#ward!reader

The Protector: Part 25 (Fin)

Previous: Imagine speaking with Arya before she leaves Winterfell for King’s Landing.

Imagine becoming Sansa’s most trusted advisor and the head of her Queensguard.

Happiness was a strange thing.

When you were young, you’d been happy enough. You had enjoyed your childhood among the Starks. There had been days where you missed your blood family, but that hadn’t made the bonds you forged in Winterfell any lesser. You still laughed often, playing games and telling stories. It had been summer then, and things tended to be simpler in the summer.

Then that happy child had been thrust into the world of kings and men. That child had witnessed wickedness and cruelty, and in turn had been forced to become wicked and cruel to survive. Your stories had leaked out of you like blood from some great wound. Happiness hadn’t mattered. Honour hadn’t mattered. Protecting Sansa mattered, and staying alive had mattered. Happiness had just been another thing you had to give up, and you had given it up for a long time. You had rarely given thought to the future beyond how to make it through the next day, and the next one after that. You had become accustomed to trading your happiness for her protection, and you had made the exchange gladly.

And, somewhere along the way, you had fallen in love with her. Or perhaps you had always loved her and it had only taken you this long to find the right words to say so.

Yes, happiness was a strange thing, and it had been a long, long time since you had been happy. Since you had even allowed yourself to believe you might one day be happy again. You had both learned the hard way how terribly easy it was to take away love and joy and hope. You had witnessed firsthand how quickly one person could change another’s world for the worse.

But, in this moment, as you watched them place a crown on her head from your place by the foot of the dias, and as Sansa sat on her throne for the first time, you realized the opposite to be true as well. Men had great capacity for hatred and hurt, and that gave them power, but what gave them power far greater was love. So you stood a little taller in your new armour, the sigil of the direwolf emblazoned in silver across your chest and over the cloak around your shoulders, and raised your sword and your voice to join the chant. “The Queen in the North!”

After the coronation, you stood on the parapets with the girl, now the woman, you had survived so much alongside. The snow fell softly, painting Winterfell white. The castle was still undergoing repairs but beneath the blanket of snow, it looked almost as it had when you were both children.

You reached for Sansa’s hand, your movements hesitant, almost shy, and her gloved fingers entwined with yours. You watched the snowflakes drift down onto her lashes for a long moment, studying how the crown rested over her fiery hair. She looked every inch a queen and every inch a goddess, half fire and half ice in the fading light. By some miracle, and it had to have been a miracle, you had both survived.

“Your parents would have been proud of you,” you murmured.

She blinked and looked to you, her own voice soft, as if you were both unwilling to break the muffled silence of the snowfall. “Yours would have been too.” She leaned her head against your shoulder, careful not to put too much weight on your still healing body. There was quiet for a beat while her thumb brushed over your knuckles, back and forth in a soothing motion. “I wouldn’t have survived without you.”

You looked down, frowning, “Of course you would have.”

She smiled, her face softening. You could have lived in that smile for the rest of your life. “Maybe I would have,” she admitted, her gaze drifting out towards the horizon, “But it would have been far less bearable without you with me.”

You let out a breath of a laugh that clouded as it fell from your lips, “Then I’ll stay as close as you’ll have me, as long as you’ll have me, Your Grace.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “Good.” 

And so you watched the sun set on an era of pain and misery, knowing the world had changed, but so you had. There was still healing to be done, a great deal of it, much of it something a maestre could not reach. But for now, the war was over, and love had survived, and perhaps love was all you needed to start to rebuild what you had lost.

The Protector: Part 23

Previous: Imagine supporting Sansa during the war council.

Next: Imagine speaking with Arya before she leaves Winterfell for King’s Landing.

Imagine promising to remain by Sansa’s side.

You watched Sansa pace across the length of her chambers from where you sat on the edge of her bed, trying to massage the ache from your leg with one palm. Had your injury not made it too difficult, you might have been pacing right alongside her, sharing her anxiety and agitation. “So Jon is a Targaryen then,” you spoke out loud, still processing the most recent revelation. “That complicates things.”

