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Reader is implied to be 18+! Be aware that there is vulgar humor in this chapter!
Apologies if this isn't the best 🥲
Link to the ao3 version here.
!!! Do not repost my works anywhere !!!
The next morning, you woke when you felt the warmth of the sun kissing your skin. You sat up slowly and rubbed the sleep from your eyes before pulling your covers off of yourself. You looked out your window for a moment, saw the sun was still early in its rise, and realized you must have woken up quite early. You kept still where you sat and let your still-tired eyed wander around your room until your gaze landed on the pile of your father's belongings Ser Clegane had set on your table. You figured that while you still had time until your duties would start, you should sort through the pile.
Rising slowly from your bed, you made your way to the table and rested your hands on the black cloak your father wore on the travel to King's Landing. You ran your fingers through the soft fur of the hide around the collar before lifting it. This style cloak had served as quite the signature of House Stark. Robb, Jon, and even Bran all wore a cloak similar to your father's, but you never particularly cared for it. The crossed straps at the chest always dug uncomfortably into your torso, even over your doublet and under shirt. Your cloak was black, to match your father's, however it was hooded with an additional fur layer that draped over your shoulders and resembled a capelet. In the front, it was held together with a thick, silver chain with a metal pendant resembling your house sigil that you would secure through a buttonhole on the opposite side of the cloak.
You still remembered the day you asked your father for a new cloak when the feel of those taught leather straps became too much for you to handle. You were twelve, maybe thirteen, when you started to outgrow your current cloak. This was when you were growing quite fast, although you reached your final height much earlier than your brothers, and at a much shorter height, too. You complained to him about how uncomfortable the straps were, and how much tighter they had become recently, to which your father responded with, "We'll get you fitted for a new one."
You remembered how nervous you were to ask for a different style, considering the cloaks your family wore were traditional attire in the north, and even more so for the Starks. Yet you still asked and were honestly surprised when your father agreed. Even more surprised when he took the sketch you drew of what you wanted and looked honestly proud of your design. You knew your father wasn't one to discourage his children from doing what they found joy in, even if it wasn't "fitting" for their roles, but you were still worried you would've been in for a scolding for taking up such a "womanly" hobby when you were supposed to be the next Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
Now, you were starting to realize how important pride in your house and family name was going to become. With your father branded a traitor, it wouldn't take very long for House Stark to lose the favor of most people in Westeros. Staying proud for the sake of your house and surviving family was going to be hard, given the circumstances, but you were determined to do so one way or another. So, you draped your father's cloak over the back of the chair beside you while you rummaged through the rest of his belongings because you intended it to wear it from now on.
You separated your father's clothes from the rest of things when you noticed his sword. You knew he had it on him when he was accused of treason, and realized that after it was taken from him, someone must have returned it to his room, where they knew you'd find it. You pulled the sword from its sheath just enough to glance at the details of the blade when you heard your door open. You turned to face the sound, and your gaze met with Ser Clegane's.
He from you to the sword in your hands before speaking, "I assume the eunuch had that sword brought back to your old room."
You nodded in response before looking back at your father's sword. You held it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. Truth be told, you didn't know if you deserved to have this sword. You weren't a good swordsman, and you still felt like a lost child most days.
"Better you to have it than for it to be melted," Ser Clegane had stepped into your room and closed the door behind him while you ruminated in your thoughts. He took a few slow steps towards you before extending a hand, silently asking to see the sword. You pointed the handle towards him so he could pull the sword from its sheath. He did so slowly before he held the blade in the sunlight that peeked through your window.
"This is Valyrian steel."
You nodded, "Yes Ser, it was his father's sword before him. This sword has been passed down in our family for nearly four hundred years."
"You don't think you deserve it," Ser Clegane returned his gaze to you when he spoke. It was becoming obvious that he could read you like a book.
"Aye… my brother, Robb, should be the one to wield this sword, not me. I never had the skill for battle that he, Jon, and my father shared. Nor the bravery, I'd wager."
To distract yourself from feeling Ser Clegane's eyes on you, you turned and grabbed your clothes from the previous day before getting dressed. When he spoke again, you were sat on your bed and putting your boots on and tucking in your pant legs, already back in your doublet.
"Is deserving to wield your father's sword more important than keeping it in your family?" his words were sharper this time around. "Who else would? The Stark brat who's lost somewhere in the shit-filled streets? Or the sister the King's torturing like a prisoner?" Ser Clegane walked closer until he was right in front of where you sat and forced you to look up at him. "Your brothers aren't here to take it off your undeserving hands, so wield it like you deserve it until you do. You're Ned Stark's oldest son. Act like it."
Oddly enough, Ser Clegane's words sparked something in you. Something you hadn't really felt before. Something proud and almost angry. Without a word, you fastened your boots and stood before you made your way back to the table and grabbed your father's cloak. Ser Clegane watched as you threw it over your shoulders and fastened the straps in an 'X' over your chest and under your arms.
"Your father's?"
"Aye."
Ser Clegane huffed out a short laugh, "You must be begging the Lannisters to put your head on a spike."
"Winter is coming, Ser Clegane, whether the Lannisters like it or not," you paused for a moment, but only a moment, before you secured your father's sword around your waist.
"Mind your words, little wolf, you're starting to sound like your father," Ser Clegane spoke quietly as he made for your door and opened it again. Though his words held obvious truth and urged you to be cautious about what you said around others, you didn't miss the touch of humor in his voice. Ser Clegane might be the King's "Hound," but you had already picked up on his sympathies. He wasn't the only person who could read others well.
You did your best to pay no mind to the nickname he had given you, and the odd way it made you feel. You took a short but deep breath through your nose before speaking again. "Northern men always bring the north with them, and where the north goes, winter follows. If Queen Cersei and King Joffrey can't see it now, they will. Be it tomorrow, next month, next year, or the next decade. They will." You'd see to it yourself.
You caught a glimpse of a smirk on Ser Clegane's face before he stepped outside of your room again. He nodded for you to follow him, and you did. You followed him down the long hallways of the Red Keep, but all you could think about was the realization you made. For the foreseeable future, things were only going to get harder. Tension amongst houses would fester, houses would become filled with nothing but hatred for those they believed opposed them. In many cases, House Stark would be the one many hate.
Regardless of whatever conflicts House Stark would become the center of following your father's accused "crime" and execution, it was finally setting in that you couldn't yet focus on larger, hypothetical issues while you and your sisters were held in King's Landing. You needed to focus on keeping yourself and your sisters alive and safe before you could worry about your house. Besides, Robb was in Winterfell, and you knew he wouldn't let anything happen to the rest of your family or your house. It was your job to get Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell.
Being so lost in thought, you didn't notice when Ser Clegane had stopped walking and turned to face you until he put a heavy hand on your shoulder to catch your attention before you walked into him… again.
"It would be wise to pay better attention, little wolf."
"I do, Ser," you said, in a weak attempt to defend yourself, though you knew you didn't really need to.
Ser Clegane only huffed in amusement before letting his hand fall from your shoulder and returning to rest on the hilt of his sword. After a moment, he spoke.
"You will spend most of your days standing around and waiting for orders. I am not a knight; I do not get the glory or excitement a knight gets. Where I go, you follow. When I have fewer duties, our time will be spent training you to fight."
You nodded in understanding, but you couldn't hide the perplexed look on your face.
"Does the little wolf not know what a squire is?" You could've sworn you saw a smirk on Ser Clegane's face as he spoke.
"I do wish you'd quit calling me that, Ser." You paused before answering his question. "Squires serve knights, do they not?" You were smart, without a doubt, you just never found yourself needing to know what a squire was, so it never occurred to you to learn about them and their relationships with knights.
"A squire is a knight's apprentice; they do more than serve. Your brother and Stannis are organizing armies against the Lannisters. Do you plan on standing on the battlefield like a dumb cunt until someone slits your throat? Or maybe you'll be gutted and have your skull crushed. I plan on keeping you alive, boy," Ser Clegane turned to continue walking through the halls of the Red Keep, presumably towards the throne room.
Your eyes widened when you processed his words, and you picked up a quick pace to catch up to Ser Clegane. "Robb? But he's holding lordship in Winterfell."
"Not anymore, little wolf. Your brother is 'King in the North' now and has been fighting the Lannister army since your father was imprisoned. The cunt even captured the Kingslayer."
