#sequel imagine

The Protector: Part 20

Previous: Imagine trying to spar with Arya.

Next: Imagine encountering the Hound again after the Battle of Winterfell.

Imagine hiding in the crypts with Sansa since you’re not fully recovered from the Battle of the Bastards.

When Jon had insisted you hide in the crypts, you had protested. You weren’t as strong as you had once been, but every sword would be needed above to fight the Night King. Sparring with Arya had helped you regain some of your old abilities, enough to help kill at least a few wights. If tonight was the night you died, you wanted it to be with a sword in your hand, not hiding in the dark.

Jon remained patient and rested a hand on your shoulder, even as you tensed under his touch. “Your place is by Sansa’s side. And the smallfolk trust you. They’ll be less frightened if you’re with them.”

You ground your teeth. 

Jon let out a sigh through his nose, saying your name to draw your attention back to him, “I trust you to protect Sansa. So that’s where I need you to be.”

And so that’s how you ended up hidden away in the crypts of Winterfell, sword at your side and armour strapped to your shoulders while the battle raged on above. You had awful memories of Maegor’s Holdfast during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, watching the Queen drink her anxieties away. Faces peered at you from the darkness, lit by the flickering lights of the candles scattered through the stony tomb. Flesh and stone looked eerily alike. You could only tell the statues from the smallfolk by their expressions. Stern or fear. Jon had been right. The smallfolk looked to you and to Sansa, sometimes even to Tyrion, desperate for any inkling of certainty in their fear.

Your frustration was palpable. You could sense it mirrored in Tyrion too. The helplessness was unbearable. All you could do was wait and listen and dread what might force its way through the doors above. 

“You might be surprised at the lengths I’d go to before joining the army of the dead,” Tyrion pointed out, wine skin in hand as he moved to sit by Sansa. “I can think of no organization less suited to my talents.”

“Witty remarks won’t make a difference,” Sansa whispered, her gaze drifting across the faces of those gathered in the darkness around her. “That’s why we’re down here, we can’t do anything.”

Your jaw tensed at her words, your grip on the hilt of your sword tightening.

“It’s the truth,” Sansa continued softly. “It’s the most heroic thing we can do now. Look the truth in the face.”

Tyrion seemed almost amused at that. “Maybe we should have stayed married.”

Sansa’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment before going back to Tyrion, something neither of you failed to notice. “You were the best of them.”

He laughed at that, a nervous sound, “What a terrifying thought.”

“It would never have worked between us.”

Tyrion looked to the stone over his head, a small slightly sad smile tugging at his lips as his own eyes drifted towards you, “I could never compete with a direwolf, could I?”

You looked away, feigning as though you hadn’t been listening as you fiddled with your sword and purposefully moved off a few paces. You didn’t hear Sansa’s response. For a moment you were so wrapped up in your own thoughts, you almost forgot about the undead army raging above.

Almost.

They hadn’t forgotten about you.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you heard the screams. You stepped towards the entrance of the crypt, one hand on your sword. Your heart was in your throat. There were men pounding on the door above, screaming, crying and begging to be let in amid snarls and chaos. Then, abruptly, there was silence.

It didn’t last long.

Scratching and muffled snarls slowly filled the crypt just as dread filled your stomach. You drew your sword. Somewhere, a baby began to cry. The snarling grew louder. 

“Get behind me,” you ordered Sansa as the smallfolk began to scream. “Now!”

The wights were inside the crypt.

You shoved Sansa and Tyrion behind an outcropping. “Stay down.” Sansa’s eyes were wide, her fear raw and palpable. Her hand clutched yours, unwilling to let go, her gaze begging you not to leave her alone in the dark. Your breath hitched.

It was dark, far too dark, but you could see those creatures moving in the blackness, could hear their snarls as they tore apart women, children, and old men. One ran at you. You let go of Sansa’s hand and swung your sword, cleaving one of her skeletal ancestors from shoulder to hip. They were unlike anything you had ever seen. Your hands shook, not from weakness but from fear. You were supposed to defend these people. You were supposed to protect Sansa. What good were you against the undead? The smallfolk had looked to you. You were their direwolf. Now you could hear them screaming in the dark. You could hear the sounds of their flesh being torn apart by monsters. You had to help them.

