#strklings

     SHE HAD BEEN UNSURE OF HIM, since the moment he arrived. seven hells, lyanna had been unsure of him since the moment she heard tales of him. the imp, the dwarf, the forgotten lannister. there were many names for tyrion but the one that caught her attention was HAND OF THE QUEEN. it was their last night alive, more than likely, so lyanna saw no harm in letting her guard down ever so slightly to speak to him.   “ how did a lannister end up a decent person, ”   she starts,   “ it doesn’t seem right. ”

‘     must ye’ stay in king’s landing ?      ’       the few weeks he’s had when he was in the stormlands     —      the hearin’,     then the small riot,     and meetings o’ meetings it was,    o’ the storm courts where the lord argue and shouts    —     were too much.    aye,    house estermonths had been kind ‘nough t’ guide him,    and the castellan ‘s patient enough t’ teach gendry,   he does,   o’ the ways o’ the keep.    even the maesters,    both o’ them,   wasted no time in groomin’ gendry t’ be the ideal lord    -     but s’ too much.   they’re all still strangers.    stubborn,   powerful,    and a folk gendry feels almost at home with,   aye   -    but strangers.    it would help.    just one familiar face. 

the castle had been silent for days; from the moment the dead had fallen and the war had been won, the sun rising in the east and the winds of winter halting to a final stop. THEY WERE ALIVE, but each had lost so many. the air was thick with loss, quiet sobs stifling in every corner of winterfell. THE GREAT WAR HAD BEEN WON AND NOW IT WAS TIME TO WIN THE LAST WAR; the war against the lannisters, or more specifically, cersei. daenerys had proclaimed herself as the rightful heir to the iron throne before the war, and yet even days after the dead had been lay for their eternal rest, the two had hardly spoken. in fact, jon had hardly spoken to anyone at all. his time had been evenly spread across morning the men, the BROTHERS, that he had lost ——— and his own siblings. they had wondered through the halls of the castle that had been their childhood home, through the crypts of which their family had been lay to rest and had once more risen, trying to piece together what once was. the damaged seemed on the verge of irreparable, but no one had quite gathered the heart to admit it.

now, he sat by the fireplace, tankard of ale in hand, chestnut gaze fixated on the flames. THE FLAMES. the same orange glow that had lit the arakh of the dothraki before they had ridden into the night and gave up their lives for the living. the same orange glow that had engulfed huge chunks of winterfell, that had burned from the mouth of rhaegal and drogon and killed thousands of wights. the same orange glow that the red lady had once looked upon and claimed to see SOME BIGGER PURPOSE for jon snow. what bigger purpose was that? killing a few hundred wights? hardly being able to protect his men? or perhaps it had nothing to do with the great war. perhaps it had something to do with what sam had told him in the crypts just two nights before the dead had arrived. 

The dead rose, and once again fell to ash. Her fingers felt numb with how tightly the blade was held,  stick them with the pointy end  ,  was what arya had told her.  Not as simple as it sounded.  but they were gone, and moments passed of pure silence,  processing what occurred right before their eyes. 

A breath of air released she was not aware she was holding, knees weakening and turning to look at Tyrion,  disbelief in her eyes at all which occurred that they were not yet dead.  somehow survived the dead, & sansa had not even realized before it had occurred that arms wrapped around him in a hug, feeling that need for some comfort which could not have waited another moment ,  exhausted from holding face.  it was over nearly as it began though. 

also if tyrion doesn’t stand up for jaime i riot

“you seem better suited to the north than i, though we are both far from home,” it’s stated simply, as easily as a fact. gloved hands fold beneath her cloak, a few loose strands from her thick braid swayed by the wind. “have you taken to it, lord tyrion?”she’d seen him back at king’s landing, had stood at watched as oberyn died as his champion and felt that immense, thick wave of grief spill over her and threatened to drown her, there and then. it’s difficult now, to keep the bitterness from sinking into her voice, but enough blood has been shed already in oberyn’s name. there is no need to allow the past to poison the future. 

“i was sorry to hear of what was done to your niece,” arlise states stiffly, almost awkwardly. teeth nip at the corner of her chapped lips and she lowers her gaze, swallows hard before glancing towards him, “it was wrong. she deserved to be safe in dorne.” 

this is either gonna be 'whooo can say where the road gooesss' or 'all around me are familiar faces....' and im calling it