You stopped in your tracks. If Robb was off fighting a war, who was holding Winterfell? It would have to be Bran, but he's so young. How could he manage that all by himself? Maybe with Meister Luwin's guidance… Ser Clegane noticed you were no longer walking beside him and stopped to face you. He could see the worry etched into your face again. So much burden for such a naive and inexperienced boy.
"What good does worrying do you, Stark? Who are you?"
"[Y/n] Stark, son of Eddard Stark," you did your best to focus on the present instead of what might happen in the future, but no matter how many times you tried to redirect your thoughts, you were right back to obsessing over what might happen to Winterfell and your youngest brothers while Robb was off in a war.
"And?" Ser Clegane spoke louder now, which snapped you out of your thoughts.
Your gaze snapped up to meet his when you spoke. "Pardon?"
"I asked you who you are, and you only told me part of it. Who was your father, boy?"
"E-eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King."
"And?" Ser Clegane asked again, but when you took too long, he answered for you. "Lord Paramount of the North."
"I've never heard anyone use that title for my father," confusion laced your voice.
"He was lord over the North, other Northern houses pledged themselves to House Stark. That makes him Lord Paramount of the North. So, tell me, boy. Who are you?"
You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. "I am [Y/N] Stark, son of Eddard Stark, Future Lord of Winterfell, and Future Lord Paramount of the North." Using so many titles for yourself felt foreign and wrong, but you understood Ser Clegane's point now. Whether or not you believed you were deserving or capable was secondary to the fact that this is who you are, and who you need to be.
"Then fucking act like it. You are not a boy anymore. I know there's sense in that damned thick skull of yours," he poked your forehead roughly. "Use it and act like the man you need to be."
"Aye, Ser," your voice was steady again, and you hoped this would be the last time you felt that nauseating pain of worry build in your gut.
"If I have to remind you again, I'll gut you and cave in your skull myself," Ser Clegane turned his back to you while he spoke. You could tell there was no real bite in his words, but it was clear he was growing tired of your insecurity and worrisome nature.
You didn't respond verbally right away but quickly caught up with Ser Clegane's long strides down the halls. After another moment of silence, you spoke, "You wouldn't be doing a very good job at keeping me alive if you did, Ser," you spoke with a half-smile, only meaning it as a jest. You weren't sure why you said it. Ser Clegane, the Hound, didn't seem much like a man who cared for jokes and humor. Though maybe the faint, gruff chuckle you heard escape him convinced you, at least partially, otherwise.
"Y'need a motivator to keep from being a limp excuse of a man."
"I don't think you'd rather appreciate me being a hard man either, Ser Clegane," you joked crudely.
Ser Clegane huffed and you noticed his lips stretch into a half smile. "Hard to believe you've got a cock down there."
You couldn't hide the stupid grin on your face when he joked back with you. "Ever the vulgar man, aren't you, Ser?"
Ser Clegane didn't give you a verbal response, but your gaze met his when he glanced at you, still smirking. His gaze seemed softer now, though maybe it was the dim lighting in this particular hall. He wasn't staring through you quite like he was the day before and looked almost fond of you. You felt your own demeanor towards him change as well. Just last night, just his presence intimidated you, but here you are, joking with him. This stark difference in how you two were with each other was welcome to you, though. Ser Clegane wasn't like the rest of the people in King's Landing. Sure, you'd heard stories about his rage, power, and hatred, but those all seemed like superficial assumptions to you now. Your episodes of worry and insecurity aside, you appreciated him reminding you of who you are and what your responsibilities are now. You enjoyed your brief bout of joke exchange with Ser Clegane as well. It seemed ill-fitting given the circumstances, but it felt good regardless.
After a few more minutes of walking in silence, the two of you entered the throne room.
"There's the damned dog. You're late!" You heard King Joffrey's voice echo through the room.
"Apologies, Your Grace," was all Ser Clegane said when the two of you approached the Iron Throne before he turned to stand a few meters away from the throne. You followed, and meant to take your place next to Ser Clegane, but the King stopped you.
"You," he spoke curtly. "Who are you?"
"[Y/N] Stark, Your Grace."
"You're the oldest Stark, aren't you? The sniveling coward that came with your traitorous father because you weren't fit to hold Lordship in Winterfell?" You could tell King Joffrey was belittling you with the intent of getting an exaggerated reaction out of you.
"More or less, Your Grace," you remained calm.
"'More or less?' Do you mean to say I'm wrong?"
"No, Your Grace, my apologies," you bowed your head. "Though it might be worth noting that were I a 'sniveling coward,' I would have abandoned my sisters and fled King's Landing," you quipped, albeit cautiously. You weren't looking to find yourself in a cell or moments before a beheading.
"You will not speak to your King that way, Stark. What are you doing here?"
"Queen Cersei appointed me to be Ser Clegane's squire, Your Grace."
King Joffrey laughed in amusement, "The dog is no 'Ser,' he has no need for a squire."
Cersei interjected in desperation, "The Hound has served you well for many years, and we should make use of the Stark boy while he's here. The Hound will make sure we do get use out of him without him dying."
"Whatever," the King responded curtly. "Be the dog's bitch for all I care," he waved his hand at you in dismissal.
You pretended you didn't hear his final remark and did not hesitate to leave the King's sight and take your stand on Ser Clegane's outer side. You didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you. You glanced up to meet his gaze, and you could tell he meant to scold you with just that a look alone. A scowl engrained deep into his features, brows furrowed together, and his dark eyes alone almost calling you a dumb cunt. You turned your attention to the empty space in front of you, having gotten the message Ser Clegane intended on getting across. You straightened when you felt his gloved hand on your shoulder again and didn't move when you felt him lean down to whisper in your ear.
"He's executed and tortured people for less than your fucking quips."
You didn't say anything in response, but you relaxed under Ser Clegane's grasp as if to illustrate your understanding. Although, you only said what you did and how you did because you knew you wouldn't be executed if you framed your words just right. Joffrey was quite stupid, after all, and you had known this since the Baratheons paid a visit to Winterfell. You made it a point to patronize him while he was still just a prince visiting your home.
Regardless, now that he is King, you knew it would be better to keep quiet rather than to risk your life for temporary satisfaction. When the throne room filled with the members of the Small Council and some civilians, you stood still and quietly by Ser Clegane's side until everyone had said their piece, and until the King had gotten a sufficient amount of satisfaction from punishing petty criminals and dismissed everyone for the day. Ser Clegane led you back to the hall where your rooms were, but instead of letting you enter your own room, he beckoned you into his.
"Let's see what the little wolf knows about armor," he said as he closed the door behind you. "Well?" he questioned you when all you did was stare at him.
"You're a bit too tall for me to reach very much, Ser Clegane," you spoke gently, and he sat on a stool near the farthest wall with a groan.
You walked towards him, stood by his side and reached tentatively for the knots holding his shoulder pieces on. "These first?" you asked, and you proceeded when he nodded. You untied the leather and set the armor down gently. You worked through the rest of his armor, asking if you were at the right step when you weren't very sure. Eventually, you had finished removing Ser Clegane's armor for him. In retrospect, it didn't take you terribly long because this was something you had studied extensively since you were young.
"Good," Ser Clegane spoke gruffly and stood up before stretching, making himself seem impossibly taller. "One less thing to teach you."
You took a few steps back and watched as he moved to sit on the side of his bed.
"Anything else, Ser?"
"Y'that eager to be free of my company, boy?"
"No, Ser," you replied. "I am curious if you want to start that training you mentioned, though."
Ser Clegane huffed in what you assumed was a mix of exhaustion and annoyance, "What I want is a fucking drink. I'm going to an alehouse. Follow if you want, stay if you don't. I don't fucking care."
"…I'll follow," you decided.
Ser Clegane didn't respond, and out his boots back on before standing again. You unfastened the straps to your father's cloak and pulled it from your shoulders. You draped it over one arm, intending to carry it, until Ser Clegane took it from your grasp and set it on his bed.
"You can get it when we return."
And with that, Ser Clegane led you out of his room, out of the Red Keep, and into a crowded alehouse in the middle of Flea Bottom, certainly not the kind of place you were used to, but you didn't complain or criticize. You spent that evening with Ser Clegane, nervous at first and not really intending to drink anything that night, but that changed when he pushed a pint of ale your way. He didn't pressure you to drink more than he was just giving you the option to, and he could tell you were hesitant because you hadn't had ale before. He chuckled when your face scrunched at first, not sure how to feel about the taste, but you grew accustomed to the bready flavor and started to enjoy it. As the two of you drank, you calmed and began conversing quite casually with Ser Clegane… at least, as casually as you could.