You looked down and Sansa’s gaze met yours. You swallowed hard, hating to see so much fear and despair in those blue eyes. Her expression tore your heart to pieces. Your chances of making it through the night were becoming less and less likely. Hell, your chances of making it through the next few minutes were dwindling. You both knew it and it was fucking terrifying.

You did the only thing you could think to do. You kissed her. The kiss was hard and desperate and all too brief, filled with grief and despair and pent-up emotion. Your hand curled around the back of her neck, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to memorize the taste of her lips, since they could be the last good thing you ever touched in the world that had turned into hell. You broke away for air, letting your forehead linger where it pressed against hers for a moment longer. And then you were gone.

Jon had been right. You weren’t as skilled or as strong as you had once been. But these creatures weren’t knights. They came at you haphazardly, skeletal arms ready to tear at you. You met them with your blade, the pain in your side like a ghost nipping at your heels. Being strong was the only choice you had. Forcing yourself to endure was the only thing that stood between you and death. Not just your death, but Sansa’s too. You slashed a wight off of a dying little girl. Another jumped onto your back, clawing and scrabbling at you with half-skeletal hands, scraps of leathery flesh barely clinging to its fingers. Rotted teeth sank into your ear and you screamed, staggering as you flipped it forwards over your back. Blood poured down your neck as you stabbed your sword down through its skull, panting heavily.

Five more wights took its place, advancing as pain and exhaustion began to take its toll. You were vaguely aware of a dozen small wounds, blood clouding your vision from a cut along your brow and slicking your palms. You held your sword with both hands, struggling to ignore the burning in your muscles as you raised it again. How many had you already killed? How many were there? Your back was against the wall of the crypt. You had nowhere left to run as you fought to deflect their blows.

You weren’t the fighter you had once been. It was only a matter of time before one got through. Your movements were turning sluggish as the blows continued to rain down. A rusted sword bit deep into your leg. You fell to one knee, a curse on your lips. Your arms shook as you raised your blade to block a blow that would have cleaved your head from your shoulders. You wondered dully which on Sansa’s ancestors would be the one to kill you as the wights swarmed over you. 

You never got your answer. 

As quickly as their boney fingers began to claw and their teeth began to tear, the wights collapsed in a heap on top of you, limp and lifeless. You lay beneath them, bleeding and struggling to breathe, feeling weak as a kitten.

Then someone was there, pulling the wights off of you, calling your name in the darkness. You coughed, face filthy and blood-stained, confused until your gaze found blue eyes in the failing candlelight. Sansa’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a sitting position as she held to you for dear life.

“Am I dead?” you croaked out.

Sansa’s answer was to hug you tighter.

Finally, she pulled away just far enough to let her hands cup your face. There were tears in her eyes and a watery smile on her lips. “We made it,” she breathed out in a rush.

You gave a breathless nod, head spinning from pain and a fast-ebbing tide of adrenaline. It was only when Sansa and Tyrion had helped you to your feet that you saw the true carnage that had taken place. Your moment of victory faded at the sight of the butchered smallfolk scattered across the crypt. You sheathed your sword with shaking hands, leaning heavily on Sansa’s shoulder as you looked away. Just because you had survived didn’t mean everyone had. How many more dead lay waiting above? How many of your friends had perished before the battle was won?

You held tighter to Sansa and let her help you limp towards the entrance, only now realizing just how lucky you had really been.

Imagine Murdoch agreeing to keep your secret. (FtM!Reader)

**Sequel to “Imagine Murdoch digging into your past and discovering that you, one of his constables, is transgender.” [x]**

“If you’re going to tell Inspector Brackenreid, at least give me a warning so I can leave beforehand,” you kept your tone forcibly neutral, your attention on sorting a sheaf of papers left at your desk.

“I’m not going to tell the Inspector.”

That gave you pause. Your movements halted and you looked up at Murdoch, a frown tugging at your features. “Excuse me?”