“He could be king. He has a valid claim to the Iron Throne.”

“And he’s told us time and time again that he doesn’t want it.”

“He’d be a good enough king. Better than the Dragon Queen,” Sansa pointed out, her gaze turning to you.

“We can’t force him to be king, Sansa. He’d never take it, he cares too much for her. And he’d never forgive us if we tried to force it upon him.”

“You can’t say you wouldn’t prefer having Jon on the throne over her.”

Your lips tightened, “Of course I’d prefer Jon over her. She’s an unknown. She doesn’t know the people and they don’t know her. Anyone who would have been a voice of reason to her is either dead or she no longer trusts their judgement. She’s lost a lot very quickly and frankly, I fear what she might do if Cersei pushes her too far, and we both know how hard Cersei can push a person.” You stood, your movements stiff and far from graceful, your tone soft. “Did it occur to you that if we attempt something, and she finds out, things could quickly become much, much worse? She already trusts few people. Perhaps we shouldn’t push the woman with two dragons any farther than we already have.”

“I thought you didn’t trust her.”

“I don’t. But some people clearly do. Perhaps once she takes the throne, that will be enough.”

“And if it’s not?”

You reached out to take one of Sansa’s hands in yours, rubbing the pad of your thumb along her knuckles, deep in thought for a long moment. “Then... I don’t know. But I will be by your side, for as long as you will have me.”

A soft sigh fell from Sansa’s lips, her posture relaxing a fraction as she studied you.

“So many people look at me and only see something they want. Yet all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never asked for anything from me. What is it that you want?”

Your words caught in your throat. You opened your mouth and closed it again, your thoughts battling in your head, stumbling over each other in their effort to find order. You swallowed, staring hard at her hand in yours. Your brow knitted in a frown. “I... I want to stay by your side,” you admitted at last, staring at the place where your fingers were joined. “I want to keep you safe. Not because I have to, not because of a promise, or duty. Because I want to. Because you deserve to be cared for. Because I love you more than I’ve loved anything else in this life.”

Sansa pulled her hand from yours and for a moment you wondered if you hadn’t just made a terrible mistake. But then she cupped your face between her palms, the tips of her fingers fiddling with the hair at the base of your neck, one palm partially covering the half-healed mess of one of your ears. You leaned into the touch, goosebumps rising across your flesh. She drew a long, slow breath through her nose. “I’d like that,” she admitted softly.

The smallest hint of a smile tugged your lips. "I almost asked Jon for his blessing," you admitted.

"Why didn't you?"

"It wasn't his to give. The only blessing I need is yours."

The Protector: Part 22

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

Next: Imagine promising to remain by Sansa’s side.

Imagine supporting Sansa during the war council.

You listened, face stoic as the advisors crowded around the table took stock of the situation. Half of the Dragon Queen’s troops gone in the battle, and half of the Northmen. It could have been much worse, you knew, but the knowledge that the battle could have gone worse did little to assail the concerns for the fight to come. Cersei had the benefit of having not just fought a difficult battle as well as the Golden Company and the Greyjoy fleet. You had the benefit of two dragons.

Sansa stood beside you, your shoulders nearly brushing in the cramped circle. It would have been all too easy to reach out and take her hand in yours to offer some small comfort, but you restrained yourself, keeping your hand firmly on your cane and the other against the edge of the broad table for support. Sansa had asked one of the craftsmen to make you a proper cane, one with a narrow blade hidden within (at Arya’s suggestion) and the pommel carved in the style of Jon’s sword Longclaw. The man had done a magnificent job, so much so that you almost felt poorly for praying you would not need it for long.