By the time the sun had set, you only had two pints to drink while both you and Ser Clegane lost track of how much he drank. Though, he didn't seem to get drunk, or at least he knew how not to show it. He led you back to his room, you grabbed your father's cloak, and you watched as he clumsily dropped onto his bed. You stood for a moment, in case he had any orders for you, but when he finally looked towards you, his eyes once again almost uncharacteristically soft, that's when he spoke.
"What?"
"I haven't been dismissed, Ser Clegane."
"Piss off with that already," he furrowed his brows as he spoke, but his gaze was still soft.
"With what, Ser?" despite part of you knowing what he was referring to, you still questioned for clarification.
"'Ser,' 'Ser Clegane.' Piss off with it. I'm no 'Ser.' Call me by my bloody name, for fuck's sake."
"Aye, I understand."
You still waited to be dismissed, and you stood there, even when Sandor had turned to lie in his bed, and you continued to until you heard him speak again.
"Goodnight, little wolf," his voice was softer now, still gruff, but soft. Maybe the ale and exhaustion of the day had finally settled into him.
You smiled a bit, then replied, "Goodnight, Sandor." You turned and left his room, making sure to close the door as quietly as you could behind you before entering your own room. You felt an odd sense of comfort despite your situation, knowing you would be spending your days with Sandor. You could tell he wasn't a real threat, just someone exploited by the Lannisters, just as many others had been, and was obedient to keep his head on his shoulders. Your thoughts kept you busy while you undressed for the night; replaying events of your day and thinking about Sandor. He was a decent man, and you were honest to the Gods grateful that you had ended up in his service. You were lucky that it was Sandor Clegane you were a squire for, instead of someone like Ser Meryn Trant, for example. Gods knew you despised that cunt for everything he was and everything he stood for.
You sat in silence for a few moments, gazing out your window from your spot in your bed, watching the sea's waves shimmer in the moonlight, and the taking in the decrescendoing bustling noise in King's Landing. Eventually, your own exhaustion overcame you, and you moved to rest comfortably in your bed for what you hoped would be a night of better rest than the last. You closed your eyes and let yourself drift off.
You slept well that night, for the first night in many weeks.
Reader is implied to be 18+! Be aware that there is vulgar humor in this chapter!
Apologies if this isn't the best 🥲
Link to the ao3 version here.
!!! Do not repost my works anywhere !!!
The next morning, you woke when you felt the warmth of the sun kissing your skin. You sat up slowly and rubbed the sleep from your eyes before pulling your covers off of yourself. You looked out your window for a moment, saw the sun was still early in its rise, and realized you must have woken up quite early. You kept still where you sat and let your still-tired eyed wander around your room until your gaze landed on the pile of your father's belongings Ser Clegane had set on your table. You figured that while you still had time until your duties would start, you should sort through the pile.
Rising slowly from your bed, you made your way to the table and rested your hands on the black cloak your father wore on the travel to King's Landing. You ran your fingers through the soft fur of the hide around the collar before lifting it. This style cloak had served as quite the signature of House Stark. Robb, Jon, and even Bran all wore a cloak similar to your father's, but you never particularly cared for it. The crossed straps at the chest always dug uncomfortably into your torso, even over your doublet and under shirt. Your cloak was black, to match your father's, however it was hooded with an additional fur layer that draped over your shoulders and resembled a capelet. In the front, it was held together with a thick, silver chain with a metal pendant resembling your house sigil that you would secure through a buttonhole on the opposite side of the cloak.
You still remembered the day you asked your father for a new cloak when the feel of those taught leather straps became too much for you to handle. You were twelve, maybe thirteen, when you started to outgrow your current cloak. This was when you were growing quite fast, although you reached your final height much earlier than your brothers, and at a much shorter height, too. You complained to him about how uncomfortable the straps were, and how much tighter they had become recently, to which your father responded with, "We'll get you fitted for a new one."
You remembered how nervous you were to ask for a different style, considering the cloaks your family wore were traditional attire in the north, and even more so for the Starks. Yet you still asked and were honestly surprised when your father agreed. Even more surprised when he took the sketch you drew of what you wanted and looked honestly proud of your design. You knew your father wasn't one to discourage his children from doing what they found joy in, even if it wasn't "fitting" for their roles, but you were still worried you would've been in for a scolding for taking up such a "womanly" hobby when you were supposed to be the next Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
Now, you were starting to realize how important pride in your house and family name was going to become. With your father branded a traitor, it wouldn't take very long for House Stark to lose the favor of most people in Westeros. Staying proud for the sake of your house and surviving family was going to be hard, given the circumstances, but you were determined to do so one way or another. So, you draped your father's cloak over the back of the chair beside you while you rummaged through the rest of his belongings because you intended it to wear it from now on.
You separated your father's clothes from the rest of things when you noticed his sword. You knew he had it on him when he was accused of treason, and realized that after it was taken from him, someone must have returned it to his room, where they knew you'd find it. You pulled the sword from its sheath just enough to glance at the details of the blade when you heard your door open. You turned to face the sound, and your gaze met with Ser Clegane's.
He from you to the sword in your hands before speaking, "I assume the eunuch had that sword brought back to your old room."
You nodded in response before looking back at your father's sword. You held it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. Truth be told, you didn't know if you deserved to have this sword. You weren't a good swordsman, and you still felt like a lost child most days.
"Better you to have it than for it to be melted," Ser Clegane had stepped into your room and closed the door behind him while you ruminated in your thoughts. He took a few slow steps towards you before extending a hand, silently asking to see the sword. You pointed the handle towards him so he could pull the sword from its sheath. He did so slowly before he held the blade in the sunlight that peeked through your window.
"This is Valyrian steel."
You nodded, "Yes Ser, it was his father's sword before him. This sword has been passed down in our family for nearly four hundred years."
"You don't think you deserve it," Ser Clegane returned his gaze to you when he spoke. It was becoming obvious that he could read you like a book.
"Aye… my brother, Robb, should be the one to wield this sword, not me. I never had the skill for battle that he, Jon, and my father shared. Nor the bravery, I'd wager."
To distract yourself from feeling Ser Clegane's eyes on you, you turned and grabbed your clothes from the previous day before getting dressed. When he spoke again, you were sat on your bed and putting your boots on and tucking in your pant legs, already back in your doublet.
"Is deserving to wield your father's sword more important than keeping it in your family?" his words were sharper this time around. "Who else would? The Stark brat who's lost somewhere in the shit-filled streets? Or the sister the King's torturing like a prisoner?" Ser Clegane walked closer until he was right in front of where you sat and forced you to look up at him. "Your brothers aren't here to take it off your undeserving hands, so wield it like you deserve it until you do. You're Ned Stark's oldest son. Act like it."
Oddly enough, Ser Clegane's words sparked something in you. Something you hadn't really felt before. Something proud and almost angry. Without a word, you fastened your boots and stood before you made your way back to the table and grabbed your father's cloak. Ser Clegane watched as you threw it over your shoulders and fastened the straps in an 'X' over your chest and under your arms.
"Your father's?"
"Aye."
Ser Clegane huffed out a short laugh, "You must be begging the Lannisters to put your head on a spike."
"Winter is coming, Ser Clegane, whether the Lannisters like it or not," you paused for a moment, but only a moment, before you secured your father's sword around your waist.
"Mind your words, little wolf, you're starting to sound like your father," Ser Clegane spoke quietly as he made for your door and opened it again. Though his words held obvious truth and urged you to be cautious about what you said around others, you didn't miss the touch of humor in his voice. Ser Clegane might be the King's "Hound," but you had already picked up on his sympathies. He wasn't the only person who could read others well.
You did your best to pay no mind to the nickname he had given you, and the odd way it made you feel. You took a short but deep breath through your nose before speaking again. "Northern men always bring the north with them, and where the north goes, winter follows. If Queen Cersei and King Joffrey can't see it now, they will. Be it tomorrow, next month, next year, or the next decade. They will." You'd see to it yourself.
You caught a glimpse of a smirk on Ser Clegane's face before he stepped outside of your room again. He nodded for you to follow him, and you did. You followed him down the long hallways of the Red Keep, but all you could think about was the realization you made. For the foreseeable future, things were only going to get harder. Tension amongst houses would fester, houses would become filled with nothing but hatred for those they believed opposed them. In many cases, House Stark would be the one many hate.