Murdoch pursed his lips, his posture purposefully reserved. “I’m not going to inform the Inspector of your true identity,” he repeated.

You narrowed your eyes, allowing a hint of edge to creep into your voice. “This is my true identity, Detective.” Silence fell between you for a beat before you let out a breath and asked the looming question, “Might I ask why the change of heart?”

His weight shifted from one foot to the other and he ducked his head for a moment as if to gather himself. “I don’t pretend to understand your perspective or your position. I am out of my depth when it comes to such matters.”

Yes, you are, you thought, but you crossed your arms and waited for him to continue, doing your best not to let on to the anxiety that was making your stomach do flips.

Murdoch drew a breath and let it out again, “What I do know is that you are an exemplary constable and I have great respect for your abilities. Your loss would be to the detriment of Station House 4. And, despite my...” he seemed to search for the right word, like he didn’t want to offend you. “Reservations, it is not my desire to see you leave.”

You couldn’t help making the small jab, your own bitterness bleeding into your words despite your efforts to keep it out. “Your faith doesn’t make you need to label me as an abomination or something of that sort?”

He continued to shift awkwardly, “My faith is something I find more and more I’ve been forced to grapple with.”

You gave a small nod. He had already granted you far more than you had expected from him since discovering your secret. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than what you had found elsewhere. “You don’t have a problem with lying to the Inspector?” the question was milder this time, your posture a little less severe. A part of you wanted to tell him he didn’t need to lie for you. Despite your disagreements, Murdoch was a good and honourable man. Something about the idea of him lying for you felt wrong. But a bigger part of you was grateful. You liked where you were. You may have been willing to leave to protect yourself, but that didn’t mean you had to like it.

Murdoch offered a small, tight-lipped smile, “If it means keeping you in our midst, I believe I can learn to live with that.”

Your own smile was genuine when it tugged at your mouth. You let some of the tension leave your shoulders, your posture softening as it relaxed. “Thank you, Detective. It means a lot to have this chance. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. I appreciate you not taking that away from me.”

“You’re a good constable,” you felt your heart swell at the sound of him calling you the name you had chosen rather than the one you’d been given. “Regardless of where you’ve come from, this is where you belong.”

The Protector: Part 19

Previous: Imagine being there for the trial of Littlefinger.

Next: Imagine hiding in the crypts with Sansa because you’re not fully recovered from the Battle of the Bastards.

Imagine trying to spar with Arya.

Your body jerked as Arya tossed a training sword in your direction, barely managing to catch the heavy training blade. “What’s this for?” you asked, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Training,” Arya replied simply, Needle twirling in her fingers. “You need to get your strength back.”

You pursed your lips, the weight of the sword in your hand uncertain and not quite familiar anymore. “Arya, I can’t,” you shook your head and moved to give her back the sword. Before you could, Needle shot out, the flat of the blade slapping against your hand. Stinging pain lanced through your arm and you dropped the training sword. “What was that for?” you demanded, cheeks reddening.

Arya remained impassive, “You need to train.”

Your frustration flared. “I can’t, I’ve tried.”

“You’re not trying hard enough. You’re scared and you’re letting your fear keep you from trying. Pick up the sword.”

“Arya, I’m not ready for this,” you insisted, acutely aware of the dull pain in your side as you stood facing the girl.

“Yes, you are. Now pick up the sword.”

Reluctantly, you bent down but when you reached out, Needle flashed out again to slap against your hand. You pulled back, temper rising, “Stop it, Arya.”

“Pick up the sword.”

You gritted your teeth and tried to obey. She hit you again. “Why are you doing that?” you snapped, patience running thin. A thin cut had opened up along the back of your hand, leaking crimson.

“I’m trying to make you angry enough to try,” Arya answered simply, her gaze holding yours evenly. “Pick up the sword.”

This time, you were faster, using your arm to block the blow you knew was coming while you scooped up the training sword with your other hand. A hint of a smile quirked Arya’s lips as you began to move slow circles around each other. Muddy snow crunched under your boots, your steps slow and cautious. It had been too long since you’d fought. The dance came harder than it once had. The sword felt heavier, your movements sluggish and awkward. Your injury had cost you.