“We will hit her hard. Rip her out root and stem,” the Dragon Queen spoke. You tilted your head at her, still trying to get a read on the woman. You had heard the stories. It was hard not to. The Targaryens had a history that had been written in fire and blood over three hundred years long. Their house has seen many rulers, both brutal and benevolent. People spoke of the gods flipping coins. You knew the stories of her house, and you had heard the stories of her. Jon and Tyrion spoke of her kindness, her strength, the great obstacles she had overcome. But it seemed to you as though you had seen little of her kindness since she had come across the sea. She seemed more reasonable than Cersei, that much was easy enough to admit. She had been willing to speak, and willing to help, sacrificing much in the battle against the dead. But still you had your reservations. It pained you. You wanted to believe in her, to see what Jon and Tyrion saw. You longed to feel their confidence in the Dragon Queen, to believe that all that had to be done was to oust Cersei and then everything would be alright once she took the throne instead. 

Perhaps it was the fact that she seemed to expect so much for her so-called benevolence that rubbed you the wrong way. Helping the fight against the White Walkers should have been common sense, not something that needed to be bargained for. Or perhaps that was the stubborn part of you that still wanted to believe the problems of the world had simple solutions.

“The objective here is to remove Cersei without destroying King’s Landing,” Tyrion reminded softly, his eyes on the map spread before you before shifting to Daenerys.

“Thankfully, she’s losing allies by the day. Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands in her queen’s name,” Varys said, perhaps to smooth over the moment of tension. “The new Prince of Dorne pledges his support.”

“No matter how many lords turn against her, as long as she sits on the Iron Throne, she can call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We need the capital.”

You almost snorted as you took the opportunity to speak your mind. “How much does the title alone matter if no one is there to support her? If her people are turning against her, all we have to do is wait. Let her have the bloody title for what, another month? Two? Soon enough it’ll be all she has, and a title does little to stop a sword when there’s no one left to guard it.”

Tyrion’s gaze shifted to you for a moment. “I watched the people of King’s Landing rebel against their king when they were hungry, and that was before winter began. Give them the opportunity, and they will cast Cersei aside.”

“We’ll surround the city,” Jon added, “If the Iron Fleet tries to ferry in more food, the dragons will destroy them. If the Lannisters or the Golden Company attack, we’ll defeat them in the field.”

“Once the people see that Cersei is our only enemy, her reign is over.”

Daenerys didn’t even seem to listen to Tyrion’s words, her eyes only for Jon. You watched some of her tension and anger soften. “Alright.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn. “The men we have left are exhausted. Many of them are wounded. They’ll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate.”

The hardness had returned to the Dragon Queen’s expression as she turned her gaze towards Sansa. You immediately decided you didn’t like the way she looked at her. You gripped your cane harder and you felt your jaw tighten as you fought the urge to move closer. “How long do you suggest?”

Sansa glanced to you, her gaze pulling your eyes to her. You cleared your throat and straightened a bit, or as best you could given the circumstances. “It’s hard to say. I’d have to discuss it with the officers and maestres. We’re still trying to take full stock.”

You could almost make out the slight curl to Daenerys’s mouth, the faintest hint of a snarl on her lips. “I came North to fight alongside you at great cost to my armies and myself. And now that the time has come to reciprocate, you want to postpone.”

Sansa spoke before you could. “It’s not just our people, it’s yours. You want to throw them into a war they’re not ready to fight?”

“The longer I leave my enemies alone, the stronger they become.”

“With all due respect, that’s not the impression I’ve gotten.” You held the Dragon Queen’s gaze, your own expression hard even as you forced your tone to remain calm. “Believe me, there are few people who would like to uproot Cersei as much as I would, but it seems to me like the longer we wait, the weaker her grip becomes, and the more prepared we are. She’s losing allies. The people will turn against her any day now.” You paused and swallowed, choosing your words carefully. “We’re not suggesting we do not appreciate everything you’ve done in this battle, or that we are not in your debt because of it. We are asking you to consider this calmly, and to focus your anger where it belongs. Cersei is your enemy. The people of King’s Landing are not, and neither are we. We all want Cersei gone. Our best chance of accomplishing that doesn’t involve rushing off to battle unprepared.”