Regardless of whatever conflicts House Stark would become the center of following your father's accused "crime" and execution, it was finally setting in that you couldn't yet focus on larger, hypothetical issues while you and your sisters were held in King's Landing. You needed to focus on keeping yourself and your sisters alive and safe before you could worry about your house. Besides, Robb was in Winterfell, and you knew he wouldn't let anything happen to the rest of your family or your house. It was your job to get Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell.
Being so lost in thought, you didn't notice when Ser Clegane had stopped walking and turned to face you until he put a heavy hand on your shoulder to catch your attention before you walked into him… again.
"It would be wise to pay better attention, little wolf."
"I do, Ser," you said, in a weak attempt to defend yourself, though you knew you didn't really need to.
Ser Clegane only huffed in amusement before letting his hand fall from your shoulder and returning to rest on the hilt of his sword. After a moment, he spoke.
"You will spend most of your days standing around and waiting for orders. I am not a knight; I do not get the glory or excitement a knight gets. Where I go, you follow. When I have fewer duties, our time will be spent training you to fight."
You nodded in understanding, but you couldn't hide the perplexed look on your face.
"Does the little wolf not know what a squire is?" You could've sworn you saw a smirk on Ser Clegane's face as he spoke.
"I do wish you'd quit calling me that, Ser." You paused before answering his question. "Squires serve knights, do they not?" You were smart, without a doubt, you just never found yourself needing to know what a squire was, so it never occurred to you to learn about them and their relationships with knights.
"A squire is a knight's apprentice; they do more than serve. Your brother and Stannis are organizing armies against the Lannisters. Do you plan on standing on the battlefield like a dumb cunt until someone slits your throat? Or maybe you'll be gutted and have your skull crushed. I plan on keeping you alive, boy," Ser Clegane turned to continue walking through the halls of the Red Keep, presumably towards the throne room.
Your eyes widened when you processed his words, and you picked up a quick pace to catch up to Ser Clegane. "Robb? But he's holding lordship in Winterfell."
"Not anymore, little wolf. Your brother is 'King in the North' now and has been fighting the Lannister army since your father was imprisoned. The cunt even captured the Kingslayer."
You stopped in your tracks. If Robb was off fighting a war, who was holding Winterfell? It would have to be Bran, but he's so young. How could he manage that all by himself? Maybe with Meister Luwin's guidance… Ser Clegane noticed you were no longer walking beside him and stopped to face you. He could see the worry etched into your face again. So much burden for such a naive and inexperienced boy.
"What good does worrying do you, Stark? Who are you?"
"[Y/n] Stark, son of Eddard Stark," you did your best to focus on the present instead of what might happen in the future, but no matter how many times you tried to redirect your thoughts, you were right back to obsessing over what might happen to Winterfell and your youngest brothers while Robb was off in a war.
"And?" Ser Clegane spoke louder now, which snapped you out of your thoughts.
Your gaze snapped up to meet his when you spoke. "Pardon?"
"I asked you who you are, and you only told me part of it. Who was your father, boy?"
"E-eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King."
"And?" Ser Clegane asked again, but when you took too long, he answered for you. "Lord Paramount of the North."
"I've never heard anyone use that title for my father," confusion laced your voice.
"He was lord over the North, other Northern houses pledged themselves to House Stark. That makes him Lord Paramount of the North. So, tell me, boy. Who are you?"
You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. "I am [Y/N] Stark, son of Eddard Stark, Future Lord of Winterfell, and Future Lord Paramount of the North." Using so many titles for yourself felt foreign and wrong, but you understood Ser Clegane's point now. Whether or not you believed you were deserving or capable was secondary to the fact that this is who you are, and who you need to be.
"Then fucking act like it. You are not a boy anymore. I know there's sense in that damned thick skull of yours," he poked your forehead roughly. "Use it and act like the man you need to be."
"Aye, Ser," your voice was steady again, and you hoped this would be the last time you felt that nauseating pain of worry build in your gut.
"If I have to remind you again, I'll gut you and cave in your skull myself," Ser Clegane turned his back to you while he spoke. You could tell there was no real bite in his words, but it was clear he was growing tired of your insecurity and worrisome nature.
You didn't respond verbally right away but quickly caught up with Ser Clegane's long strides down the halls. After another moment of silence, you spoke, "You wouldn't be doing a very good job at keeping me alive if you did, Ser," you spoke with a half-smile, only meaning it as a jest. You weren't sure why you said it. Ser Clegane, the Hound, didn't seem much like a man who cared for jokes and humor. Though maybe the faint, gruff chuckle you heard escape him convinced you, at least partially, otherwise.
"Y'need a motivator to keep from being a limp excuse of a man."
"I don't think you'd rather appreciate me being a hard man either, Ser Clegane," you joked crudely.
Ser Clegane huffed and you noticed his lips stretch into a half smile. "Hard to believe you've got a cock down there."
You couldn't hide the stupid grin on your face when he joked back with you. "Ever the vulgar man, aren't you, Ser?"
Ser Clegane didn't give you a verbal response, but your gaze met his when he glanced at you, still smirking. His gaze seemed softer now, though maybe it was the dim lighting in this particular hall. He wasn't staring through you quite like he was the day before and looked almost fond of you. You felt your own demeanor towards him change as well. Just last night, just his presence intimidated you, but here you are, joking with him. This stark difference in how you two were with each other was welcome to you, though. Ser Clegane wasn't like the rest of the people in King's Landing. Sure, you'd heard stories about his rage, power, and hatred, but those all seemed like superficial assumptions to you now. Your episodes of worry and insecurity aside, you appreciated him reminding you of who you are and what your responsibilities are now. You enjoyed your brief bout of joke exchange with Ser Clegane as well. It seemed ill-fitting given the circumstances, but it felt good regardless.
After a few more minutes of walking in silence, the two of you entered the throne room.
"There's the damned dog. You're late!" You heard King Joffrey's voice echo through the room.
"Apologies, Your Grace," was all Ser Clegane said when the two of you approached the Iron Throne before he turned to stand a few meters away from the throne. You followed, and meant to take your place next to Ser Clegane, but the King stopped you.
"You," he spoke curtly. "Who are you?"
"[Y/N] Stark, Your Grace."
"You're the oldest Stark, aren't you? The sniveling coward that came with your traitorous father because you weren't fit to hold Lordship in Winterfell?" You could tell King Joffrey was belittling you with the intent of getting an exaggerated reaction out of you.
"More or less, Your Grace," you remained calm.
"'More or less?' Do you mean to say I'm wrong?"
"No, Your Grace, my apologies," you bowed your head. "Though it might be worth noting that were I a 'sniveling coward,' I would have abandoned my sisters and fled King's Landing," you quipped, albeit cautiously. You weren't looking to find yourself in a cell or moments before a beheading.
"You will not speak to your King that way, Stark. What are you doing here?"
"Queen Cersei appointed me to be Ser Clegane's squire, Your Grace."
King Joffrey laughed in amusement, "The dog is no 'Ser,' he has no need for a squire."
Cersei interjected in desperation, "The Hound has served you well for many years, and we should make use of the Stark boy while he's here. The Hound will make sure we do get use out of him without him dying."
"Whatever," the King responded curtly. "Be the dog's bitch for all I care," he waved his hand at you in dismissal.
You pretended you didn't hear his final remark and did not hesitate to leave the King's sight and take your stand on Ser Clegane's outer side. You didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you. You glanced up to meet his gaze, and you could tell he meant to scold you with just that a look alone. A scowl engrained deep into his features, brows furrowed together, and his dark eyes alone almost calling you a dumb cunt. You turned your attention to the empty space in front of you, having gotten the message Ser Clegane intended on getting across. You straightened when you felt his gloved hand on your shoulder again and didn't move when you felt him lean down to whisper in your ear.
"He's executed and tortured people for less than your fucking quips."
You didn't say anything in response, but you relaxed under Ser Clegane's grasp as if to illustrate your understanding. Although, you only said what you did and how you did because you knew you wouldn't be executed if you framed your words just right. Joffrey was quite stupid, after all, and you had known this since the Baratheons paid a visit to Winterfell. You made it a point to patronize him while he was still just a prince visiting your home.
Regardless, now that he is King, you knew it would be better to keep quiet rather than to risk your life for temporary satisfaction. When the throne room filled with the members of the Small Council and some civilians, you stood still and quietly by Ser Clegane's side until everyone had said their piece, and until the King had gotten a sufficient amount of satisfaction from punishing petty criminals and dismissed everyone for the day. Ser Clegane led you back to the hall where your rooms were, but instead of letting you enter your own room, he beckoned you into his.
