more reluctance than the other.
In the living room, Bran pretends to be oblivious to the conversation. He texts
Shireen like he always has and makes sure to delete the responses to his
request. 
Double date? Tomorrow? He asks her. After a few more minutes, Shireen accepts
the offer. Bran finds himself looking forward to it more than he realized. It's
so normal. A double date. Rickon walks past him to get to the bathroom and Bran
almost throws the phone at the ceiling to hide his treachery. 
From this point on, Bran needs to be discreet. He certainly doesn’t want to
witness the blowout of Rickon discovering Shireen's newest relationship. 
Chapter End Notes
     I worked on the outline while having a major Iwan Rheon marathon. I
     watched Vicious and Riviera and it was just freaking awesome. And
     then I fucked myself over by watching episode 4 of Game of Thrones
     ahead of time and because I am weak, I started reading script
     spoilers. Seriously, this is why I can't do drugs. I never know when
     to stop.
     Sorry for not responding to comments. I promise to get better and I
     am super excited to write Crown the Wolf! :) I probably won't get it
     done by tomorrow but I might be able to pull a miracle off by getting
     it out on Sunday. Here's hoping. Have a great day. Will try to
     respond more!
***** Chapter 58 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jojen has an odd talent for creeping into Bran’s bedroom unannounced and
unseen. The skill is telling of past, highly problematic espionage, but the
Stark can’t seem mind—not when Jojen arrives, dressed in a white shirt with two
buttons undone at the top. White shirts are for men what sundresses are for
women—an article of clothing that is both beloved and revered as the goddess of
apparel. No one looks shit in a sundress and no man can be downgraded by a
white shirt.
He is terribly handsome, Bran swoons.  
Because of that white shirt, Bran allows Jojen to climb onto the bed. He allows
Jojen to kiss his neck and fondle his nipples. Jojen has been insatiable since
their public “reconciliation.” He comes over every chance he gets and while it
begins with a conversation, it usually ends with illicit caresses and cock-
teasing, pre-coital make-out sessions. Bran tries to be good and strong but
Jojen is really hot.
“We can’t,” Bran moans. “We have to go out today.” Bran bites his lips as Jojen
sucks on his skin. “The Body Exhibit at the museum…with…Shireen and…oh.” Bran
makes a strange, keeling noise he’s never made before.
“If you want to learn about the body, I’d make a great tutor,” Jojen suggests.
He gently leads Bran on his back, a position he’s gotten awfully familiar with
the last few days. His face is burning; Jojen’s tongue is traveling down his
chest and his lips are sucking on every piece of skin he can find. The older
boy’s hands are twitching. Bran is confident that in a few weeks’ time, he’ll
be getting fingered in his bed while his parents are out. Robb almost assured
him of that.
“I thought you said if Jojen is a good guy, he’ll wait until I’m ready!” Bran
asked fearfully.
“Yeah, and he will. Forget the law, they won’t find the body when I’m done with
him.” Robb's eyes darkened. He swore the worse torture following his
declaration. The eldest Stark returned to the topic after his threat. “But how
do I put this?” Robb paused and then his eyes sparkled once the answer came to
mind. “Bran, do you like what you’ve been doing so far? The kissing and
touching?”
Bran blushed. “I guess.”  
“Exactly.” Robb nodded to strengthen his affirmation. “We’re Starks, Bran.
Starks aren’t meant to be celibate. We just aren’t.”
The news was frightening and exciting at the same time. In the present day,
Bran thinks about the possibility his desires have opened. Bran knows Jojen
wants to go further. Bran wants to want to go further. Just as Bran is about to
tell him that maybe a little more is alright, a knock on his door forces Bran
to use all of his upper body strength to push Jojen off. The older boy acts
fast. He rolls underneath the bed and is out of sight before Bran’s older
brother walks into the room.
“Hey, we’re just about to head out. Are you sure you don’t want us to drop you
off anywhere?”
Bran shakes his head furiously. “No, I’m good. Have fun on your…excursion.”
Robb gives him a chagrined smile. “Let’s hope Theon doesn’t make it too hard
for me this time. If I’m lucky, we can get through this phase without me
hauling him over my shoulder and planning a weeklong intervention in Iceland.”
Bran doubts it’ll be that easy. “Good luck,” he says instead. “I’ll be fine
alone. I promise.”