Silence fell for a beat, your gaze locked with the Dragon Queen. Her eyes seemed to burn into you, daring you to look away but you held your ground.

“The Northern forces will honour their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” You turned as you felt Jon’s gaze fall on you and Sansa, a warning in his expression that caused frustration to flare quick and hot in your stomach. You opened your mouth, an argument ready to fall from your tongue but you felt Sansa’s hand brush yours and thought better of it, snapping your jaw shut. Jon hadn’t even noticed as he looked back to Daenerys. “What you command, we will obey.”

The rest of the meeting fell on deaf ears, your eyes darting between Jon and the Dragon Queen as you focused your efforts on not letting your irritation show on your face. He had known this woman, this Dragon Queen for a matter of what, a handful of months? And yet he had still chosen to side with her over people he had grown up beside, people who had known him for most, if not all of his life? Had his infatuation with her made him as unwilling to listen to reason as she was? Part of you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he finally listened. It was fine to want to honour his promise. It was fine to want to trust this woman. It was not fine to do so blindly, ignoring the concerns of all those who might disagree. The Dragon Queen clearly listened to him. It was his duty to act as a voice of reason, something you would have to remind him of before he got all of you killed.

The Protector: Part 24

Previous: Imagine promising to remain by Sansa’s side.

Next: Imagine becoming Sansa’s most trusted advisor and the head of her Queensguard.

Imagine speaking with Arya before she leaves Winterfell for King’s Landing.

The tip of your cane sank into the muddy snow at your feet. “You’re leaving with the rest of them?” you asked as you watched Arya saddle a horse.

“I travel best on my own,” she replied.

A small smile tugged your lips, “I thought wolves were pack creatures.”

This time, she glanced over her shoulder at you. “There are things I need to do in King’s Landing.”

You dipped your head, the unspoken implication of her words clear. You would only slow her down. “Take care of yourself, Arya.”

Her own smile was a wry thing, one eyebrow arching, “Only if you take care of my sister.”

A chuckle fell from you, your ears warming despite the chill in the winter air. “Gladly.”

Silence fell for a beat, broken only by the sounds of life within the Winterfell courtyard just beyond the stables. You adjusted your grip on your cane. “Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay?” You already knew what her answer would be, but it felt wrong to not try regardless. “You’ve already killed a king. You can leave killing the queen to someone else.”

Arya’s smile was sympathetic but firm, “She’s on my list.”

“Cersei’s on a lot of people’s lists.”

“That’s why I want to get there first. She hurt both of our families. She hurt Sansa. She hurt you. And she’s going to die for it.”

You pursed your lips and stepped forward, pulling the younger Stark girl into a hug, which she quickly returned. You pulled back after a moment, lifting a hand to hold against the side of her head, looking Arya in the eyes. “Just make sure you don’t die for it too, eh? We just got you back. I want Cersei dead as much as anyone, but not if it means losing you again. I’ve still got a lot to make up to you, remember? I intend to keep that promise. So you’d better come back, or I’m coming after you myself.”

Her lips quirked into a grin. “Then you’d better keep training. You’re still slow as a sleepy bear.”

You pushed her away from you playfully, letting out a snort. “I’ll work on it.”

Arya didn’t respond for a beat, simply studying you. “Good.” She seemed to consider for another moment as she climbed into the saddle, amusement flickering through her eyes. “Sansa always wanted her own knight in shining armour. I wonder if father knew you would grow up to become one.”

You shuffled your feet in the mud and snow and straw. “I’m just trying to do as he taught us. To take care of each other.”

She smiled, taking the reins in her hands. “Good.”

You sighed, allowing your lips to curl into a faint grin, “Go on then. You’ve got a queen to kill.”