"Let's see what the little wolf knows about armor," he said as he closed the door behind you. "Well?" he questioned you when all you did was stare at him.
"You're a bit too tall for me to reach very much, Ser Clegane," you spoke gently, and he sat on a stool near the farthest wall with a groan.
You walked towards him, stood by his side and reached tentatively for the knots holding his shoulder pieces on. "These first?" you asked, and you proceeded when he nodded. You untied the leather and set the armor down gently. You worked through the rest of his armor, asking if you were at the right step when you weren't very sure. Eventually, you had finished removing Ser Clegane's armor for him. In retrospect, it didn't take you terribly long because this was something you had studied extensively since you were young.
"Good," Ser Clegane spoke gruffly and stood up before stretching, making himself seem impossibly taller. "One less thing to teach you."
You took a few steps back and watched as he moved to sit on the side of his bed.
"Anything else, Ser?"
"Y'that eager to be free of my company, boy?"
"No, Ser," you replied. "I am curious if you want to start that training you mentioned, though."
Ser Clegane huffed in what you assumed was a mix of exhaustion and annoyance, "What I want is a fucking drink. I'm going to an alehouse. Follow if you want, stay if you don't. I don't fucking care."
"…I'll follow," you decided.
Ser Clegane didn't respond, and out his boots back on before standing again. You unfastened the straps to your father's cloak and pulled it from your shoulders. You draped it over one arm, intending to carry it, until Ser Clegane took it from your grasp and set it on his bed.
"You can get it when we return."
And with that, Ser Clegane led you out of his room, out of the Red Keep, and into a crowded alehouse in the middle of Flea Bottom, certainly not the kind of place you were used to, but you didn't complain or criticize. You spent that evening with Ser Clegane, nervous at first and not really intending to drink anything that night, but that changed when he pushed a pint of ale your way. He didn't pressure you to drink more than he was just giving you the option to, and he could tell you were hesitant because you hadn't had ale before. He chuckled when your face scrunched at first, not sure how to feel about the taste, but you grew accustomed to the bready flavor and started to enjoy it. As the two of you drank, you calmed and began conversing quite casually with Ser Clegane… at least, as casually as you could.
By the time the sun had set, you only had two pints to drink while both you and Ser Clegane lost track of how much he drank. Though, he didn't seem to get drunk, or at least he knew how not to show it. He led you back to his room, you grabbed your father's cloak, and you watched as he clumsily dropped onto his bed. You stood for a moment, in case he had any orders for you, but when he finally looked towards you, his eyes once again almost uncharacteristically soft, that's when he spoke.
"What?"
"I haven't been dismissed, Ser Clegane."
"Piss off with that already," he furrowed his brows as he spoke, but his gaze was still soft.
"With what, Ser?" despite part of you knowing what he was referring to, you still questioned for clarification.
"'Ser,' 'Ser Clegane.' Piss off with it. I'm no 'Ser.' Call me by my bloody name, for fuck's sake."
"Aye, I understand."
You still waited to be dismissed, and you stood there, even when Sandor had turned to lie in his bed, and you continued to until you heard him speak again.
"Goodnight, little wolf," his voice was softer now, still gruff, but soft. Maybe the ale and exhaustion of the day had finally settled into him.
You smiled a bit, then replied, "Goodnight, Sandor." You turned and left his room, making sure to close the door as quietly as you could behind you before entering your own room. You felt an odd sense of comfort despite your situation, knowing you would be spending your days with Sandor. You could tell he wasn't a real threat, just someone exploited by the Lannisters, just as many others had been, and was obedient to keep his head on his shoulders. Your thoughts kept you busy while you undressed for the night; replaying events of your day and thinking about Sandor. He was a decent man, and you were honest to the Gods grateful that you had ended up in his service. You were lucky that it was Sandor Clegane you were a squire for, instead of someone like Ser Meryn Trant, for example. Gods knew you despised that cunt for everything he was and everything he stood for.
You sat in silence for a few moments, gazing out your window from your spot in your bed, watching the sea's waves shimmer in the moonlight, and the taking in the decrescendoing bustling noise in King's Landing. Eventually, your own exhaustion overcame you, and you moved to rest comfortably in your bed for what you hoped would be a night of better rest than the last. You closed your eyes and let yourself drift off.
You slept well that night, for the first night in many weeks.
how do you work on 4 different fic/blurb ideas without getting torn between which one to work on and end up not doing anything because of decision paralysis !! ive been meaning to write something this week but im stuck on what to work on 😭 help
this is why ao3 is superior 😭 I hope op has a copy of their work because, from what I’ve been told, wattpad won’t even warn or give you time to backup your work beforehand. they will just deadass delete your work. my friend once had their entire work—with multiple chapters—deleted by wattpad with no heads up. just a notification that says “your work has been deleted”.
seriously people, ao3 is your safe haven. there’s no censorship. no capitalism bullshit. you can post the most taboo, most shockingly messed up thing there and the site will protect you and your works. they even have their own team of lawyers to protect writers, writers’ works and writers’ rights to create whatever they want. no matter how controversial or taboo or explicit or dark or messed up your works are, they are protected and welcomed on ao3. stop wasting time with wattpad 😭
Following the execution of Ned Stark for "treason," Queen Cersei orders Ned's eldest son, you, to be Sandor Clegane's squire. While she attempts to disguise this decision as a "token of appreciation" for Sandor's services to Joffrey, both he, Sandor, and you know it's to keep you, Ned Stark's heir, in King's Landing and away from Winterfell, away from the rest of the House of Stark, and under her surveillance. How will you fair as a squire while you grieve the loss of your father? What happens when you get closer to the Hound than either of you anticipated? What happens when the buds of romance start to bloom?
(reader is implied to be 18+)
link to the ao3 version here !!
⚠️ !!! do not repost my works anywhere !!! ⚠️
Sandor Clegane never wanted a squire. He didn't have one before, and didn't see why he needed one now. He didn't want to worry about some clumsy highborn boy getting his way, much less about teaching one how to fight and be a knight. Not to mention, he wasn't even a knight. He was Joffrey Baratheon's bodyguard before he was named a member of the Kingsguard when Joffrey claimed the Iron Throne. He wasn't fit to have a squire. Yet here he was, standing in front of Queen Cersei, with Eddard Stark's eldest son, you, now standing awkwardly beside him. The Queen had just given an eloquent speech on how "Ser Clegane's service and current circumstances" meant it only made sense to provide him with the eldest Stark boy as his squire.
Ser Clegane wasn't dumb, however. With the execution of Eddard Stark being held mere hours prior, Ser Clegane could imagine what Queen Cersei's intentions were. With Lady Sansa being King Joffrey's expected wife and Queen, she was held in the Red Keep along with the rest of the royal family. Not just that, it was well known that Queen Cersei had called for Arya Stark to be found and brought to the Red Keep as well. Anyone with eyes could see that what Queen Cersei wanted was to keep a close watch on all of the Starks still in King's Landing. Better yet, what more effective way to keep the entire House of Stark under her thumb than by keeping their heir as a squire for a member of her Kingsguard.
You were staring blankly at the ground and didn't catch when Queen Cersei dismissed you and Ser Clegane. When he turned to leave the throne room and didn't hear you follow, he dropped a heavy, leatherclad hand on your shoulder.
"Come on then, boy."
You jumped a little, but didn't hesitate any longer to follow him. Your focus was elsewhere, still trying to process the cruel execution of your father, but you knew that if you wanted to avoid the same fate, you would have to obey Queen Cersei and serve Sandor Clegane. You were timid and quiet, but you weren't stupid either. You knew as well as Ser Clegane did why you were appointed to squire for a man who wasn't even a knight, regardless of his position as a member of the Kingsguard. Queen Cersei hated your father, and you were well aware it wasn't for his "treason," hated your mother for imprisoning her brother, Tyrion Lannister, hated you and the rest of your brothers and sisters for being the children of Ned and Catelyn Stark, and likely hated you especially for being their heir.