“I know you will.” Robb pats him on the head. Before he leaves, he tells Bran
not to get into too much trouble. “And tell Jojen he can stop hiding underneath
the bed. He may have been able to avoid father’s cameras but he hasn’t found
all of mine yet.”  
The door shuts and Jojen shimmies out of hiding. Instead of being afraid or
embarrassed, he seems put out—insulted even. “How many cameras does he have? I
swore I found all the bugs.”
Bran scoffs. The number of electronic bugs outnumbers the actual organisms,
three to one. When he voices this fact, Jojen displays a rather puckered
expression. Bran can’t help but giggle. He ends up giving Jojen another kiss to
comfort him, which leads to the older boy returning to his bed to continue
where they left off. He massages Bran’s thigh and leads his head to the pillow
so that he can straddle his hips. Bran tilts his head up to bares his creamy
neck as a canvas for mauve bruises and blotches of rose. Jojen’s teeth scraps
against the collarbone and Bran’s breath hitches in anticipation. Before Jojen
bites down, he lets out a deep, breathy laugh. Bran is curious about the
chuckle until the older boy pulls away, eliciting a strained whimper out of
Bran’s throat.
“No!” Bran protests as he tries to reach forward to his lips.
Jojen laughs even louder for his reaction. He gives Bran a swift kiss before
getting off the bed.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Bran cries out. As soon as he says it, he curses
his wantonness.
Jojen buttons up his white shirt. “We have a date to get to. Can’t have all of
our fun here.” He leans in and gives Bran another kiss which the younger boy
shamelessly accepts. “Unless you can think of a good reason to cancel?”
Bran pouts. The top button of Jojen’s jeans is purposely left undone. “You’re a
cheater,” Bran accuses; his eyes are focused on the rising bulge and they
dilute in delight.
Jojen gives him a wry smile. “Punish me,” he suggests. The Reed boy gets close
enough for Bran to pull him down. They kiss with more roaming hands and
unspoken allowances. Bran sighs in pleasure as Jojen begins to work at his
neck.
They’re definitely going to be late, Bran thinks.
***
Approximately ten minutes from their meet-up time, Lyanna checks her watch and
confirms that their companions are late. “Within five minutes, a brain without
oxygen will start to experience brain damage. Ten and we’re dead. We are dead,
Shireen. They have killed us.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Shireen snaps.
The Baratheon heir is shaking from nerves. The whole situation is rather
discombobulating and her friend’s attire and attitude do nothing to assuage her
concerns. Lyanna is wearing a shirt with teddy bear print and overalls, coupled
with a watch that works in analog. She is perfectly at ease. The Mormont is the
most adult-like child Shireen has ever met.  
“I’ll place my bets that they’ll be at least half an hour late. Starks are
notably virile.” 
“Lyanna!”
Lyanna shrugs. “My sister dated the eldest. They made out all the time and I
mean all the time. No matter how mild-mannered Bran is, he is getting the D.”
“I can’t listen to this!” Shireen hates how frantic she sounds. “What if he’s
getting killed right now? Maybe we should call the cops,” Shireen suggests.
“We’re in over our heads!”
“And let our plans got to waste? Absolutely not. I am a Mormont and we are not
quitters,” Lyanna tells her. “Besides we have no proof; we’re doing this to
confirm whether he’s a killer or not.” On a side note, Lyanna adds that all the
victims have been women. “If anything, Bran is completely safe. We’re the ones
who are going to get killed if Jojen turns out to be the killer.”
Shireen’s jaw drops. “You’re not helping!”
Lyanna doesn’t seem to mind her apprehension. “We’ll be fine. I got a list of
all the murder dates.” She pulls out a piece of paper. “We just need to confirm
where Jojen was at those times and whether he has the means to perform those
kills.”
Shireen is surprised. “Did your uncle give you that?”
“Yes…” Lyanna pauses. “No, actually, he did not. No one in their right mind
would give confidential police data to a twelve-year-old girl.”
“How did you get that?” Shireen narrows her eyes suspiciously.
Lyanna responds by rolling her eyes. “I asked my mother for it,” she explains.
The youngest Mormont hands the page over to her friend. “No one tells my mother
no, not even the commander of the homicide department.”
Shireen stares. “And why did she get it for you?”
“My mother believes that if her daughters do anything, it needs to be done
right. She encourages our aspirations.”