The Protector: Part 21

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

Next: Imagine supporting Sansa during the war council.

Imagine encountering the Hound again after the Battle of Winterfell.

If your limp had been obvious before the Battle of Winterfell, it was even more pronounced now. The maestre had given you a cane to lean on following the wound you had taken in the crypts. He had tried to insist that you rest but you refused. There was work to be done and celebrations to be held. You had survived and now it was time to live. Many lives had been lost but the battle had been won. The Night King was dead, slain by Arya in the Godswood. Now only Cersei remained left to conquer. You may not have trusted the Dragon Queen, but your hatred for Cersei outweighed your misgivings. Cersei had ordered the murder of your house. You would see her pay for her crimes.

But now was not the time for hate. That would come later. Now was the time for getting drunk and remembering how lucky you had been to not burn on the pyres outside the walls.

Spotting a familiar face among the crowded tables, you limped over, injured leg stiff and weak beneath you. Your Stark cloak hung around your shoulders, clean and warm and smelling faintly of lemon beneath the smoky, ale-thick air. You sat heavily, glad to take your weight off your wound. "Didn't think I'd see your ugly mug again, Clegane," you acknowledged. You had heard he was back in Winterfell with Beric's crew but this was the first you had actually seen him around the castle.

He glowered at you over his drink, eyes flicking across the fresh scars on your face. "You're one to talk, cripple," he grumbled. So he hadn't missed the struggle in your step.

"For now, maybe," you waved to a serving girl to fill your flagon, giving her an appreciative nod as she moved off again. For a few minutes, the two of you drank in relative silence beneath the yelling of the hall.

"Heard you killed the king," Sandor acknowledged.

Your lips tightened, "I wish I had."

He laughed at that, a harsh, bitter bark of a noise, "You and half of the Seven Kingdoms. At least you got the credit."

Your scowl deepened. You stared hard into your cup, focusing on the dregs of ale within. You hadn't gotten credit. You had taken the blame, and your house had been destroyed for it. What justice was there in that?

Sandor continued, ignoring your silence. "They sing songs about you, you know. Lady Sansa's Direwolf. The Wolf of Winterfell. They tend to skip the part where you were a Lannister lapdog."

You drank deep from your cup, "I seem to remember you being a Lannister dog too, Clegane."

He let out a grunt, purposefully ignoring you had spoken. It seemed he didn't care whether you talked or didn't. "Never worked for that Littlefinger bastard."

"He's dead now."

"Heard that too."

Another stretch of silence followed before once more Sandor broke it as another serving girl filled your cup. "Half the smallfolk think you're blessed. Other half think you're cursed," his eyes were on the girl. She blushed and scurried away. You watched her go before letting your gaze seek out Sansa instead.

"What do you think?"

"I think you'd follow that girl to the ends of the earth, blessing or curse be damned."

Your response was automatic even as you recalled the kiss in the chaos, reigning your eyes back to your cup. "I promised her mother-"

"Bullshit. Her mother's dead. You're in love with her. Everyone with half an eye can see the way you look at her like she's the bloody moon and stars."

You flushed and scowled harder, embarrassed. "I just want to keep her safe," you muttered at last, acutely aware of how your leg twinged with pain in time to your heartbeat. Your gaze drifted to where Sansa sat on the dias with her brothers and the Dragon Queen. Her eyes met yours, a ghost of a smile on her lips. You looked away.

"You're mad to try," Sandor commented bluntly. 

"Someone has to."

The Hound regarded you, a frown pulling on his scars. He seemed to be sizing you up. At last, he shook his head. "You know I offered to take her with me when I left."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"During the Battle of the Blackwater. She was alone in her room. I offered to take her away from King's Landing."

"Why?"

"Doesn't matter. What matters is she stayed for you. Stupid girl refused to leave you behind."