Being kept in King's Landing as Ser Clegane's squire meant Robb, the second eldest Stark, would be a placeholder until, or if, you returned to Winterfell. You always thought he was more fit to take your father's place than you were or would ever be. That's why Ned Stark brought you to King's Landing with him after Robert Baratheon asked him to be his Hand. Your father wished to teach you what it meant to be a lord and how to oversee your people through the example of how he advised the late King Robert. He planned on teaching you how to fight as well. Not that you were a terrible archer or swordsman, but you second guessed yourself more than any soldier should. Your father knew you were a smart boy, you always had been. You spent any free time you had studying the history of the seven kingdoms, even studying military strategy and combat. He would never complain about you "studying too much," you just relied on your book knowledge of fighting more than you let yourself feel what your next move should be.
You remained deep in thought until you felt yourself bump right into Ser Clegane. You quickly took a step back and bowed before the large man. You attempted to apologize for your clumsiness, but your voice failed you.
"Enough of that bullshit," Ser Clegane spoke before you could muster out your words.
You sat up straight, and quickly. "My apologies, Ser Clegane." You couldn't even meet his gaze when you spoke to him, you only looked through him.
"This will be your room," Ser Clegane ignored your apology.
You nodded in acknowledgment.
"Bring whatever shit you had here. If you have nothing, clean or rest. I don't care."
You nodded before speaking, "If I may, do my responsibilities not begin today? It is still early in the day."
"No. When you wake in the morning, meet me in this hall. You start tomorrow." Ser Clegane shifted on his feet and looked above and past you for a brief moment before returning his gaze back to you.
This time around, you found yourself unable to keep from looking up at the man in front of you. When he did look back at you, you nodded in acknowledgement once more. Ser Clegane lingered for just a moment before turning to leave the hall and return to his duties for the day, and you took at that as an opportunity to get a look at your new room. You grabbed and turned the doorknob gingerly before stepping into the room slowly.
The room was small, and full of what was probably too much furniture for the cramped space. There was one window on the opposite side of the room, and the sun shone directly through it. You could see the dust you must have stirred up floating in the air through the rays of light that cut through the dreary space. Stepping further in and closing the door behind you, you noticed a small bed in the corner directly in front of the door, and beside it was a small, round table with two dusty and half-melted candles stuck on its top. Against the wall between the door and the bed was a large armoire with a short dresser beside it. Above the dresser was a rack of small glass jars, some empty, and others half-filled with liquids unfamiliar to you. At the center of the room was a large, tattered, brown and almost golden woven rug, and while stepping closer to make out some of its details from under a thick layer of dust, you noticed the sill of your window was decorated with flowers that were now dried out and wilted. The large red and gold-trimmed curtain that hung in front of the window was, as everything else in this room, covered in dust and in disorder. It was hanging unevenly, draped partially over the round bedside table, and partially resting on the floor. Now, you were starting to appreciate Ser Clegane giving you the day to clean and settle into your new room.
You turned to the left side of your room where a table and chair were. The table had old papers and an old book with a few pages torn from it scattered across its surface. The wood was ink-stained here and there and chipped in a few places, but it seemed to be in good enough shape regardless. Behind the table and chair was an empty bookshelf and an old woven basket on the ground next to it. On the other side of the room was a particularly detailed dresser with vases of dead herbs and flowers sitting atop it, and an empty, tiered glass display case sitting between it and the door.
After a few more moments of taking in the room around you, you began tidying up a bit. Picked up a few stray papers, opened your window, did some light dusting, and got rid of the withered, old floral decorations in the room. While shaking the dust from your bedding outside your window, you remembered you still had to move your belongings to the room you previously shared with your father to your new one, and quickly remade your bed to avoid having to do so while the sun sat.
You left your room, closed the door behind you, and did your best to make your way through the Red Keep's halls and find your old room. To your luck, it wasn't hard to find. The two rooms weren't terribly far apart, but the corridors were long. Once faced with the correct door, you couldn't help but hesitate. Your father was the last one in that room. Things were uneasy after King Robert was fatally injured, you could see the tension your father carried in his shoulders, and you could feel the tension any time you passed a member of the royal family while roaming the Red Keep.
Seeing your father so stressed worried you, which, in turn, rendered you unable to sleep. On the final night of your father's freedom, and while he slept, you spent the night wandering the gardens. When your legs ached from pacing, you sat in a hidden corner until your father found you the next morning. You hadn't eaten in at least a day and a half, and you had run yourself ragged with worry. You couldn't stop thinking about what King Robert's death would bring. You didn't know what changes would sweep over the seven kingdoms, and you didn't know what would happen to you or the rest of your family. You were well aware the Queen was less than fond of your mother and father, and, knowing the grudges she held, that likely extended to you, your brothers, and your sisters. The distress was eating you alive.
When your father found you, he handed you some bread and sat next to you. You remembered how he didn't say anything at first, already knowing what was running through your mind. He brought you with him to King's Landing to teach you how to rule by his example. He wanted the advice he gave to King Robert to be lessons for you. And, of course, because you were a smart and very observant young man, you knew King Robert's death would inevitably lead to many substantial changes, for better or for worse. When your father did speak, he told you there would be tension and aggression amongst the royal family after the King's death. He didn't sugar coat the situation for you, didn't lie or conceal the truth, but he did tell you that he knew that if anything bad did happen, to him or in general, he knew you would prevail and survive. He knew his children would prove to all of Westeros the strength and resilience of the House of Stark.
You grabbed the doorknob, but couldn't help but recall the rest of that day, when news of King Robert's death reached you and your father, and the two of you met with the newly crowned King Joffrey and the Queen Mother, Cersei, in the throne room. You remember how your father handed King Robert's will to Ser Barristan the Bold to read aloud to the royal family and all ears around. You remember it declaring Ned Stark as King of the Seven Kingdoms until Joffrey was older and ready to inherit the Iron Throne.
You pressed your forehead to the rough, wooden door as you replayed how Queen Cersei tore King Robert's will and declared your father a traitor. The look your father gave you before he was taken to the dungeons was burned into your mind. The look of a man whose honor was about to be his undoing, and who knew death was in his near future. The look of a father who was being taken away from his children, who knew his heir wasn't yet ready for what he would be faced with, and who hoped, prayed, his children would survive whatever was to come for the House of Stark. You remembered the sting of tears threatening to overflow, the tightness in your chest, the pit in your stomach, the ache in your throat, and the heaviness in your legs when the gravity of the situation sunk in. You remembered the scared and uncertain step forward you took, and how you reached out to your father like a scared little boy. You remembered the final words your father ever said to you when you tried to call out for him before your voice could fail you.
Your hand tightened around the doorknob until your skin was pinched between the metal and your bones. "Don't. Be strong. Look after your sisters, they'll need you." Those were the last words your father said to you. You knew he was right, your sisters were going to need you, especially now. You pushed your forehead harder into the wood, your free hand now tightly gripping and pulling at the thick fabric of your quilted doublet. You felt the sting of tears return again, despite your attempts to blink them away. You thumped your head against the door, muttering over and over about needing to be strong for Arya and Sansa.
Your grip on the doorknob loosened, and you sunk to your knees. You curled into yourself, pulling your knees to your chest, and hiding your face against the door. Your fingers dug into your arms while tears flowed from your eyes, now squeezed shut, down your cheek, and dripping from your nose and chin. You choked on your own sobs and held your breath until it ached to do so, and you couldn't help but let out a loud, painful wail. You sobbed until your throat hurt and your eyes burned. Every muscle in your body was taught and ached. Your ribs were sore, your head throbbed, and you felt like you were close to puking. You longed for your father. You wanted to feel him hold you, you wanted him to hold you like he did when you were a boy and snuck into your parents' chambers after a nightmare. You wanted him to tell you it was alright, that you were alright, you wanted him to be alright.
At some point, you had fallen asleep in the hall, in front of the door to your old room. Exhaustion from the weeping, the stress, and the grief had finally taken over. You were only jostled awake when you felt someone kick your thigh. You jolted ever so slightly and looked up at whoever had just woke you. When your eyes met the face of the man responsible, you saw that it was Ser Clegane, and you saw his expression shift ever so slightly.
He saw how you were curled into yourself, leaned against the door; and how red and puffy your eyes were and the way your hair stuck to your still tear-streaked face didn't go unnoticed by him. The poor, dependent boy you were just watched the brutal execution of your father earlier that day, he wasn't surprised by the state he found you in. Though he didn't say anything at first, he reached his hand out to you for you to take.
"C'mon, up you get."
You took his hand, and he helped pull you back up to your feet. At first, you stumbled a bit, but Ser Clegane put his free hand on your shoulder to steady you. You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your doublet and uttered a weak and raspy "thank you," before turning back to the door.