Shireen looks over the paper. She and Lyanna quiz each other on the dates until
the boys arrived, which takes another twenty minutes. They stand up at once.
Shireen shoves the paper in Lyanna’s backpack while Lyanna comments on the
older boy’s attractiveness. “If I wasn’t fake gaying with you, I’d be real
straighting with him.”
“Lyanna,” Shireen warns. “He could be a serial killer.”
“From a purely observational standpoint, he is the most attractive person out
of us four.”  Lyanna looks the teenager up and down. “And Bran must think so
too because they are sporting sex hair.”
“Lya—“
“Hello,” Lyanna interrupts as she walks forward to introduce herself. “You must
be Jojen Reed and Bran Stark. I am Lyanna Mormont—Shireen’s girlfriend. Who is
gay.”
“You don’t have to say you’re gay every single time,” Shireen hisses.
“Ignore her. She’s still coming to terms with our love.”
“It’s almost like it doesn’t exist,” Shireen points out sarcastically.
“Darling, no one cares,” Lyanna whips out; sharp as a whip with blades. She
returns her attention to the boys. “There’s a tea room where we can have
breakfast—or, brunch since you two were late.” Bran blushes in embarrassment.
“Fornicating, I bet.”
“Lyanna!” Shireen scolds, her own face mirroring Bran’s ungodly shade of red.
She hopes upon reaching medical school, the youngest Mormont took a rigid
course in bedside manner.
“Let’s go.” Lyanna turns her heel and leads them to the restaurant. On the way
there, she attempts to work her nonexistent magic; it is like watching a madman
perform Harry Potter spells and the results are just as disastrous. “So Jojen,
do you frequent any pubs, specifically one located in the south district named
Bonds and Bitches?”
Jojen raises an eyebrow. “I’m not much of a drinker.” Alcohol has never been
his drug of choice.
“So on March 5th and March 17th, you were not anywhere near that district?”
Jojen smiles easily. “It’s been a while; I can’t say I remember exactly where I
was at that time.”
“That’s not a ‘no.’”
“So Lyanna, do you know if the tea room is serving raspberry tarts? I love
raspberry tarts. And pie! I could use a boysenberry pie about now.”
“Who knows what they serve? Look at the menu when you’re there.” Lyanna gives
Shireen an exasperated look. “Tell me, do you have a family?”
Jojen glances over at Bran who is undoubtedly as confused about the situation
as him. “Yes, I do. One sister and a father.”
“Is your mother dead?”
“Lyanna!” Shireen shouts. “You can’t just ask people if they have dead
mothers.”
“She killed herself when I was a boy,” Jojen answers, much to his amusement and
Lyanna’s satisfaction.  
“That must have been very traumatic. Has her abandoning you affected your self-
worth and/or caused resentment for women?”
“Gods be good, Lyanna stop.”
“Not at all, my sister has been a positive influence in that regard.”
“Good.” Lyanna uses a tone that says she doesn’t believe him. They reach the
tea room and are made to wait a few minutes for a table. Once they receive
their seating, they sit down and talk about their plans. “The body exhibit has
a tour in an hour or we can do a self-exploration. Which do you prefer?”
“I rather go at my own pace, if you don’t mind,” Bran chimes in. He smiles
shyly. “There are some pieces I want to see and it’s no fun speeding through.”
“Of course, Bran,” Shireen readily agrees. “I know you have the best taste.”
Out of nowhere, a blunt pain hits her knee. “Ow!” She turns to her side and
sees Lyanna sipping her tea languidly. Her phone beeps with an upcoming text
message.
Stop flirting. You’re on a date with your girlfriend. Have some shame.  
Shireen sends Bran a tight smile. She kicks Lyanna back, causing the munchkin
to yelp.
“Are you okay?” Bran asks.
“We’re fine,” they say in unison.
Lyanna drinks her earl grey with relative annoyance. “Enough about us. Tell us
about yourselves. How did you guys meet? What made you fall in love? Was it
your mutual love of dogs? You do like dogs, don’t you Jojen?”
With the attention back on him, Jojen responds accordingly. “I’m quite fond of
them.”
“Yes, well dogs are good, loyal creatures. I prefer cats myself. More
independent. But the thing about dogs…” Shireen notices that Lyanna has a habit
of deviating the conversation in an attempt to sound ‘natural’ but it only
makes her next statement more suspicious. “...Is that they’ll do anything. If
you tell them to jump, they jump. Tell them to fetch, they fetch. Tell them to
rip someone’s head off and chew on their bones and they will.”
