Children, Children of the War (Tell Me What's The Price You Had To Pay) - Chapter 1 - Is_Lu_For_Everyone - Game of Thrones (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
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"Why did you help me?" she asks, and her voice sounds low in her own ears, so much so that she is about to repeat her question a little louder when he surprises her.
"I saw you," the boy replies, and Shireen almost tells him that was obvious when he continues, ", in a dream. Or the dream of a dream." He shrugs, a brisk, careless movement as he finally looks away from Shireen and concentrates on his hands.
She follows his gaze, noting the spear in his lap, and even from a distance she can see the runes and figures carved along the wood.
"A dream?" she repeats.
"Uh-hu," the boy murmurs, "the Heart Tree told us. We saw you. A Lady of stone surrounded by flames."
Given how proud im of my baby, i decided to give it the biggest honor: being posted on tumblr too
A time travel fix it with the dead children of Game Of Thrones, back to the season 5, with Rickon Stark, Shireen Baratheon, Lyanna Mormont and many others. And, of course, the normal amounts of death and violence that comes with GOT
WIP: GoT AU; Jaime/BrienneAU: The Long Night aftermath
So the GoT(tv) AU fic I’m writing diverges quite a bit from the show starting with the aftermath of Joffery’s death. There’s no wight hunt, for one. And the battle against the Night King takes place at the Wall, and it’s fought by more than just the Northern houses/Knights of the Vale, Daenerys’ army, and the free folk.
Jaime frantically yanked off his hook, and tugged at the sleeve the covered the end of his stump. He pressed it to Brienne’s bleeding face, scanning her for other injuries. Her left arm stuck out at an unnatural angle. He had to get her back down into the castle, but he could barely hobble on his wounded leg.
‘Need help, Kingkiller?’
Jaime looked up, feeling more relieved than he ever had to see the looming form of Tormund Giantsbane. He nodded. Tormund gestured to a few burly men behind him and two got on either side of Jaime and lifted him by the arms. ‘Wait. Her arm.’ Jaime pulled at his cloak. ‘Can someone tear a strip off this? Bind her arm with it.’ One of the wildlings used a dagger to cut away a swath of his cloak, then found a couple of pieces of splintered wood. He grasped Brienne’s wrist in one hand and pulled slowly, straightening her left arm, then used the wood and strips of cloth cut from Jaime’s cloak to splint it. One of the other wildlings tied a ragged strip of cloth around Brienne’s face to secure the sleeve to the sluggishly bleeding gash, then helped Tormund heft her into a position.
‘Got to walk a fair bit,’ Tormund grunted, shifting his grip on Brienne. ‘Stairs near here got destroyed.’
Even years later, telling the enthralling — and heavily edited — tale to his children, Jaime could vividly recall every agonizing step to the least damaged staircase, every jostle that sent jolting pain through his body from the top of the Wall to the ground, seven hundred feet below. Nor would he forget the stream of uncharacteristic profanity that emerged from Brienne when she regained consciousness halfway down he stairs.
‘Get your fucking hands off my tits or I’ll sever your cock from your body,’ she snarled at Tormund
Jaime began to laugh, not noticing the slightly unnerved expressions on the faces of the wildlings at the hysterical edge to it. ‘Not to defend the man, but he can’t even feel your breasts through armor,’ he pointed out, absurdly pleased with his irrefutable logic.
‘His hands are there,’ Brienne growled.
To his credit, Tormund only chuckled and rearranged his arms. The movement jarred her broken arm and she blanched under the mask of dried blood, soot, and gods only knew what else. ‘Let’s go.’ Tomund then began to spin fantastical tales about the time he killed a giant at the age of nine and suckled at the teat of his wife, claiming it was why he was so big. Jaime couldn’t understand why he was speaking such twaddle, then realized he hadn’t thought about the oozing gash on his thigh. Tormund was distracting them as they inched their way to the ground.
In the courtyard of Castle Black, Sansa directed various women and men seeing to the wounded with the ruthless efficiency of a general. She took one look at them and sent them to the hall. The young lord of Last Hearth, Ned Umber, pointed out an empty table, then hurried to it, carrying a steaming bucket and a jug. Tormund and the other men deposited Jaime and Brienne on the table, then went back into the courtyard. Little Ned Umber returned, and with the help of a wilding boy began to remove her armor. One of the older wildling women came to the table and peeled the makeshift bandage from Brienne’s face. ‘Can’t see your teeth from the outside. So that’s good.’
‘Can’t make me look worse…’ Brienne stiffened at the woman’s touch on her face. The fever of battle had begun to wear off, and Brienne felt every cut, scrape, and bruise on her body. She began to tremble as myriad emotions coursed through her. The pain of her wounds. The relief at surviving the battle. The wildling woman beckoned to someone behind her, shouting for something. Alys Karstark unfurled one of the spare Night’s Watch cloaks over Brienne, tucking it around her. It had been warmed in front of the fire.
Sansa’s face appeared, hovering over Brienne’s. One hand, smelling strongly of the harsh soap used in the laundry at Castle Black, traced the path of the cut on Brienne’s face. ‘Nose to jaw.’ She cupped Brienne’s uninjured cheek in her other hand.
‘Bad?’ Brienne managed through chattering teeth.
‘Can’t see your teeth, so that’s something,’ Sansa said, pulling a vial from her pocket. ‘You need to have it cleaned and stitched, though.’ She pulled the cork from the vial and held it to Brienne’s mouth. ‘Milk of the poppy. Just while we tend to you.’
‘No.’ Brienne would have jerked her head away, but the gash throbbed and stung with each movement of her head.
‘Brienne, drink the damn milk of the poppy!’ Jaime shouted, slamming his fist on the table.
Brienne’s eyes swivelled to where Jaime sat, clutching her right hand. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded.
Jaime’s stump came to rest on the crown of her head. ‘I won’t leave you alone. I promise.’
Brienne looked back and Sansa and nodded. Sansa tilted the vial and poured the white liquid into Brienne’s mouth. Within minutes, Brienne felt boneless, her eyes too heavy to keep open.
Sansa began to wash Brienne’s face, cleaning away the grime and dried blood. She poured boiling wine into the wound, then took up a clean needle that she’d once used to create delicate embroidery that was the pride of Septa Mordane, and began the painstaking work of stitching Brienne’s cheek back together. When she tied the last knot, Sansa smeared honey over the stitches, then covered it with a pad of linen. Sansa tied another strip of linen over it, then stepped back. She prodded the back of Jaime’s head. He’d gone white after the first stitch and buried his face against Brienne’s shoulder. ‘It’s done.’
‘She needs a maester,’ Jaime told her and pointed to Brienne’s splinted left arm. ‘Unless you know how to reset broken bones…’
Sansa peered through the hall. The Tarly, Lannister, and Tully maesters had come with their men, in addition to Maester Wolkan from Winterfell. ‘I’ll find one.’ She glanced at Jaime, taking in his blood-soaked trousers. In the flurry to care for Brienne, no one had noticed. Nor had he said a word about it. She quickly scrubbed her hands and used a small set of shears to cut away the fabric, stiff with dried blood. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I can wait.’ Jaime tilted his head at the rest of the hall. ‘There are other people with worse injuries than me.’
‘If you want it to get infected, fester, then kill you, fine. Wait.’ Sansa picked up the empty vial. ‘I’ll find a maester; and when I come back, I will see to your injuries.’ She hurried off, and Jaime let his head drop to Brienne’s shoulder.
‘She reminds me of you, you know,’ he muttered to Brienne and closed his eyes.