"I just have to grab my things," you rasped before finally opening the door and stepping inside.
Upon entering the room and seeing remnants of your father's life left undisturbed in the room, you felt your eyes burn again. This time, you didn't stop the tears. You gathered the few belongings you brought to King's Landing, and when you turned, you saw Ser Clegane gathering what he presumed belonged to your father.
"It'll rot or be burned if it's left here," was all he said when his eyes met yours.
You nodded, and the two of you left for your new room. Ser Clegane walked in front of you, and you followed a few feet away from him. Close enough for him to hear your footsteps, but far enough to keep your sniffles and quiet hiccups unheard. He opened the door to your room and looked around for a moment before spotting the large table at the far side of your room, clearing one side of it off, and setting your father's belongings on it. He walked towards you, took your belongings from your arms, and set them on the table as well. He turned back towards your door and stepped into the corridor before speaking again.
"Get some rest, Stark," was all he said before closing your door. It seemed Ser Clegane was much kinder than people knew, and perhaps even more so than he let on.
You sat on the edge of your bed before stripping down to just your under shirt and pants. Laying down slowly, you pulled your covers over you, and rolled onto your side. The sun had already begun to set, and, for a while, you mindlessly watched the shadows the sun's rays cast change and shift around your room. Once your room was mostly dark, you rolled over to face the wall. You closed your eyes to let your exhaustion to claim you as it had earlier, and it did.
That night, you dreamt of your father's execution. You dreamt of Arya, the poor girl lost somewhere unknown to you and the rest of your family. You dreamt of Sansa, who was the promised bride-to-be of King Joffrey. You dreamt of your other brothers and sisters, and your mother. You woke up several times that night in a cold sweat. You missed your family. You missed the good, happy, and peaceful times with your family in Winterfell. You missed Jon, and wondered how life at the Wall was treating him. You missed Robb, the smart, kind, and insightful young man he was. He was your younger brother, but you couldn't help but think of him as your elder. You missed Bran, and Rickon too. You even missed Theon, though he often irritated you to no end, you grew up with him and loved him like a brother. You thought of your mother before you drifted off to sleep for the final time that night, and how she hugged you tightly before you left for King's Landing.
You fell asleep before you could ruminate any longer, but your dreams still tortured you with the memory of your father's beheading at the cruel command of King Joffrey.
Primarily a Higgs Monaghan x GN!Reader fic but there will be hints of SamHiggs and Sam x Reader.
WARNING: Though there are not now, as this fic develops, there will be more triggering themes in this fic. As I post more chapters, I will tag and warn accordingly. Additionally, you can always check this work on AO3 because I always update there first.
Here is the AO3 link for this work.
You were a Porter for Bridges and had been for a few years now. You were used to the kind of work you had to do, at least for a little while. In recent years, the state of America had gone down the shitter. With the rise of a terrorists group called Homo Demens triggering more and more void outs and an increase in BTs across the country, your job became increasingly more difficult. Not to mention, this led to a decrease in Porters. Not good at all.
Currently, you were working with another Bridges Porter, Sam, in hopes to reconnect America. Sam was less than optimistic about this mission, and to be honest? You shared that same sentiment. What would it accomplish? Delaying the inevitable end of the world and everyone in it for a few more years at most? Not to mention, everyone was already so divided. What could the two of you Bridges Porters do to fix issues like that within an entire country?
To make matters worse, if the Homo Demens being on your tail wasn’t enough, their leader of all people, a man named Higgs Monaghan, was obsessed with you and Sam. You “give him purpose”, as Higgs had put it many times. He kept close tabs on the two of you since you set out to reconnect America to the chiral network and didn’t make any effort to hide the fact that he was or that he was following you both.
It remained relatively “wholesome”—if you could even call it that in the first place—until the Homo Demens trapped you and Sam in a safehouse just outside Fort Knot City. The two of you were headed to Edge Knot City as your final city to connect to the chiral network, and were trying to figure out how to get across the massive tar pit when a Timefall rolled in. BTs started swarming around you, and your only option for safety was a safehouse Sam had spotted a few meters away. The two of you entered against your better judgement (because, and let’s be honest, who the hell would have set up a safehouse all the way out here?) and settled down when figures appeared behind you and apprehended both of you.
When a third figure stepped into the room, you knew exactly who it was. That cocky walk was unmistakable and belonged to an equally cocky motherfucker. Higgs Monaghan. He and the rest of his lackies had trapped you and Sam in this safehouse that they had set up just for you. The Homo Demens behind you secured you wrists with a chord before Higgs shooed them off.
“Seems I finally caught you two, huh?” Higgs chuckled.
Sam met his gaze with a glare so nasty Higgs almost looked offended.
“Aw, why the face, Sammy-boy?” Higgs removed the chiralium-colored mask from his face, followed by the hood of his cape. “I did all this for you… Aren’t ya gonna at least pretend to be grateful? I do deserve a little credit now, don’t I?”
“Nah, fuck that. Fuck you,” Sam spat.
“Oh, come on now, don’t be like that, Sammy,” Higgs turned to you before continuing. “He’s so cruel, isn’t he, sweetheart?”
A cocky and almost freakish smirk plastered his face before he turned around and walked to the spot in the wall where Sam’s BB was, resting from your stressful encounter about an hour earlier.
“What is it you call these? Ah- Bridge Babies. That’s right. So unpredictable… so high maintenance… so… fragile…” the final word escaped his lips through clenched teeth. Higgs turned around to face you once more. “One wrong move and the bugger is out of permanently out of commission!”
Higgs approached Sam slowly as he spoke, “That’s something our old pal Sammy would know a lot about, now huh? Ain’t that right, Sammy-boy…”
“I said, fuck you,” Sam spat again.
“A goddamn shame the mouth you have on you, Sammy. D’you kiss dear old mommy, Ms. Strand, with that mouth? Well…” Higgs cut himself off with a short chuckle. “I guess I should say ‘did you’, huh?” He looked at you both with a wide, almost childish grin, like he was looking for your approval of his wise-ass remark.
Sam only furrowed his brow and glared at Higgs in response. Higgs’ smile faded when he saw Sam’s expression.
“Tough fuckin’ crowd,” he spoke, and with a wave of his hand, another member of the Homo Demens grabbed Sam before chiral jumping.
“SAM! Where did you take him! Where is he?! BRING HIM BACK!” You yelled.
“Ah, ah- easy now, darlin’,” Higgs spoke softly as he took slow strides towards you. He knelt in front of you and cupped your face before leaning closer to you. “He’s back at Lake Knot City.”
“I swear to God, Higgs fucking Monaghan, if there’s even so much as a scratch on him, I will gut you myself,” You spat.
Higgs groaned, but not out of irritation or anger. “I just love how you say my name. Say it again, why don’t ya… please…” he begged.
Wait a second- begged? Higgs Monaghan was begging you to say his name.
“What-"
“C’mon, darlin’, you say it so sweetly… It’s so cute when you try to be all threatenin’ like that,” Higgs pressed his forehead to yours and let out a chuckle for the umpteenth time that night. He tilted his head to the side, his nose now pressed against your cheek, and you felt something warm and wet drag across your jaw.
He licked you.
You tried to pull away from him, but he wrapped his arm around you and held you close to him by the back of your head.
“Now, now… There’s no need for that, is there…” He cooed in your ear before pulling your head to his chest.
You contemplated squirming out of grasp, but was that really safe? This guy was unpredictable; you didn’t know how he’d respond to that. On one hand, he might just grab you again and hold you against himself again, but on the other hand, he might shove you to the ground, pin your head to the ground, and do God knows what.
Your train of thought was interrupted by a disappointed sigh from Higgs. He tangled his fingers in your hair and pulled, forcing your head back to look up at him.
“It really is no fun when you don’t resist, y’know,” Higgs let go of you roughly and stood up. He glared down at you only to grab you by your hair once again. “Where’s all that spunk you had earlier? Not so tough now? Fuckin’ pathetic.”
You threw your head back to tear your hair from Higgs’ grasp, and you propped yourself up on one knee to stand. Before you could get on your feet, Higgs lifted his leg to put his boot to your chest and pushed you to the ground. He moved to stand over you with one foot on either side of your torso. He looked down at you with a wild, toothy grin and placed a booted foot on your chest.
“Better, but I really expected more from you. All that bark, but no bite? A shame, really,” Higgs sighed dramatically.
“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” You spat.