Silence fills the table. A young waiter draws near to take their orders and
turns the heel in the other direction as soon as he hears Lyanna speak. Bran
coughs. “Uh, well they’re also nice to cuddle with.”
“Yes,” Lyanna agrees. “You can use them for cuddling, too.” Lyanna pauses her
second sip to add sugar to her tea. “Tell me, Jojen. Have you ever gotten
sexual pleasure from beating people?”
Shireen thrusts her hand in the air. “I am ready to take my order!” She shouts,
every bit like a tramp her father made her swear not to be. The server
reluctantly drags his feet towards her.
“Never.”  
“Have you ever gotten sexual pleasure from being beaten?”
The server turns around before Jojen can answer. Shireen almost slams her head
on the table; at this rate, they’ll starve. Shireen’s fingers twitch for the
chance to stuff Lyanna’s mouth with sweets and silence.
“I have not.”
“Have you ever tried either situation?”
“I’ve never expressed an interest in such acts.”
Lyanna remains unconvinced.  
“What if Bran wants you to spank him?”
Bran chokes on his tea.
 “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”  
“What?”Bran coughs out.
Shireen jumps out of her seat and runs to the waiter. Before he has the chance
to escape, she drags him to the table and demands he take their order. He is
shaking as he does so and looks like he rather be anywhere else but there.
Shireen refuses him the mercy. If she must suffer through their caricature of
an interrogation, then so must everyone involved. 
When the young man leaves to deliver the instructions to the kitchen, Lyanna
resumes the role of interrogator. 
“I understand you’re quite taken with Bran.”
This time, when Jojen smiles the corners of his mouth sharpen into knives. “I
feel I was born to meet him.”
Bran turns red as expected. Shireen, for the sake of decency, praises the
romantic notion. “I’m so happy you’ve found each other.”
“Do you tell all your exes that?” Lyanna asks, not cruelly but the blow is
killer. Bran seems nervous about the question. There’s doubt in his eyes. While
Bran’s innocence has long been fact, Jojen’s own celibacy is merely theory. He
confirms and denies any suspicions they might have about him in his answer.
“I’ve never been with anyone but Bran.”
Bran nearly drops his cup. “What?” He asks, tremors of disbelief rolling off
his skin. When he tries to clarify his statement, it only comes out in more
vagueness. “How? What? I—ha—how?”
Jojen shrugs. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted. No one else compares.”
Jojen speaks as if his answer is obvious. Given that the Reed is a man of
science, his words seem like fact to Bran.
Lyanna hums like the buzzing of killer bees. “That must mean a lot of lonely
Valentine’s Days. A lot of unresolved sexual frustration.”
Jojen remains cool, but an edge of tenseness makes its way to his eyes. “I
never minded it much.”
“What were your plans this Valentine’s Day? Did you spend it alone?”
“I was working,” Jojen insists. “It was a good day for me.”
“Where you working all night?” Lyanna pushes.
“Yes. I had both my jobs that day.”
“Oh, so you were out when the massacre happened?” Lyanna asks. “The one by the
Bloodhound Killer.”  
There’s a moment when people being made fun of finally realize they’re the butt
of the joke. A similar look transpires when a man who is being fooled
understands the ploy. The difference lies in anger versus suffering. While
Lyanna excels at understanding people, she fails at reading them. Shireen is
the opposite. She recognizes their mission is compromised the second Jojen’s
eyes start to flare. The Reed boy handles his temper well; he doesn’t want to
upset Bran and that’s a saving grace Shireen hopes will last. She remains
vigilant about any physical upsets. At this point, they’re both in danger if he
turns out to be the killer.
“I was,” Jojen answers. “In fact, I was near the incident when it happened. My
cousin gave me a job in the area. I was close enough to hear their screams.”
“Oh?” Lyanna is intrigued. Shireen texts her about their failure but Lyanna
ignores her phone. “You don’t feel responsible?”
“For what? I was lucky not to get involved.” Jojen drinks his tea. “I feel for
those girls, but I couldn’t help them even if I was there. I’d just be another
body count.”
“That’s all they were to you? A body count.”  
“There are plenty of things I would give my life for. They weren’t a factor.
There are so many people who don’t mind their business and get themselves
killed.”