Arya’s movements, by comparison, were lightning quick and flowed like water. She had come a long way from the little girl with the wooden sword in King’s Landing. Needle darted out again and again, the flat of the blade leaving stinging marks on your hands, arms and legs. You did your best to block the attacks, turning away every fourth or fifth blow with clumsy swings of your sword. Arya hadn’t even broken a sweat and your chest was already heaving, sweat soaking through your tunic and trickling down your temples from your hairline. The puffs of air that fell from your lips turned to clouds in the northern morning air.

A particularly hard slap to the back of your leg sent you down to your knees, sprawling in the muddy snow.

“You’re trying too hard to protect your side,” Arya advised, walking a slow circle around you while you lay in the dirt, struggling to catch your breath. “It’s throwing off your stance, leaving you vulnerable.”

“I am vulnerable,” you hissed out, shoving shaking arms under you to push yourself up. Your pain was only increasing your irritability. You didn’t appreciate being humiliated. There weren’t many bystanders out this early but you could still feel the eyes of the few on you, watching you struggle and flounder like a child. You had thought things would get better now that Littlefinger was gone. You had thought you would feel better, stronger, more sure of yourself. You had thought that killing him yourself would bring some sort of catharsis. But you still felt weak.

“You’re vulnerable because you’re scared,” Arya pointed out, and you looked up to see her hand held out to you, waiting for you to take it. “Fear cuts deeper-”

“Deeper than swords, I remember,” you huffed, grasping her hand and letting her pull you back upright despite the pain.

“The man who fears losing has already lost,” the girl added. “You need to let go of your fear. You know how to fight. You’ve done this before. You need to make your body remember.” She let go of your wrist and stepped back, nodding to where your weapon lay in the mud. “Pick up the sword.”

Imagine avoiding Barba after he snaps at you.

**Sequel to “Imagine Barba frightening you when he’s angry.” [x]**

You could only avoid him for so long. It was the downside of having to work together. So mostly you settled for just avoiding eye contact and keeping your interactions short and to the point. On some level, you knew you should just suck it up and move on. He had been angry. He hadn’t really meant what he said. But his words had still stung. You were supposed to be a team.

On some level too, Barba knew he had crossed a line. He shouldn’t have taken out his frustrations on you when you were just trying to help. But he was too engrossed in the case, his irritations too fresh to apologize right away. As much as it was cruel to say, the case was more important than your feelings, at least for the moment. That knowledge didn’t quite help to alleviate his guilt though when he saw the way you looked at him. Your veneer of professionalism was up at full force, holding him at arm’s length.

And maybe, for now, that was for the best.

But it couldn’t last for long.

He knew as soon as the case was over, he needed to apologize. In truth, he missed you. Usually, you were cheerful and that optimism helped ease the stress of your work. He missed seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, getting coffee together and generally having someone to bounce ideas off of. You were better together.

So he caught you before you were about to leave, reaching out to touch your arm to keep you from simply walking away. “Hey, can we talk?” he asked.

You hesitated for a brief moment before nodding, folding your coat over your arm instead of shrugging it on. “What’s up?”

He let out a breath through his nose, “I owe you an apology. It was rude and irritable of me to say the things I did.”

“You were under a lot of stress,” you allowed, ever the people pleaser, ever trying to shoulder some of the blame because it was just who you were.

Barba shook his head, “You were right though. About the case. You always are. I should’ve trusted your judgement instead of losing my temper, and I’m sorry.”

A small smile tugged your lips, the tension falling from your shoulders at his apology, “Speaking of the case, feel like getting a drink to celebrate?” you offered. “I know a great little place not too far from here.”

“Lead the way.”

The Protector: Part 17

Previous: Imagine having a proper reunion with Arya.

Next: Imagine being there for the trial of Littlefinger.

Imagine learning Cersei has had your house destroyed for your support of the Starks.