This was the first you had heard of it. You remembered the battle. You and Sansa had gotten separated for a time while the Bay burned and Stannis's men tried to storm the city. You hadn't realized she'd had a chance to escape but hadn't taken it. How might her life have gone differently if she had? How differently might your life have gone? 

"What's your point?" you asked at last, "Why tell me this?"

"Because you're both stupid. You're fools to do the things you'd do for one another. If she’d come with me, she could’ve gone home. None of the shit that happened would have happened. No Littlefinger. No Ramsay. None of it."

Your scowl tightened, your tone turning defensive to cover your guilt. "Just because you're bitter doesn't mean we all have to be."

“Says the cripple,” Sandor mocked, baring his teeth in a nasty grin. “You’d do anything to keep her safe.”

You lifted your chin. “I would.”

The Hound let out a snort. “You’re a fucking fool.”

“I’ve made it this far.” You nodded your chin towards the dias. “And so has she. We help each other. We’re stronger together.” You levelled him with a hard stare, “Better a fool with her than alone and bitter like you.”

Sandor grunted, though there was a faint hint of a grin curling his lips, this one lacking its usual cruelty. “Maybe you’ve got some guts after all, cripple. Try not to let them get you killed.” He jerked his chin towards Sansa. “She’d never forgive you.”

A smile of your own stole over your face, “I know.”

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.

The Protector: Part 18

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

Next: Imagine trying to spar with Arya.

Imagine being there for the trial of Littlefinger.

**Spoilers for Game of Thrones season 7**

You stood on the dias with Sansa and Bran, hands folded neatly behind your back, sword at your side and Stark cloak draped across your shoulders. One foot wanted to tap as you waited, forcing your expression to remain neutral among all the gathered lords. Your armour felt less like a second skin and more just like added weight. Sweat gathered on your brow but still you waited as two guards led Arya to the centre of the room. You could feel Littlefinger watching with interest, could imagine the hint of a sly smile that might curl his lips without having to look. He thought he was in control here. Gods, you were looking forward to proving him wrong.

Arya broke the oppressive silence. You felt your heartbeat quicken. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“It’s not what I want, it’s what honour demands,” Sansa answered softly.

“And what does honour demand?”

“That I defend my family from those who would harm us. That I defend the North from those who would betray us.” Like Littlefinger, you thought.

Arya seemed to consider the answer. “Alright then. Get on with it.” 

Sansa drew a breath and let it out. “You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges-” and then her eyes slid from her sister to the man leaning against the wall to her right and the pressure in the chamber changed. “-Lord Baelish?”

Gods, you relished the way his eyes widened for the briefest moment, the way the bridge of his nose wrinkled in a the slightest frown, the facade flickering as he recalculated. The tables have turned, bastard, you thought to yourself, suppressing a thrill of excitement. Who was the predator now?

Silence reigned once more as Littlefinger looked between the various faces, frowning ever so slightly, playing the part of confusion. Your hand itched to move to the pommel of your sword. Your warning was hard and cold as ice. “My lady asked you a question, Lord Baelish.”

That seemed to snap him out of it. “Lady Sansa, forgive me. I’m a bit confused.” You could have laughed.

Sansa leaned forwards, “Which charges confuse you? Let’s start with the simplest one. You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall, do you deny it?”

Baelish exchanged a look with one of the lords of the Vale, shifting his weight. “I did it to protect you.”

Sansa wasn’t having it and neither were you. “You did it to take power in the Vale. Earlier you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa tears of Lys to poison him, do you deny it?”

“Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere,” he pointed out, his tone diplomatic, moving towards the centre of the room. Murmurs had begun to spread among the crowd of Northmen.

“You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them that it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when really it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it, do you deny it?” You could feel Sansa’s emotions rising, her anger adding to the ice behind her words. You suppressed a thrill of pride. She was through with his lies and you were too. His games ended tonight. He might have been a carnivore, but you were dire wolves and you had had enough.

“I know of no such letter,” Petyr denied. This time you let your hand move to your sword, your mouth set in a hard line.