The response gives Lyanna a chill. She preservers regardless. “I understand.”
Shireen is unsure on whether she should admire her friend’s bravery or condemn
her foolhardiness. “Staying alive is important. I’m sure you plan on taking
good care of Bran. Make sure nothing happens to him.”
“I will,” Jojen agrees. “I’d do anything to keep him safe.”
“My mother used to tell me to never say ‘never,’ and that ‘anything’ doesn’t
mean anything.”
“Well, when I say anything, I mean everything.” Jojen leans in. “I’d kill for
him.”
“Apparently, you would die for him.” Lyanna takes a small breath. “It makes me
wonder what else you would do.”
The waiter returns with their order and they enter a long, uncomfortable
silence.
Shireen feels her phone vibrate and the message has her eyes widening.
I think he’s innocent.
“What!” She says out loud. When the boys turn to stare at her, Shireen stutters
out an apology. “I …Lyanna, come with me to the bathroom.”
Lyanna gets out of her seat wordlessly. Shireen does not bother to contain her
irritation when they are alone. “What do you mean you think he’s innocent? He
literally told you that he was at the scene of the crime!”  
“He knows we suspect his involvement. A guilty man would deflect; an innocent
man wouldn’t care. Instead of proving his innocence, he’s going along with the
charade. I think he’s innocent.”
“So him acting guilty makes you think he’s not?” Shireen glares. “That doesn’t
make any sense!”
Lyanna ponders Shireen’s outrage seriously. “You’re right. He could be playing
us. He knows we can’t do anything about it if he is the killer, so he might be
taunting us.”
“Lyanna, we don’t have for this.”
“Or he is so sure of his innocence he doesn’t care if we believe he’s guilty or
not. If he gets caught in his lie, it’ll put him in an unfortunate spot. He
seems to be smart enough to know that an ill-placed omission is better than an
incriminating lie.”
“Lyanna, stop.”
“But the best lies are those with truth in them. By admitting he was there, he
could be using his status as a suspect as an alibi. All he has to say is ‘if I
was the killer, do you think I would be stupid enough to admit I was there at
the scene of the crime?’”
Shireen sighs. “Lyanna, we need to get back to the boys.”
“But, that’s a huge risk. A truly clever person knows that the greatest
precaution would have been to ensure an alibi because those cases usually don’t
end up in court. I don’t think he’s stupid so he’s probably innocent.”
“Fine, he’s innocent—”
“Although…”
“No!” Shireen puts her foot down once and for all. “No more theories, Lyanna.
We are not detectives. You are not a detective. I know you think you’re good at
everything, but you are not good at this.”
Lyanna’s mouth forms a shape between a grimace and a pout. “You’ve gotten
really mean ever since we started dating. You should fix that.”
“We are not—” Shireen shakes her head. “How about we forget about this and
enjoy our date with Bran and his non-serial killer boyfriend.”
Lyanna agrees without much argument. She makes one more stipulation before they
return. “We shouldn’t have too much fun; it will make our separation more
traumatic. I want our parting to be sad but plausible.”
“Whatever you want, Lyanna.”
Lyanna makes a pleased note. “I like the sound of that.”
***
The exhibit contains over a hundred models of the human body, ranging from
Renaissance depictions of David to plasma membranes focusing on the intricacies
of a phospholipid. Jojen proves to be an adequate teacher in the latter.
“They can form lipid bilayers because of their amphiphilic characteristic…” He
begins, followed by more babble. “…in order for hydrophilic particles to past
through they need a transport protein…”
Lyanna devours the facts like a lysosome digesting bacteria—another displays
Bran and Shireen resignedly watch with their respective dates. Her interest is
not enough to be endearing, and even Bran, the marshmallow that he is, jumps at
the chance to go further in the exhibit. Jojen follows shortly after, but their
distance offers Shireen and Bran a moment alone.
“She’s…um…really interesting,” Bran notes kindly. “Really smart,” He adds. “You
must—”
“We’re breaking up soon. Don’t worry about it,” Shireen interrupts. When she
realizes the harshness of her words, she is quick to solace the situation. He
must think I’m some heartless bitch! Shireen thinks. “I mean; we’re still going
to be friends! She’s awesome, in her own crazy way but we’re not…we’re not good
as a couple.”
“Oh.” Bran appears to be at a lost. “I’m so sorry.” 