Higgs leaned back to glare at you, and you could tell his entire demeanor had shifted. "You'll need to learn to shut your mouth."
if no one else was going to say it, you knew daryl would. it had been weeks—you’d been in bed, barely getting up to piss, let alone eat or show your face. talking to you was like talking to a wall.
“can’t keep this up,” daryl muttered, tugging on your blanket, though not ripping it off. “got people worried bout’cha. yunno that?”
you said nothing.
daryl huffed, settling on the edge of your bed. he just looked down at you, tired, defeated. your eyes had glazed over, like you weren’t even there.
“i’m worried about ya,” daryl muttered, voice a little raspy.
his hand reached out, hovering over your head. he wanted to stroke your hair, so desperately wanted to comfort you, but would never overstep.
“what can i do to get ya outta this bed?” he asked, voice cracking.
silence.
daryl was about to give up, when your eyes reached his. your expression was still very much blank, but you’d acknowledged him. daryl couldn’t quite hold in his desperation, sad eyes and permanent frown. “please,” he whispered.
your lip twitched.
you hadn’t spoken in days. when your voice finally came out, it was uncertain, broken. “stay,” is all you said.
daryl’s head shook, slow, but not disagreeing. his hand finally planted itself on your head, pushing hair out of your face. “ain’t goin’ nowhere. you know that,” he replied.
after a beat, you slowly leaned into his touch. silently, you begged him to stay close. his warmth, without him knowing, had been the only thing keeping you going lately.
daryl fell into you, swallowing a lump in his throat, and cradling you. he would do nothing if not protect you, arms wrapping around you as if someone might take you away otherwise.
his chin rested over your head, heart aching.
“i’m sorry,” he breathed.
your eyes shut, jaw clenching. there was so much to say, and yet, you couldn’t speak any of it.
silence. quiet understanding. a bed full of grief, and love.
“it’s not your fault,” you murmured, hands coming up to wrap around his arms.
another lump welled in daryl’s throat, painful and sharp, one that said, it’s always your fault.
“i love you,” you added gently. “stay.”
daryl’s own eyes fluttered closed, and he squeezed tighter.
Y’all say this but don’t support fluff nor angsty fics if it doesn’t have smut attached to it. You can’t have both. And then y’all don’t reblog or comment on your favs works so they go back to the smut. In the words of Kendrick Lamar, it’s not enough.
on top of this, the month/year just started, let ppl breath
not to mention, if you dont want to see smut, block smut tags or filter the tags in your searches
and if the issue is a lack of new content you want to see, be the change you want to see. or, as mentioned by prev, give support to authors on their fluff and angst fics. genuinely. if you dont show appreciation for one kind of their work, theyll feel like their audience doesnt want to see it and will be less likely to write more of it.
im all for lighthearted complaining and all, but im tired of smut authors catching the blunt end of the sword when it comes to this kind of stuff
(all usage of you here is meant as a general you, not singling out OP)
this is kind of confusing but I really need help
i write a lot of m/m hockey romances, and in one of them a character is forced to have a baby with a woman in order to appear straight. he does not enjoy it, but he does technically consent, even though he's being forced by his boss under the threat of being fired. I've portrayed it as SA but I'm not fully sure if it is or not? he consents but its only because he needs to keep his job. help? :((
I’d personally tag it as dub-con, but it’s also understandable if some folks would consider it non-con and sa. some of my own fics are tagged with both non-con and dub-con. sometimes they overlap and it depends on how each person views it.
imagining myself with a yautja rn. except also imagine yourself with a yautja 🫵
[cw for minor violence ? bro kills a face hugger. its not graphic though.]
divider was made by me! do not use it please and thanks <3
like imagine it came to earth hunting down a xenomorph and you're on a hunting trip. his pod crashes a few miles away from where you are in the woods, so you go to investigate the site where the loud crash came from. when you get there, you hide behind some bushes; just barely peeking over to watch a large, muscular figure emerge from the pod that had crashed. you take a few moments to truely absorb the creatures features. its tall, generally large, and generally... unique. which makes sense considering hes obviously an alien but... its almost alluring.
you're snapped out of your train of thought when a smaller and very quick creature with eight legs and a long tail jumps towards you. just before it reaches you, the large alien catches it with blades that project from its armlet. you look up from the smaller creature that attacked you back up to the large alien. he just saved your life... he stared at you while making a string of clicking sounds before slinging his arm away, tossing the creature off its armlet's blades. it turns back towards you slowly and tilts his head, as if studying you. you stand still and stare back.
after a few moments, he turns and walks the other way. and as he disappeared, you notice your elevated heartrate and the warm feeling that began to gather at your cheeks. you think you lowkey like this guy
tags: @gummykin @dykewolf-yapping
send an ask to be added / removed from my writing taglist
(this imagine takes place on yautja prime :3 your yautja boyfriend helps you with chronic pain :3)
imagine your yautja boyfriend taking care of you during a bad pain flare up. he knew you were disabled, and also knew that what came with your disability was often pain. he hates knowing you're suffering, so he does everything he can to help you feel better.
he'll take you to a nearby spring and sit with you in the warm water. after that, he'll gently dry you off and redress you before gently scooping you up and taking you home. he lays you down gently in your shared bed. he brings you extra pillows to elevate your aching legs, and sachels of warm water for inflammation and stiffness.
while he waits for the warm water to cold, he runs his clawed fingers gently through your hair; playing with each strand. after a moment, he gets up and heads to a corner of your shared home where he grabs a pot. it was the tomato soup you had made for the two of you last night. he heads to his campfire, ignites it, and places the pot on the stand above it to reheat the soup.
he comes back to you to take the sachels of water off you and pulls the covers over you. he goes back to the soup and stirs for a few minutes before pouring some into a stone bowl. he sits next to you and helps you sit back up so he can slowly feed you the warm soup.
once he was sure you were satisfied, he sets the bowl aside and helps you lay back down before laying down with you. he gently pulls you closer to him and rubs up and down your arm as he cradles you until the two of you drift off to sleep.
@gummykin @xematary
please feel free to send me an ask if you want to be added to my taglist !! :3
(written with a masc reader in mind since it was pretty self indulgent, but it can be read as a gender neutral reader! i didn't specify pronouns or use overly masculine terms! :3)
you have chronic hand pain. of course tenna knows, but he doesn't always know how to help. unfortunately for you, today is a particularly bad day. yesterday you were a busy little bee, crafting away. tenna had warned you to take breaks and slow down because he knew what the consequences would be. he knew the strain would catch up to you... and he was right. you were currently curled up into a ball in the center of mr. tenna's massive bed. you hadn't left his bed since he tucked you in last night, and you didn't plan on getting up. your wrists and fingers ached, and moving them didnt help any. tenna had woken up only a few minutes after you and quickly noticed your small position and unusual stillness.
"hey..." tenna speaks softly, to which you only let out a pained moan in response. "aww... i told you your hands would hurt today... didn't you feel it hurt yesterday?"
"i did... i just got so ensnared in my project..." you respond.
"i know, my busy little bee. but you need to listen to your body. when it starts to hurt, you need to rest..." tenna pulls you closer to him gently as he speaks. you once again only hum in response.
tenna gets up slowly and fetches your hand braces before helping you put them on and adjusting them comfortably. he lays down in front of you and holds your hands in his own; which are large and warm. the warmth helps soothe you ever so slightly.
"do you want me to rub your hands?" he asks softly, to which you nod.
he gently massages your hands and your fingers, careful not to cause any more pain or discomfort. his movements are so diligent and caring it makes your heart flutter.
after a few minutes, he stops massaging your hands as not to over-do it. he wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer to him; holding you against his chest. eventually you fall asleep, now in less pain than before and able to relax. he doesn't get up; just holds you until he inevitably falls asleep with you
i think a lot of writers might be quite pleased to know that at a certain point, punctuation is subjective. everything is subjective. if it serves a purpose in your work, then your punctuation and your grammar is not flawed or wrong. and no one can argue that your punctuation and grammar "mistakes" dont serve a purpose in your overall work or in your writing style (wink wink do you get what im suggesting).
besides, if youre writing creatively who cares. even if youre getting it published or plan on doing so, it really isnt something to nitpick. academic and formal writing has stricter rules, of course, but im serious. for creative writing, youre never truly wrong. thats one thing im glad the course work for my degree has taught me.
that means bend the rules!!!! use commas however you see fit. anyone trying to correct you is being annoying and you should ignore them because who does that anyway 😭