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark. Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason, do you deny it?”

“I deny it! None of you were there to see what happened!” the silver-tongued deceiver turned his attention to the crowd, his frustration bleeding through. “None of you knows the truth.”

Finally, Bran spoke up, his voice calm and even. “You held a knife to his throat.” Baelish froze and turned back to face the boy, struggling to mask his shock. Bran continued, “You said, ‘I did warn you not to trust me.’”

“You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister,” it was Arya’s turn now as she held out the Valyrian steel dagger. “But that was another one of your lies. It was yours.”

This time, Petyr moved towards the dias, appealing directly to Sansa. You stepped in, armour clinking as you shoved a hand to his chest. Your lip curled as you held him at a distance. You refused to let him anywhere near Sansa. Not now, and not ever again. His eyes darted to you as he drew a sharp breath then focused his attention on her once more. He was getting desperate. “Lady Sansa, I have known you since you were a girl. I’ve protected you-”

“Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons? By framing [f/n] for the murder of Joffrey Baratheon?” You held yourself a little taller despite the stitch in your side.

“If we could speak alone, I can explain everything-” he insisted. Your disgust grew.

“We’ve heard enough of your lies, Baelish,” you hissed lowly, pushing him back to the centre of the room. You may not have been as strong as you had been, but you were still stronger than him. He held no power over you anymore. And without his honeyed words and webs of lies, he was just a weak little man fumbling around in the dark.

“Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game,” Sansa’s voice remained low, even, and cold as ice. “I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? Against [f/n]? That’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve always done. Turn family against family, sister against sister, ally against ally. That’s what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa and what you tried to do to us.”

“Sansa, please-”

“I’m a slow learner. It’s true. But I learn.”

“Give me a chance to defend myself,” Baelish implored, cool eyes fixed on only her. “I deserve that.” 

No, he didn’t.

Sansa simply leaned back in her chair, uncaring.

Baelish’s desperation was increasing. He turned to the Northmen, “I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eerie.”

“I think not.”

Your stomach twisted with contempt as he went down to his knees, expression pleading. “Sansa, I beg you. I loved your mother since the time I was a boy.”

“And yet you betrayed her,” you growled out.

Baelish acted as though you hadn’t spoken. He had eyes only for Sansa. “I loved you. More than anyone.” The sheer nerve of him to claim that made your blood boil with anger. How dare he claim such things after what he had done to her? He had no right to speak those words.

“And yet you betrayed me.” Sansa stood slowly. You kept your eyes fixed on Baelish. “When you brought me back to Winterfell you told me there’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it.” The girl gave Arya a look. The younger Stark nodded and you felt the catspaw dagger being pressed into your palm. You stepped forward, moving on autopilot as Sansa’s voice continued to fill the silence of the hall. “Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them.”

Your body was weaker than it had been but you moved with determination. You were about to end a monster that had tormented you for years. The carnivore that had tried to devour both you and Sansa. He had left you to die in King’s Landing. Because of him, you had been branded a fugitive. Because of him, your house had been wiped out by Cersei. He had sold Sansa to the Bolton bastard. He had brought about the deaths of the Starks, people who had loved and cared for you. He had tried to drive a rift between you and Sansa and the rest of the Starks who weren’t dead because of his deceit. He had lied, cheated, abused, and murdered his way to where he was and now you were going to end him before he took anything more.

“Sansa-” one last desperate plea. It fell on deaf ears.

There was no hesitation as your arm darted out and you slit his throat with the dagger that had once been meant to murder Bran. There was a spray of blood. You watched him hold his throat. You listened to him gurgle and choke on his own blood. You stepped back as he collapsed in a growing pool of red. You needed to see it, to know for certain that Petyr Baelish was dead. 

Then, and only then did you turn back to Sansa, eyes only for her. A grim sense of relief washed over you.

It was finally finished.

And for the first time since your injury, you felt strong again.

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.”