“Don’t be. It’s going to be mutual. Promise.”
Bran is a wise child; chooses to change the topics rather than linger on the
absence of heartbreak. “She’s pretty intense; Jojen is the same way.” Bran
laughs to himself. “But I guess it’s good considering how well he answered her
questions. Do you know why she acted like that?”
Shireen sweats before she answers. “No, she’s…very peculiar.”
Bran laughs. “I got so nervous when I heard her speak. There’s something about
her that makes you off-centered. It felt like an interrogation. I was one step
away from giving her a report.”
“Hopefully, Jojen feels the same way. Then, we can be done with this mess.”
Bran stops in his tracks. “What mess?”
Shireen wonders how she could be so stupid.
“Nothing, Bran. It has nothing to do with you,” she quickly replies.
 “Who is it about? Is it Jojen?”
“No! Well, yes, but it’s not what you think! He seems like a wonderful guy now
that I’ve gotten to know him, but—”
“’Now that you’ve gotten to know him?’ As opposed to what? You’ve only met him
once.” Bran rolls a little faster to escape Jojen’s incoming footsteps. Shireen
struggles to keep up. “Did my sister put you up to this? My mother?”
“What are you talking about?”
“As if you don’t know,” Bran accuses. “Are you trying to break us up?”
“No! Of course not! How could you say that?”
“So the thought has never crossed your mind?”
“Never is a strong word. I would have if—” Shireen covers her mouth at once.
Bran narrows his eyes. In them, Shireen can see a sparkle of betrayal. “You
would have if what?”
Shireen begs him to drop it. “It’s nothing. Let’s enjoy the exhibit. Lyanna and
I made a mistake but we were probably wrong.”
“Probably wrong?” The insult burns on Bran’s face. “So you’re not convinced of
whatever it is you were trying to figure out about Jojen?”
“Bran…”
“What were you trying to find out? I’ll tell you right now. Jojen tells me
everything.”
“He probably wouldn’t tell you this if it is true,” Shireen retorts.  
Bran makes a ‘humph’ noise—as if she insulted him. For all Shireen’s knows, she
probably did. The whole day has turned her steady sense into a windy whimsy.   
“What was it?” Bran asks. “I want to know what was so important that you would
go behind my back.”
“Bran, really, it’s all a misunderstanding—”
“Tell me.”
“Bran!”
“Tell me.”
“By the gods—we thought he was the Bloodhound Killer!” Shireen shouts, catching
everyone’s attention within a five-foot radius—including the person in
question. “Lyanna’s uncle is the police commander and we found out he was a
suspect! You are dating a murder suspect! Are you happy now?” All eyes turn to
Jojen, who is standing there surprised but not angry. Lyanna gives her a look
of exasperation and if Shireen could see her own expression, she’d be a figure
of embarrassment. The one who looks absolutely livid is Bran.
“You invited me out because you thought my boyfriend was a murderer?” Bran asks
in disbelief. “Do you think I’m so stupid?”
“Not stupid,” Shireen begs out in a way she hopes will exonerate her.
Unfortunately, she ends up digging herself a bigger hole. “But it’s not like
you could defend yourself if he was.”
It was the wrong thing to say and Shireen regrets it at once. “I didn’t mean
that.”
“I can take care of myself just fine,” Bran hisses out. In addition to the
venom, Bran’s tone is laced with injustice and mortification. It was one thing
for his older sister and mother to fear for his virtue buthis friends? They are
supposed to be equals. He doesn’t need them to patronize him.  Bran turns his
wheelchair and rolls forward to Jojen. “I want to go home.”
“As you command,” Jojen agrees, smooth as butter and easy as lube.  
“Bran, please,” Shireen pleads. “I promise; I was doing this for your own good.
I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d get hurt.”
“Yes, you and my mother and my sister always want to protect me. Well, I don’t
need protecting,” Bran insists. “I may not be an adult but I am old enough to
know what I want.”
Lyanna has the nerve to roll her eyes at the statement. “Please, we’re
children. We don’t know what we want. Except for Jojen. We all know what he
wants.”
Shireen glares. “Lyanna! Not helping!”
Bran feels his face heat up in anger. “Well, maybe I want what he wants!”
Without another word, Bran storms off with Jojen pushing him to the exit.
Shireen is taken back by the declaration. Her mouth is still gaping when Lyanna
sneaks over to her side. “I told you he was getting dicked.”  