You knew something was wrong from the moment you saw Sansa’s expression. Your heart was pounding against your chest as you read the letter she handed you, the cracked Lannister seal still clinging to the parchment.

Sansa’s own heart ached as she watched your expression change, confusion to shock to something in between numb and devastated. You staggered, the strength going out of your unsteady legs. You crumpled into a nearby chair, your face in your hands as the letter fell to the floor, revealing the words that had already become ingrained in Sansa’s mind. They had been written with ink on clean paper by hands overflowing with blood.

House [l/n], upon learning of the presence of the traitor [f/n] [l/n] in Winterfell, attempted to desert the Lannister army at Highgarden with the intent of joining the Stark forces. They were apprehended in the Westerlands and destroyed. All lands and titles associated therewith have become property of the Iron Throne. Let their fate serve as an example.

[f/n] [l/n] remains a fugitive of the Iron Throne, suspected in the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, as do Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister. Those known to be harbouring any of these fugitives is guilty of treason against the Iron Throne and will be dealt with accordingly.

Signed Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms

When Sansa’s hand brushed your shoulder she found you shaking, your breathing rough and ragged. “She killed them,” you whispered, incredulous, hardly able to bring yourself to believe it. A sound that was half a laugh, half a sob left your mouth. You had already experienced so much grief as your adopted family was taken away, one by one. Ned, Arya, then Bran and Rickon, the Red Wedding, Sansa, then Rickon again. Each loss had been a punch in the gut. Now, things had been starting to look up again. You had been getting your family back, piece by piece. First Sansa, then Jon, Bran, and now Arya. You hadn’t lost as much as you thought you had.

And now this.

You hadn’t thought of your birth family much over the years. Your concerns had been far more immediate and far closer at hand. They had been so far away that you had thought them safe. You had been a captive to keep them in line, to keep them loyal to the Iron Throne. Your safety had depended on them, rather than the other way around. You thought they had disavowed you once you became a fugitive. It would have been the smart thing to do, the safe thing to do. You had distanced yourself for their safety.

And now they were gone.

Apparently you hadn’t distanced yourself enough because it still hurt like hell.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Tears leaked down your cheeks. A hitching sob tore from your throat. Sansa held you, her hand smoothing over your hair, doing what you had once done for her when she heard the news of the Red Wedding so long ago. You had lost two families now. It angered her. How much grief was one person expected to suffer? You were a good person, a kind person. You had already given up so much. You deserved better.

Sansa had only met your family a handful of times. She mostly knew them through your stories. It hurt her heart to remember how full of life you had once been when you told stories. Neither of you were innocent enough to find joy in them anymore, but maybe, just maybe, you could find some small solace there.

So she knelt beside you and took your hand in hers. “Tell me about them. Your family.”

Your face was tearstained and scarred, a shell of the storyteller you had once been. But slowly, haltingly, through all the grief and pain, Sansa could see a tiny spark reignite. Your words were clumsier and less extravagant than they had once been, but they were words all the same, and gradually they began to paint a picture for her of what you had lost.

It wasn’t a story with a happy ending, both of you knew that full well. But, for a few moments, you managed to reclaim a small part of you that you had thought once to be gone forever.

Imagine putting your letter of resignation on Cal's desk when he's not there after he snaps at you.

**Sequel to “Imagine Cal Lightman scaring you when he’s angry.” [x]**

“What’s this?”

Your whole body stiffened at the sound of Cal’s voice. You had thought, or maybe hoped, he wouldn’t be back until you had had the chance to leave properly. Of course he would get back earlier than expected.

“I think you know what it is,” you struggled to keep your voice even, to stay professional.

“Yeah, I know it’s a resignation, what I want to know is why.”

You looked up, lips pressed together in an effort to keep your emotions at bay, “You made it pretty clear what you thought of me. And I get it. I messed up. Bad. So I’m leaving.”

“You think I said what I said because I wanted you to leave?”

Bitterness, shame, and sadness intermingled in your words. “Yeah, I got that impression pretty clearly.”

Cal scoffed, stepping closer and pointing a finger at your chest, “I didn’t say what I said because I wanted you to give up. I said it because I wanted you to be better. Because I know you’re better than this.”