***
When they get home, Bran demands Jojen slam the door and drop him on his bed
roughly.
Jojen smiles in amusement. “You know I could never do anything but treasure
you.”
Bran ignores him. “Too bad. You’re doing it. I need to live out my anger
vicariously through you.”
Jojen compromises by slamming the door and tenderly placing his lover on the
bed. Once Bran is comfortable, Jojen works on loosening up his shirt, starting
from the sleeves to his collar. “I can’t complain about having you all to
myself but are you alright? You sounded so hurt.” Truth be told, it was
terribly arousing to hear Bran defend his honor. In Bran’s eyes, Jojen is
faultless.  
“She thinks you’re a murderer.” Bran pauses. “Why aren’t you more upset? The
police believe you killed those girls!”
“If they haven’t contacted me now then that means they haven’t gotten any
evidence. And they won’t find any because I’m not the killer.” Jojen joins him
on the bed. “Besides, I was distracted by other things.”
“What other…?” Bran’s face flushes as he remembers his open declaration. “Oh.”
Jojen grins. “You said you might want what I want.”
Bran stutters out a defense before swallowing his sword. “Maybe,” he submits.
“Yes.”
He is absolutely stunning when defeated, Jojen notes. “And do you know what I
want?”
“I…yes.”
Jojen leans down to kiss Bran. The younger boy holds his breath. As deviation
drew closer, Jojen’s lips brush past his lips and hits his forehead. “Let’s
talk about this again when you’re sure.”
Jojen rolls over to the side and digs his face into Bran’s neck, breathing in
his scent and the softness of torso. Shock falls upon Bran in a way he wanted
to fall upon his bed and it feels the same—hard and uncomfortable. “You’re not
going to try anything?”
Jojen hums in delight. “I will, but I’m not willing to risk our relationship on
a maybe.” He slinks his hand onto Bran’s hip and squeezes his side. “That
doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while we figure it out.”
Bran whimpers when Jojen kisses him. Jojen’s hands move up to Bran’s waist and
his lips rumble against his stomach as he whispers his endearments. “I could do
this forever,” he whispers.
The words catalyze a new reaction, one of fear. Bran catches his breath as
Jojen trails below his collarbone to keep from being seen, but it’s a close
attack. Bran imagines if he so much as bend over, his mother and siblings will
bear witness to those sinful little marks. The idea of bending over brings
forth another chill, but does not take away enough heat for Bran to forget the
prominent problems.
“Jojen, do you remember what Shireen said…?” Bran moans.
“What about it...” Jojen murmurs.   
Bran grips his boyfriend’s chest. “The fact that the police think you’re the
Bloodhound Killer!”
“Oh that.” Jojen shrugs the accusation off. “They don’t think anything. They’re
still gathering evidence. I wouldn’t worry.” Jojen moves downward.
Bran stops him with a single hand. “But I am worried. I’m not stupid, Jojen.
And you have a record—that’s not good for you.”
Jojen opens his mouth to ease Bran’s concerns when a treasonous idea enters his
mind. He uses all his nerves and neurons to remove it but it lingers, eating at
him. No, he thinks. He swore not to bring Bran into this mess. Bran catches his
grimace and misinterprets his dismay. He clutches onto Jojen’s face.
“We need to do something. Maybe Shireen is right and a little investigation
wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“Like solve a murder?” Jojen muses. He chuckles darkly. He has a good idea
who's responsible and he isn’t looking to play cops and robbers with a madman.
Bran doesn’t appreciate the tease and pinches him on the arm. “No, like prove
your innocence in a way that they can’t doubt you.”
The opportunity is too good to pass up.
It’s just this once, Jojen surmises. This little favor and Ramsay will be out
of his life and the only criminal he has to deal with is his cousin. With that
thought settled, he acts as once.
“I guess you’re right,” Jojen admits. “I should figure something out. Is there
any way you can get into police evidence?”
Bran is surprised by the suggestion. “Why would we need that?”
“So that I can figure out what they know. It’s not enough that I have a record.
There must be something else that’s getting them to suspect me.” There could be
a lot of reasons, but Jojen is hardly the only delinquent in the city. Even
he’s unsure of what led them to him. “That way, I can figure out what’s
incriminating and see what I need to do to counter the bias. Gods help us all
if I’m being framed.” The fear on Bran’s face is what Jojen needs to steer the
conversation the way he wants. “If we know more about the killer, we can stay
clear of his way. All we need to do is find a pattern of some sort.” Jojen
sighs.
“We could ask around?” Bran suggests.
“I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves by talking to witnesses. That’ll
only inspire him to act more brutally.” Jojen pretends to think for a moment.
By the love of some twisted god, Bran makes the final move.
“I can look up their evidence. Maybe even check the cameras of the incident?”
Jojen pretends to be surprised. “You can do that?”
Bran nods shyly. “Robb’s always been a bit mental on the subject of safety.
With a serial killer in the area, he’s gotten more paranoid. Checks the city’s
cameras more often than usual.”
“Can you get into his computer?”
Bran nods. “I know everyone’s passwords.” Bran blushes. “I…I like to check up
on things, too.”
There’s the Stark in him. Jojen was wondering when he’d get to witness it in
person.
“Bran, if this is what you want to do…” While not an obvious exit, Jojen would
never forgive himself if he didn’t offer Bran a chance to escape from this
crime.
Bran doesn’t hesitate. “I know you’re not a killer, Jojen. But I won’t be
comfortable if this is looming on our shoulders.” Bran sits up from his bed.
“We’re lucky Robb will be out for a while; we won’t get another chance like
this in the future.”
Despite his reluctance, Jojen picks up his boyfriend and carries him to his
wheelchair. The two of them roll over to Robb’s bedroom. While Bran gets
settled in, Jojen goes to the bathroom. He sends Ramsay a warning—telling him
he needs to stall the Stark as long as possible if he wants the information.
Ramsay response is succinct. A second reply follows.
That won’t be a problem,the Bolton replies.
***
Shireen storms off as soon as Bran does, absolutely outraged at Lyanna for
getting her into this mess. Lyanna is no source of comfort. She admits a "lack
of guile" for their mistakes but refuses responsibility on anything else,
especially Shireen's participation. 
“You made a choice to join in. That’s on you. I can’t help that you can't keep
your mouth shut.”
Shireen huffs and almost swears, but catches herself in time. That response
will only seed more aggravation. Shireen leaves Lyanna in the anatomy exhibit,
surrounded by bare muscles and thready veins. Lyanna checks her watch and
remembers that a second tour is occurring, beginning all the way at epithelial
tissues. She is alone. 
Distance and time is all she can offer for Shireen’s anger. Lyanna stays where
she is and admires the ‘art.’ The curator was precise. Each structure is vivid
with details. The human models resemble slaughtered animals hanging from their
stands with their meat brimming with red flesh and white bones. Lyanna wants to
touch but resists. A part of her temperance is from respect and the other is
fear; she doesn’t want to feel something so real.
As time goes on, the solitude becomes unnerving, and the bundle of bodies more
so. Their open eyes are still and locked on her. Some empty and hollow. Some
bulging and swollen.
“I’m being silly,” Lyanna whispers to herself. She supposes she should get used
to the presence of lifeless forms. In the future, these figurines will be
corpses and she’ll be responsible for cutting them up and finding out what’s
wrong with them.
The thought provides no comfort when she hears the soft clattering of plastic.
She looks behind her and sees nothing. When she looks back, she is still alone.
Deciding that Shireen has had enough time to consolidate her thoughts, Lyanna
decides to seek out her friend for reconciliation. She dials Shireen’s number
and when she hears the ringtone, she smiles in triumph. So Shireen is coming to
her—she didn’t even need to call!
I should have waited longer, Lyanna thinks.
The youngest Mormont follows the sound outside. Lyanna turns to ice when she
looks down and sees the phone on the floor and its owner nowhere to be seen.   
 
Chapter End Notes
     Ah...poor Shireen. :( I do so much to that sweet girl.
     It is sad and safe to say that I'll probably be updating this story
     every 2 weeks instead of a week. I hadn't realized how hard it was
     going to be to manage school and work and my "extracurriculars" at
     the same time. :( For these reasons, Crown the Wolf, the other story
     I'm sure a lot of you read won't be posted until next month.
     I really hope to get everything on track for October. I really sorry
     for this hiatus after hiatus. I want to say I appreciate everyone who
     reads and reviews and that you are all amazing and thanks so much
     with sticking with this story despite my erratic updates and failed
     promises.
     See you in October!
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