You swallowed hard, struggling to get words past the lump in your throat, “But I screwed up.”

“Yeah, you did. And if you run away, you’re never going to make it right.”

The Protector: Part 13

Previous: Imagine joining Jon for the Battle of the Bastards.

Next: Imagine Sansa only letting herself be vulnerable around you.

Imagine waking up with Sansa by your side.

You weren’t sure how long you had slept. Your dreams had been deep and filled with fear and blood. When you finally woke, pain was the first thing you felt. Your entire body hurt terribly. It took great effort just to force your eyes open. Your lips were dry and cracked, your voice like gravel. You tried to speak and only succeeded at making a low, rough groan. You heard a distant voice, oh-so familiar but just out of reach. Auburn hair danced in your blurred vision. The edge of a cup was put to your lips and you drank. Milk-of-the-poppy, you realized as you drifted back to sleep. This time, there were no nightmares.

When you woke again, it was easier. The pain was more manageable. You swallowed, your throat aching in protest. You tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. You clenched your jaw to keep from crying out. Vaguely, you realized a hand was holding yours. You turned your head and saw Sansa slumped in a chair beside your bed, asleep. A smile tugged your cracked lips and warmed your heart.

Sansa drew in a long breath and her eyes fluttered open as your grip on her fingers tightened. Her gaze focused on you and filled with relief. “You’re awake.”

“I’m hard to kill,” you rasped out, eyes crinkling at the edges, “Stubborn as they come.”

“We thought we lost you.”

“I had a promise to keep.” You frowned, tried to lift your head and failed. “The bastard... Ramsay... is he-?”

“Dead,” Sansa confirmed, her expression darkening. “He won’t hurt anyone anymore.”

You nodded, relief clear in your own eyes as you squeezed her hand. “Good.”

Recovery was a slow, arduous process. You tired easily, and the wound you had sustained pained you often. The more you exerted yourself, the worse the pain got. Some days it took all of your effort just to stand up straight, fighting the urge to double over from the throbbing in your side.

“Some direwolf I make,” you joked, leaning heavily against the stone rampart as you caught your breath from the exertion of climbing the stairs. “Wait until the people hear the part of the story where I can hardly walk, let alone swing a sword.”

A small smile curled Sansa’s lips as she stared out into the snow-covered landscape. “Your worth goes far beyond your swordsmanship, [f/n].”

Your chuckle turned to a wince as the movement caused a twinge of pain. “Yes, but it was always my favourite part.” Your mood sombered as you followed her gaze out to the winter. “But one more sword won’t do us much good against what’s out there, will it?”

Sansa pressed her lips together, ducking her head. “Maybe not. But whatever happens, we’re stronger together.”

“The lone wolf dies,” you mused, recalling the words Ned Stark had once spoken to you and his children. Despite your pain, you stood a little straighter.

“But the pack survives,” Sansa finished, looking to you with a soft smile.

Imagine Oliver finding out that you suspect his identity.

**Sequel to “Imagine suspecting Oliver is the Arrow and being too scared to confront him about it.” [x]**

He knew that you knew. Now the question had simply become what to do about it. Did he try to convince you you were mistaken and it was all a coincidence? Or did he admit the truth and hope you would stay silent? It was safer to have less people know but if he lied to you and you didn’t believe him, he would compromise that trust forever. Assuming he hadn’t already damaged that trust by leading a double life.

In the end, he decided it was best to just tell you. At least if he did, he could explain himself. It was better you heard it from him than from anyone else.

He could tell you were nervous when he appeared at your apartment. You hid partway behind the door, peering out at him with a conflicted expression. Oliver shifted, his heart twisting. He didn’t like seeing you so afraid of him. He would never hurt you. That you doubted that fact made his stomach ache.

“Can we talk?” he asked, willing his voice to sound reassuring. He wanted so badly for you not to be scared of him.

He didn’t miss the imperceptible tightening of your lips, the split second of hesitance. But then you nodded and the door swung open, letting him pass. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and stepped through.

This wasn’t going to be easy.